Several years ago, I took a summer vacation in Lecce in southern Italy. After climbing up a hill for a panoramic(全景的) view of the blue sea, white buildings and green olive trees, I paused to catch my breath and then positioned myself to take the best photo of this panorama.
Unfortunately, just as I took out my camera, a woman approached from behind, and planted herself right in front of my view. Like me, this woman was here to stop, sigh and appreciate the view.
Patient as I was, after about 15 minutes, my camera scanning the sun and reviewing the shot I would eventually take, I grew frustrated. Was it too much to ask her to move so I could take just one picture of the landscape? Sure, I could have asked her, but something prevented me from doing so. She seemed so satisfied in her observation. I didn't want to mess with that.
Another 15 minutes passed and I grew bored. The woman was still there. I decided to take the photo anyway. And now when I look at it, I think her presence in the photo is what makes the image interesting. The landscape, beautiful on its own, somehow comes to life and breathes because this woman is engaging with it.
This photo, with the unique beauty that unfolded before me and that woman who "ruined" it, now hangs on a wall in my bedroom. What would she think if she knew that her figure is captured(捕捉) and frozen on some stranger's bedroom wall? A bedroom, after all, is a very private space, in which some woman I don't even know has been immortalized(使……永存). In some ways, she lives in my house.
Perhaps we all live in each others' spaces. Perhaps this is what photos are for: to remind us that we all appreciate beauty, that we all share a common desire for pleasure, for connection, for something that is greater than us.
That photo is a reminder, a captured moment, an unspoken conversation between two women, separated only by a thin square of glass.
