the ideal height

Most days, I enjoy working in a daily paper. I am in the loop about every local thing that happens, about the political situation, I see a lot of events and meet a lot of (usually interesting) people.

Tuesday was not such a day. Tuesday showcased everything unprofessional about journalists and photojournalists. Tuesday, every paper and tv station from Serbia descended upon this village near Novi Sad, called Ledinci, like vultures to a fresh carcass.

The horrific backstory, outlined in short because I don’t have the stomach to repeat everything: a mentally deranged guy kidnapped, raped and killed an 8 year old girl. There was a huge media craze, like always with these things, but I managed to avoid going to the scene of the crime and to the arrest of the monster who did it, the other photographers at the paper got saddled with that. I thought myself very lucky that I knew nothing about the case.

Well, that all changed this tuesday. I was relaxing in the office, since I was on call just until 3pm that day. at 2pm, the journalist who covers murders and robberies and other horrific stuff like that came in, visibly frustrated and asked me if I was free for an assignment with her. Having nothing else to do, I was ready to go immediately and we set off to (for me) parts unknown. The first stop was the house of the chief inspector for the case I mentioned. The guy was young, polite, nice, soft-spoken and a great host. At least until he started talking about the case, in gruesome, horrific detail. Apparently, there was some new info, and our journalist was getting the scoop while I was sitting there not knowing whether to vomit or to cry.

Still, this is not why I’m doing this whole “journalists are fucking heartless vultures” thing. I know that people have this perverse voyeuristic need to read about horrific crimes. I know that editors use this to sell papers. I don’t like it but since I’m not really directly involved in such stuff, I don’t give it much thought. What followed, though, was… disgusting. The journalist, after finishing the interview, says “Ok, here’s the thing: now we’re going to the little girl’s funeral. I need photos of the people crying, the walk from the house to the church and then photos of the funeral itself.”

I think I was too stunned to be furious right then. It helped that she did not seem like this was something she thought was a good idea, but something that the editor of the paper expects this to be done. So, I went along with her, already certain that she wouldn’t get any photos of the family or people crying or anything, just a wide shot of the column of people in black and that was it. When we arrived, the place was crawling with journalists, photographers and cameramen. Some, like the journalist I came with and me, found the whole thing horribly distasteful and we walked away from the house as a group. The other group had no problem invading the privacy of these people, pushing into the crowd of gathered mourners to get photos of the parents crying, of the people carrying her coffin. One guy even tried to push into the church, to take a photo of the ceremony inside. We could see him getting his flash out and just walking in a semicircle around the entrance, looking for a way past the crowd.

I was already done then, sick, sad, annoyed, angry and suffering from sun-stroke to add to that. I took whatever photos I decided that I was comfortable with and was waiting for the journalist to decide she has enough to write the article. This meant we were to stay for the entire thing. The ceremony inside the church, the long climb uphill to the graveyard, with ambulances standing by in case people faint or get sick (and they did) and then the whole “show” that the people in Serbia (and in the rest of the ex-Yugoslav countries too) call a funeral - the priests spilling red juice from a plastic ice tea bottle onto the tiny, tiny coffin, the parents, grandparents and assorted neighbors crying, yelling, screaming at the top of their lungs about how they’ll miss her, probably loosing their voices in the process. And the few photojournalists elbowing into the crowd, trying to get that money shot of the mom and dad crying over the coffin and the grave as she is lowered inside.

I was so angry then and I’m getting angry again. I am not sure I can handle stuff like this. No, actually, I’m sure I can’t handle it and I don’t want to learn how to deal with it. It seems like there should be a conclusion here, some deep thought to end this tirade with but I can’t really find anything to say except profanities.

tattoos!

also, more posts coming later, with words and everything!

Last weekend, a few friends invited me to a festival of French-language theater that they organized. I was ecstatic, even though I don’t speak a word of French - good theater is hard to come by in this town, and these girls are so full of enthusiasm and love for what they do that I had to come by and see them.

I was in for a treat - 4 shows, 3 of them with subtitles(!), all by theater groups from ex-Yugoslav countries, 2 groups from Zagreb, one from Zadar and one from Novi Sad.

I have NO idea what the first show was about. Angels, bad opera singers, cheating fathers, births, and all hell breaks loose

The second show was the only let-down, I really didn’t enjoy it and the photos show it. I would be hard-pressed to select a single decent photo from that set. After that, though, the kids from Zagreb put on an AMAZING show. just a few actors, simple stage, and great actors.

They named it “The Flabby Queen” and it’s probably a parody of some other text, but I’m no theater buff. The only think I know is that I enjoyed it like no other show in a long time.

Finally, the last show, where (I’m told), a bunch of classmates kill their teacher and dance over her dead body for an hour and 15 minutes. They had no subtitles and a LOT of text, so I just watched them dance around and be awesome.