Scenes of unimportance

SCENES OF UNIMPORTANCEstories inside the pictures.

fotos y textos de Raúl Fernándezphotos and texts by Raúl Fernández

Junio 2009Edición, textos, fotos y diseño editorial: Raúl Fernández [www.mareavacia.com]Declaración de derechos:Siéntete libre de usar las fotos y los textos para lo que quieras;simplemente cita el autor, por favor.Fotos tomadas en Amsterdam, en julio de 2007.

June 2009Edition, texts, photographs and editorial design:Raúl Fernández [www.mareavacia.com]Photographs rights:Be free to use these photos and texts; you only have to give my name, please.Pictures taken in Amsterdam, in july 2007.

Scenes of unimportance like photos in a frame,things that go to make up a life.Help us someone, let us out of hereliving here so long undisturbeddreaming of the time we were freeso many years go,before the time when we first heard‘welcome to the home by the sea’.

Home by the sea © 1983, Anthony Banks Ltd./Philip Collins Ltd./Michael Rutherford Ltd./Hit and Run Music (Publishing) Ltd.

Raúl Fernández, mayo de 2009

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En julio de 2007, con motivo de la última gira del grupo de rock Genesis, realicé un pequeño viaje de cuatro días a Amsterdam. Vagando por las calles del barrio del Jordaan, buscaba un tema para hacer un reportaje de fotos, y me topé con él en una de las canciones del grupo (Home by the sea); en concreto, una frase que decía: scenes of unimportance like photos in a frame, things that go to make up a life.

Empecé a pensar en ello, en las escenas sin importancia que vemos o vivimos todos los días sin prestarles atención ni darles la verdadera importancia que tienen y sin llegar a ver la pequeña historia que encierran en su interior.

Las escenas sin importancia son aquellos momentos que pasan desapercibidos, aquellos sucesos sin trascendencia, aquellos instantes que no recordaríamos sin esfuerzo, pero que forman parte integrante de nuestras vidas y moldean nuestro espíritu y nuestra forma de ser mucho más de lo que creeríamos, sencillamente porque cada una de esas escenas lleva una historia en su interior. Una historia difícil de sacar a la luz, fundamentada en nuestros recuerdos, nuestros miedos, nuestras sombras, nuestras inquietudes… Una historia tan íntima como nuestros pensamientos más profundos. Historias que forjan nuestra personalidad y nos hacen humanos.

Raúl Fernández, may 2009

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In July 2007, during the last tour of the rock band Genesis, I made a short trip to Amsterdam for four days. Wandering through the streets of the Jordaan district, I was looking for a theme for a photo reportage, and I found it in a song (Home by the sea), in particular, a sentence that said:scenes of unimportance like photos in a frame, things that go to make up a life.

I started to think about it, the scenes of unimportant we see or we live every day without paying attention or giving them the true significance they have, and without seeing the hidden stories inside them.

The scenes of unimportant are those not important moments that go unnoticed, those events with no significance, those seconds we do not remember without effort, but they are an integral part of our lives and shape our spirit and our way of being much more than you believe, simply because each of these scenes takes a story in it. A difficult story to bring to light, based on our memories, our fears, our shadows, our concerns... a story as intimate as our deepest thoughts. Stories that shape our personality and make us human.

Nick changed his course for the fourth or fifth time. The street of the market seemed to be the same as the big bridge’s one, and this seemed also to be the same as the street near the clock tower of golden numbers. All they were paved with the same straight and smooth cobblestones, perfect as bricks, with newly grown mold between the joints, and arranged at an angle of ninety degrees on the road, but parallel on the pavement. The houses were all nearly identical to the same design, with the same narrow and elongated forms and large windows reflecting the green colours of the channels. And all the doors were very similar, and all the stairs had the same forms, and all the bells sounded the same. It was very easy to get lost in the streets of the Jordaan, and Nick did it while he took some pictures for a stupid ad he had to make.

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Nick changed his course for the fourth or fifth time. The street of the market seemed to be the same as the big bridge’s one, and this seemed also to be the same as the street near the clock tower of golden numbers. All they were paved with the same straight and smooth cobblestones, perfect as bricks, with newly grown mold between the joints, and arranged at an angle of ninety degrees on the road, but parallel on the pavement. The houses were all nearly identical to the same design, with the same narrow and elongated forms and large windows reflecting the green colours of the channels. And all the doors were very similar, and all the stairs had the same forms, and all the bells sounded the same. It was very easy to get lost in the streets of the Jordaan, and Nick did it while he took some pictures for a stupid ad he had to make.

