I am a hunter. I haunt the walled lanes of far away villages, hang out in markets and bazaars, walk clockwise in a kora of prayer-spinning old ladies, earning my points from the gods and the spirits that frequent this monastery or that. I eat with the truckies, the farmers, the monks. My bearing relaxed, camera always at hand, pointing, its long lens inhibiting, always questioning: who are you, who are you? Then I stop, a face holds me, I try not to stare yet I want so much more: What have you done? What have you seen? Your past, what of the future? I can only imagine. I take a picture, then another and another. No counterfeit smiles for me. I want the real thing. Get under the skin, enter the personal, the space that divides, that calls for reflex. The shutter snaps to snare that involuntary retort that says this is me, this is me – the moment when all those facial muscles spring into play; so hard to replicate that which cannot easily be copied has value. I like faces. For the old, the lines and the wrinkles like growth rings in a tree. For the young their countenance fresh like tabula rasa, their story yet to be written. Old ladies and the young, they work well for me. The former not reticent to confront, the latter once through the hurdles of shyness – having seen their image on the camera screen – become charming actors in a world of the could-be. What makes a good face? I dont know – I believe if I did the dialogue would stop coming.
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