During my time within the building, the children lurked outside the entry, peering in but cautious, still unsure of me. But once I came back out, they had decided that I was ok, and become to perform for my camera, to play, and dance and shout. All in Mandarin of course, and no understanding of my English, asking them to stand still, as I thought a proper portrait might be wonderful.
I went back to the sound stage, as I heard the whistle on set. Later that night, in my luxury hotel room in Shanghai, along the River, illuminated by the neon lights in what now seemed like a universe apart, I printed a set of the images I had captured. I don’t often travel with a printer and photo grade paper, but this project called for it on occasion. So I made use of it. The next afternoon, when we broke for lunch, I took a plain white envelope, inside holding the photos and a note, which I had written in English the night before, and the evening desk clerk graciously translated into a more local dialect. No one was around, the rain, or the hour, or the morning activities maybe keeping them inside their home.
I set the envelope against the door, a couple of knocks and then quickly moved back from the doorway. Seemed like the smart thing to do. A woman, older, mom I suppose, stepped out and the kids quickly surrounded her legs, grasping to them like pillars, and shouting and waving. As I waved back, she was opening up the envelope, and flipping through the photos. She looked up. She smiled, just a bit, not really sure of it all, the white guy in her front yard, photos of her family in hand.
But she knelt, in doorway, and began showing her children the photographs. I turned and went back to where I belonged. I can still hear them laughing, as I waked away, as they began to run around in their playground.
MY PLAYGROUND WAS DIFFERENT from these kids, but maybe I am jumping too far ahead of the story. I was in China, about an hours drive outside of Shanghai, working on a Chinese children’s television show. The area was a strange mix of warehouses, lumber yards, storage facilities.
I took a walk during a break, wanting to see this large factory, which looked abandoned from the third floor of the sounds stage we were working in. But it’s massive chimneys were call my name, and camera in hand I went out a side door of the warehouse, and down the street toward the factory.
As I moved deeper into the section of buildings, I came across three children, well, four actually, though the smallest of the four wasn’t brought out until later, almost like he was a “show and tell” item. On my grand quest to photograph what I had presumed was an abandoned building, I had instead crossed into their playground.
Shy at first, they kept a distance, plying, dancing and looking, almost as if as they wanted to see if I was paying attention to them. I fired off a few photographs, from a distance, as I just wasn’t sure of my surroundings, and those that might inhabit them. It was obvious that not only was this home to old buildings, but also to families. And I was an uninvited guest.
I moved inside the building, as I really only had an hour or so until we were called back on set, and I really wanted to see inside this old warehouse. The air was noticeably different inside, not horrible, as I had assumed it would be, but dank, musty, old. Root cellar old, and moist. Long hallways and corridors and broken widows streaming in light illuminated the space, revealing another playground, or maybe a home at one time, as I saw a mattress, and food containers. But definitely a play area now, with trolleys and toys and clothes strewn about.
