STATEMENT

The Second Best Photographer in Zahedan: How I Learned to Photograph

After weeks of howling desert sand storms, a glorious spring in Zahedan always starts like this. The wind calms to a breeze and the skies turn blue. A few days later the pistachio tree in the front yard fills with buds that glisten like green teardrops against the white bark, and the petunia bushes planted by my father under the tree turn into white and purple mounds.

It’s my favorite time of year, a season of splendid rituals and bright colors. The blooming petunias signal the swift arrival of Norouz, the Persian New Year, a celebration of the earth’s renewal. Baba Norouz, a close cousin of Santa Claus, comes to town in a jolly mood and playing a tambourine. Schools close for thirteen days, and all the kids are decked out in new clothes, proudly clutching gifts of freshly printed banknotes from visiting family and friends. For me, the most important ritual is the taking of the family picture.

On a bright sunny morning my family stands in a straight line in front the petunias. My dad brings out the town’s only camera, unhinges the thick leather cover and mounts it on a flimsy tripod. He turns the small latch. The front cover opens with the precise sound of a well-engineered machine. The black bellow extends out holding the shiny lens that peers into the world. The words “Zeiss-Ikon” and “Germany” are printed in gold around the rim of the lens.

For dad, taking pictures is a series of methodical steps. He measures the light using a handheld meter, dials in the exposure on the silver-colored controls, pulls the crank on top of the lens to cock the shutter, checks the focus, sets the timer and dashes over to us to be in the picture.

At every step he explains what he is doing, pretending that he is talking to himself. I know better. I’ve memorize the steps for taking a picture, at least the steps for taking “the family in front of petunias” picture, and can recite them back. He smiles at this display of enthusiasm, and from then on, my photographic responsibilities grow to include reading the light meter and adjusting the camera settings.

Zahedan is tucked away in the southeastern corner of Iran, east of the Kavir-e-Loot desert, near the corner where Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iran meet, far from everything, The town had no electricity, plumbing or running water, and modern amenities like telephones, radios, and refrigeration were non-existent. Buying or developing film was simply out of the question. In fact, the only other camera ever seen in Zahedan belonged to a traveling photographer who came to town twice a year. He set up a temporary shop, took group pictures of families, the women always seated with babies in their laps and the men standing behind them. My dad gave him exposed film, and on his next trip he brought back finished prints.

As I got to do more with the camera, I was allowed to do more photography chores, such as taking the finished rolls of film to the traveling photographer. I lingered around his shop and gawked at his large, banged-up, medium-format camera held together by tape, glue and wire. He patiently answered questions from his only film-processing customer in Zahedan until, inevitably, he said, “Hey, kid, go to school. There’s no future in photography.” I didn’t understand what he meant, but I knew it was time to leave the shop.

At age 10, I loaded, shot, and delivered my first roll of film for development. Before the pictures were back, I considered myself a photographer, the second best photographer in Zahedan. That’s when I had no worries and all the potential in the world.

The next year we moved to Tehran. The capital of Iran was a giant metropolis with over two million people, and the round-the-clock hustle and bustle with constant sounds and neon lights was a drastic contrast to sleepy Zahedan. There were images everywhere, on billboards, magazines, museums and posters. I saw my first camera shop and noticed a lot of photo labs. In Tehran, a roll of film could be developed in a week, an amazing improvement in turn-around time.

As a teenager, all I wanted to do was sleep, listen to music, be with my friends, and question authority. I argued endlessly with my parents and disagreed with anything that wasn’t my idea. As the summer of my sixteenth birthday approached, about two weeks before the end of the school year, my mother suggested that it might be time for me to get a darkroom. An idea from my parents that I could get behind!. Astonishing.

We brought home everything for a darkroom: enlarger, lenses, paper, chemicals, timer, and safe light. Energized, I set up the darkroom with a lot of gusto and some provisional supplies. When finished, I sat back to look at my masterpiece and realized I had a problem, a major problem. I’d never used a darkroom and didn’t have a clue.

My father suggested that I get a job at a local photo lab, which I immediately dismissed, declaring that no one would hire an inexperienced 16 year-old. He pointed down the hill from our house and said, “Go and ask every lab on the street. Someone may give you a job.”

For the next two days I went from lab to lab and promptly got rejected everywhere. The following day at breakfast I pointed out how right I was about the prospects of finding a job. Unfazed, my dad said, “If it doesn’t work one way, then try another. Go in the opposite direction, up the hill, and offer to work for free.”

At the second lab from our house, a grumpy photographer listened to my plea for a job. He gave me a skeptical look and tried to brush me off, saying this was a hard job with long hours and he didn’t think I was ready. I jumped at the faint opening and promised to work hard, show up on time, and put in as many hours as it took with no complaints. He pondered, then sent me home saying, “I’ll think about it, come back tomorrow at 5:00 pm, sharp.”

I didn’t get much sleep that night. The next afternoon I left the house at 4:30 for the five minute walk to the shop. I sat quietly in the waiting room while he ignored me until 5:00 when he called me in and started to show me around. He took me to the darkroom and said, “This is where you will work.” I couldn’t believe what was happening.

I spent most of that summer in the dark, working six days a week, ten hours a day. When I finished the lab’s jobs, I could print my own work. By the end of the summer, the photographer let me do more and more things around the shop, including retouching film with pencil and printing large portraits. With every print, I learned a little more.

During my senior year in high school, the minister of education, the first female minister in Iran, planned to visit my high school. In honor of her visit, the headmaster announced a school-wide contest for science, literature and the arts, including photography. I entered three portraits, and to my surprise, won first place. The headmaster called me up in front of 3,200 students to receive a book of poetry from the minister as the award, confirming, at least in my own mind, that I finally had become “the second best photographer” from Zahedan.

Perhaps the most important lesson that I learned from my early years with a camera is that photography, like so many endeavors, is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.

Siamack
San Francisco
May 2005