Tender LightThe bond between photography and narrative Emmanuel Iduma (bio) One evening, a mild-mannered pastor returns home from a photography exhibition. He is unsure of what to say to his wife. He goes into their bedroom and finds her asleep. So he decides to take a walk, as far as he can manage in the course of a half hour, at which point he imagines his wife might wake, anxious about his absence. He tries to think of nothing, to empty his mind of what he has seen and where he has been, but this proves impossible. He keeps straight on the road abutting his house. He is grateful for the fragmented chattering of strangers. I'm playing mind games, he thinks, and heads back after covering a mere dozen yards. The pastor is unsure of how to say to his wife: When I saw the photograph, I stopped believing in God. [End Page 46] ________ eight years ago in New York, during my first year of studying for a graduate degree in art criticism, I wrote the preceding passage as the opening to a short story. My idea had been to tell a story in which a photograph served as the immediate catalyst of an irreversible change in my protagonist's life, a kind of parable on the power of images. Although I managed to complete it, I set the story aside. I had grown up in half a dozen Nigerian cities as the son of an itinerant Presbyterian clergyman and then completed an undergraduate degree in law—a course of study I'd pursued mainly out of curiosity and perhaps a desire to seem respectable, but without any real intention of making a living as a lawyer. After university, I published the novel-in-stories I'd written in the final year of my undergraduate degree. I also embarked on two road trips with photographers—from Lagos to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and then from Lagos to Libreville, Gabon—arranged by Invisible Borders, the Nigerian-based arts organization for which I had agreed to blog about the minutiae of our journeys. My record of our time on the road began to veer into reflections on the photographs I saw being taken and recollections of the encounters that had precipitated them. In the process, I found myself drawn to the narrative potential of photography: the hidden linkages I sensed between stories and snapshots. A few months later, after I had settled into my academic life in New York, I became even more obsessed by the idea. The program I enrolled in at the School of Visual Arts in New York entailed an eclectic reading list and immersed me in an array of schools of thought—deconstructionism, poststructuralism, phenomenology—none of which had been familiar to me as an undergraduate studying the Nigerian legal system. I found myself desperate to counterbalance all that theory with narrative. In retrospect, I think this came from an anxiety over how to categorize myself, over the fact that I'd spent my adolescence and early twenties imagining myself as a novelist, yet had somehow ended up with a degree that wouldn't guarantee a realization of my ambitions. When I began writing the story about the pastor, I thought, perhaps naively, that a story could simply be a vehicle for an idea. The [End Page 47] idea in this instance was that a photograph could unsettle a viewer to such a degree that they would be led to question everything they'd known, particularly in relation to Christianity. I thought of anecdotes I'd heard of people who wept in front of paintings, or the despair that had led Kevin Carter—the South African photographer who had won a Pulitzer Prize for his photograph of a starving child in Sudan—to commit suicide. I wanted to know the extent to which photography could trouble the waters of lifelong conviction. He reenters the bedroom and sees that his wife is awake. "Are you okay?" she asks, and he hates that she can see through him like that. His mouth is full with the words, yet he is barely able to utter them; language...
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