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It started to rain, and the thin metal poles got wet throughout the streets, as the few umbrellas that were opened, and mostly the people, all them in a hurry that Monday morning. Nick stood sadly in front of a window and looked inside. The books were stacked up on the wooden floor, waiting to be sorted, and that reminded Nick a previous history. Not too interested in remembering that episode, he went ahead with an unpleasant feeling in the stomach. He thought he was too slow in taking pictures and it was time to stop wandering. He went into an old bruin café. He asked for a Heineken and sat inside, far away from the eyes of the transients. He checked their thoughts for a moment, took the mobile phone and sought among the contact list to stop in the name of a girl. He called.

Twenty minutes later Nick was still sitting in the background of the café, but now he was accompanied. It was not raining outside now, but the moisture in the atmosphere was the same. They asked for two more beers and then they left. The boy and the girl walked for a while, as she told the same story once again. He listened patiently and she was grateful for that. He thought of kissing her, but she only thought about the same talk. Before they reached Leidseplain it started to rain again. They took refuge in a small restaurant and asked for the menu. Thai salad for him, maybe too spicy, and chicken for her. The table was near from a window and they could see people with their umbrellas and bicycles. He was absorbed in her presence, and she had stopped a little in their chatter.

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Twenty minutes later Nick was still sitting in the background of the café, but now he was accompanied. It was not raining outside now, but the moisture in the atmosphere was the same. They asked for two more beers and then they left. The boy and the girl walked for a while, as she told the same story once again. He listened patiently and she was grateful for that. He thought of kissing her, but she only thought about the same talk. Before they reached Leidseplain it started to rain again. They took refuge in a small restaurant and asked for the menu. Thai salad for him, maybe too spicy, and chicken for her. The table was near from a window and they could see people with their umbrellas and bicycles. He was absorbed in her presence, and she had stopped a little in their chatter.

Suddenly, and without thinking it, Nick got out his camera and made a couple of quick photos, almost out of focus, with rain and street background. She grumbled for a second but then smiled. “I cannot be a model for free”, she said, “You’ll pay this lunch, at least”. Nick said yes with his eyes and continued taking pictures. Photos that he would put in a frame later, at his small apartment, scenes of unimportance that he would recall, because it had happened in other occasions. He was obsessed with capturing the moment, freezing time in an image, a thought, an emotion. He thought that if he did it, he would be the owner of his life, his acts, and the life and acts of other people. He was wrong, of course. He even was not able to ask her to stay a little bit longer, or to kiss her. Before he could open his mouth she was leaving. “I have to go now. See you another day, ok?” were the last words she said before disappearing among the moisture and cold in Leidseplain. But he had the photos. And they provided him an great inner peace. Because he believed that he possessed her. He really believed that, in a way, he had stolen her soul, or at least borrowed it.

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Suddenly he felt in the shoulder a known hand. “You’re a pervert, Nick”, said someone behind him. Nick turned to greet an old friend and invite him to the table. “Please, stop taking pictures and using them for sinister aims”, he said obtaining a confirmation smile from Nick. The rain had stopped outside and Nick kept his camera. “Take less photos and more care”, discussed his friend. “Or you’ll never get anything”. Nick liked to think that this was not entirely true, and part of his happiness now was in that. He repeated over and over again the same thoughts, and he seemed to be a little bit

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Suddenly he felt in the shoulder a known hand. “You’re a pervert, Nick”, said someone behind him. Nick turned to greet an old friend and invite him to the table. “Please, stop taking pictures and using them for sinister aims”, he said obtaining a confirmation smile from Nick. The rain had stopped outside and Nick kept his camera. “Take less photos and more care”, discussed his friend. “Or you’ll never get anything”. Nick liked to think that this was not entirely true, and part of his happiness now was in that. He repeated over and over again the same thoughts, and he seemed to be a little bit

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absent. Then, he and his friend got up and eventually went to Konigsplein. He tried to do some pictures to his friend, but he didn’t inspire him. His aim was, however, a street juggler who was making magic tricks and playing with fire for a low generous audience. Nick took photos for a couple of minutes. The street juggler approached to Nick and posed for him. But it wasn’t the same. The photos he wanted were on the memory card, some pictures for which he paid less than one euro, that he left in the basket of coloured wool among other coins and a five euro bill. The artist spoke to him a few phrases, but Nick answered with difficulty. He liked the scenes of unimportance, stories behind the pictures, things behind the things, those little details that should be sought between the immensity of reality. But he hated to give explanations to his improvised models. That was not part of creation, but rather of destruction of the surrounding atmosphere of his creative genius. The damn and repeated scenes of unimportance. But that was not his work for today. These photos were still not useful for the ad, and he had to keep looking. And for that, he had to move away from the noise, he thought. He was not going to find among the people what he was looking for. Nick just said goodbye to his friend and continued to Spui.

