the shovel (the same question)

It was a moment without thought, an instinctual act. There was a long shadow of light stretching across the grass. A great tree. A man is bent, leaning hard into his shovel in a patch of sunlight. I take one picture, while E waits for me in the street. All at once the man is coming towards me, his bright orange jumpsuit flashing in the shadows. The Leica drifts down to my side. E starts towards me and the man is all questions, his face a mask of paranoia. I go into my usual monologue, piecing together fragments of Russian. "Artist picture." I always say, but no one in the street can decipher that. For them, cameras take pictures of smiling family members and friends on birthdays, at weddings. Anything else is evidence, proof of something.

This man does not want to be seen.

"I shoot film." I say next, explaining how silly it is to be worried about me. Another non-compute. There is an ugly moment. The camera in my hand is worth about $3K. A worker in the distance cranes his head, and ambles over to a warm bottle of soda tucked into their tools. He opens it with a flat hiss. I try to explain that I take pictures of old things and new things, the change in our neighbourhood. He chews on this explanation for a moment.

E steps in, tries to explain something else, but I do not know what she is telling him. Then, I speak to her in English and the man's face drops. "Journalist?" He asks me. I shake my head no. "Where are you from?" I have a habit of saying Canada these days, it just makes life easier. "America." I say, not knowing why.

He smiles as his hand juts out, and I shake it. He laughs to himself.

"I only took a picture of the back of your head, no face." I say as he wanders back to his shovel. He waves a hand around, dismissing me.

There is nothing I need to say now.