A big thanks to Romy Drouby for her patience on that beautiful afternoon in Zahle, Lebanon!
It's times like these when decisions are hard to come by. Do I listen to the local people, continue with my work and consider his words as they do? Or do I pack up and move on?
After we finish, we sit down for the usual three cups of tea. Tonight they inform me that it is considered rude to stop at one cup, two cups of tea being the minimum. The young boy is still lingering, since we are being served tea in front of his family's home. He is visibly upset.
After the tea, a few others want their pictures made and, while the sun is almost set, there is still some light behind the tent next to the tall grasses. We have some fun and make some spontaneous portraits. As we walk back and toward the street, I see him sitting down, with his face still upset.
I take a chance, kneel down and talk directly to him. I tell him to forgive me for upsetting him, to be happy with the photography and to let me make his picture. To my surprise, this smallest of attention makes him blush, smile and get up for his picture. His sisters laugh and it all ends well.
On this day, the last of the photographs are given to the people. There is much commotion, much anticipation. They love the colors, since all of my portraits from before have been traditional black and white prints.
The excitement translates to a wonderful afternoon session.
The girls get ready, wash their faces, comb their hair, put their best clothes on, sometimes swapping pieces with their friends, putting flowers behind their ears.
In the past, the parents would pay little attention to the photography, allowing their children to be photographed as they were found that day. This has changed over the years, especially in light of the fact that the photographs are being delivered in color and only a few days after the photography, rather than the next year.
We photograph from noon until the sun sets today, going from inside the tents to outside under the glorious sun. At the end, one young girl named Maryam walks back with me to the road, in between the tents. She smiles as we walk, her father being the person responsible for this small area. He has treated me like a brother since the day we met over twelve years ago.
I tell her that she is my sister, my daughter.
She tells me, with that same smile, that I am her father, her uncle and her brother.
This is how my time in Lebanon ends, as the sun sets behind the mountains.
Her portrait can be seen above, with that same smile.
Today is a productive day. The photographs are taken to four camps, handed to all the people photographed without a single portrait missing. The girls are handed larger black and white prints while the boys and men are given smaller color prints. Everyone is happy and asks when they will be photographed again. It seems that the stage is set for this year’s sessions.
The older men, as usual, ask for something. One asks for a pack of Marlboro, others ask for picture frames. One woman asks for money. I give her two choices: pictures or money. Everyone around here answers for her: pictures.
We will see what happens.
Many of the children remember my name, a good sign usually. The ones that refused their portrait last year will hopefully allow it this year.