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absent. Then, he and his friend got up and eventually went to Konigsplein. He tried to do some pictures to his friend, but he didn’t inspire him. His aim was, however, a street juggler who was making magic tricks and playing with fire for a low generous audience. Nick took photos for a couple of minutes. The street juggler approached to Nick and posed for him. But it wasn’t the same. The photos he wanted were on the memory card, some pictures for which he paid less than one euro, that he left in the basket of coloured wool among other coins and a five euro bill. The artist spoke to him a few phrases, but Nick answered with difficulty. He liked the scenes of unimportance, stories behind the pictures, things behind the things, those little details that should be sought between the immensity of reality. But he hated to give explanations to his improvised models. That was not part of creation, but rather of destruction of the surrounding atmosphere of his creative genius. The damn and repeated scenes of unimportance. But that was not his work for today. These photos were still not useful for the ad, and he had to keep looking. And for that, he had to move away from the noise, he thought. He was not going to find among the people what he was looking for. Nick just said goodbye to his friend and continued to Spui.

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It was Friday and the old books market was installed under the huge and ancient trees in Spui. Nick always thought that the books kept the sadness of their old owners, and that market should hold the sadness of the whole world into their posts. He liked to capture the sadness, and persevered in his attempt to photograph a daily but hidden feeling. The rain was giving a respite and some clients were looking at old books full of sadness. He took some photos and felt that he would spend hours and hours searching the ins and outs of human complexity. Nick didn’t know when he lost more time, if taking photos or

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contemplating them after. Because most of the time it was a complete waste of time. Or not. If they were useful for the ad, it wouldn’t be a futility. But Nick knew it was a stupid thing, he clearly knew. He would sleep with the pictures on the table, and the next day he would seek the human complexity in those scenes of unimportance, but full of reality.

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contemplating them after. Because most of the time it was a complete waste of time. Or not. If they were useful for the ad, it wouldn’t be a futility. But Nick knew it was a stupid thing, he clearly knew. He would sleep with the pictures on the table, and the next day he would seek the human complexity in those scenes of unimportance, but full of reality.

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He continued wandering, changing direction again and repeatedly, feeling like at the beginning of the day: with grief, sadness and not physical tiredness, but mental. Near the Dam he stood at a window of cheese shop. A large cat slept between the giant wheels of Gouda. The cat opened his eyes and looked at Nick. He did a couple of photos and the cat closed his eyes again.

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He continued wandering, changing direction again and repeatedly, feeling like at the beginning of the day: with grief, sadness and not physical tiredness, but mental. Near the Dam he stood at a window of cheese shop. A large cat slept between the giant wheels of Gouda. The cat opened his eyes and looked at Nick. He did a couple of photos and the cat closed his eyes again.

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Sometimes he thought that it was useless to take pictures, and spend his time trying to capture a vital essence that, in reality, slipped from his fingers like water, was the most unbearable way to be aware that life was meaningless. And then he fell into a deep depression that lasted as long as he found a good picture. A real good picture.

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Sometimes he thought that it was useless to take pictures, and spend his time trying to capture a vital essence that, in reality, slipped from his fingers like water, was the most unbearable way to be aware that life was meaningless. And then he fell into a deep depression that lasted as long as he found a good picture. A real good picture.

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That picture what allowed him to get into somebody or something, much more than he could ever do with his body or his mind. That was what the camera could get: own a part of the world without having to go near it, but from afar. Possess a kind of being, a way of thinking of some people who were so far from him as his own soul. People who, however, became so close, so accessible only by being photographed and, above all, being observed in the solitude of his darkroom, the room in which his films and emotions were developed.

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He thought finally that it was a good idea to leave the pictures for another day. He had some pictures, but he would not sell them. It started to rain again while he walked by Runstraat. He decided to go home. In the distance, a boat sailed the green waters of the canal and ducks began to swim after it, perhaps looking for some food.

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He thought finally that it was a good idea to leave the pictures for another day. He had some pictures, but he would not sell them. It started to rain again while he walked by Runstraat. He decided to go home. In the distance, a boat sailed the green waters of the canal and ducks began to swim after it, perhaps looking for some food.

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Scenes of unimportance

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