ACT 1: A Paradox
One kiss from the blade. Flesh split. Juice splashed. Seeds ripped.
What if the earth is just a melon with all the people as seeds swimming inside: chanting, drinking, writing, might or might not meet each other, would or would not die for one another?
Of all the long nights that I stayed with the company of books and films, I’ve imagined a thousand times the faces of the characters and how they would live and choose or dance if this moment, where the page stays open, is the moment of eternity. The moment that melon opens, the moment when a pigeon flies across Tropic of Capricorn, when the night watchman blew out the last lamp for summer, and when I was on the bed reading under a flashlight, immersed in my visions.
Day by day and night by night, I found myself sinking into the feeling of being occupied by different worlds in contrast to my own. I sensed a much stronger connection with that other world built by words and lights than the flavorless people in my daily life.
If fiction is the sole essence for me, then what’s the point of reality?
ACT II: A Clue
The sunshine was too dazzling. I gulped for air while everyone else on the street stared at me strangely. I held my first Nikon tightly and finally in a shiver, forced my finger to the shutter.
Frame
In front of a museum, he and she sit on the step. The characters need to be placed exactly in the golden ratio in harmony with that grand classical architecture behind them and since they’re kissing now, triangle composition.
Sound and Color
He is standing alone on a crowded street playing the violin. Passengers walk by and no one stops. His passion bursts open the wide angle, while he stands solitary in his white shirt against this black-and-white background.
—
Afternoon. An elegant old lady is rummaging through the trash bin. Just behind her, the jewelry on show in windows of a well-ornate boutique was shining.
ACT III: An Exit
There are no words that can possibly capture this moment mixed with intense shame and discomfort when I saw that lady.
What I saw before only belonged to my world and the other burning souls I admired were all private to their worlds.
But it shouldn’t be just me, my ideal land, and my blissful ignorance, while people as seeds were slowly sticking to one place, hollowing, still further apart.
Then comes the click.
Image in reverse, image that mirrors, and image that connects.
Suddenly both slices of the melon come into view, not just drying seeds. There is a person on the other side of the globe – or, the melon – who would be touched because of the attempts I made that afternoon standing frozen behind that old lady. When living as an observer, I can only live my own life and ruminate over my feeling. But as a photographer, I am extending my life through these pictures and drawing a map to others, just as an introduction to this complex planet.
Our planet might be a large melon madhouse and the way of living and being itself is based on the edge of reality and dreams. Clicking the shutter: that’s the way. Not to escape reality, and not to repeat the clichéd phrase of embrace, but to live. The novels and fictions I enjoy so much come from the mundane seeds around me as I am one of them, and when I torture myself blind over existential crises, people struggle to survive. The time wasted on contemplation and lofty ideals gone, and I have made a home in the trashcan with my camera, being the witness of everyone and planted myself deep in the noise of life.
I am out.
Bombita Films 