Photo: willem van der jagt

How to become invisible

About a really small, but very important victory

A long time ago, it was either 1998 or 1999, I found myself on a train that was unusually packed. The morning rush hour train to Amsterdam was late, and on entering the station it consisted of only three instead of the usual eight wagons. Chinese scenarios come to mind, even though it wasn’t really quite as bad, but it was to the very civilized standards of Western Europe.

I was a photography student at the time, in my second year if I remember correctly, and determined to follow in the footsteps of people like Bruce Gilden, Garry Winogrand and Richard Kalvar, to name a few. In my dreams I carried my Leica M6 with a Summicron 35mm through the hustle and bustle of all cities known to man, and shot tens of rolls of Kodak Tri-X a day. I blended in to the point I was invisible, I was always at the right place at the right time. After years I had created a body of work that penetrated into the core, the essence of what city life did to the nature of man.

But those were dreams. I didn’t achieve all those things (or own a Leica). In reality I felt all eyes burning into my person as soon as I even considered taking my camera out in public and photograph the people around me. The camera in my bag weighed me down to the extent I could hardly move. I did actually use Tri-X film in those days, but how dare I let the light that these people reflected register an image on it. I wasn’t afraid of getting my ass kicked (but only because I knew this wouldn’t happen), but I was terrified of standing out, being disapproved of. This is kind of silly when you think of it, I didn’t know any of these people, nor would I ever meet them again. But I was kind of a chicken that way.

Photo: Willem van der Jagt

A good friend of mine helped me overcome this fear once, even if it was completely against my will and didn’t last longer than that one moment. The academy had given us an assignment where we were to put up a white background against a building of our choice in downtown The Hague, and install a large view camera (the kind where you need a cloth over your head to use it) in front of it. We would ask passers-by to stand in front of our background and we would photograph them in the style Richard Avedon did. My friend was quite the opposite of myself when it came to interacting photographically with people in public, and on that day he happened to be inspired with a painful but perfectly adequate way of forcing me into doing exactly what I was most scared of: “Willem, if you don’t ask that guy over there, I am going to ask him for you and explain you’re too scared.” I promised my friend to strangle him once all this was over, but in hindsight, I am still thankful for that moment.

Photo: Willem van der Jagt

When I got on that packed train that morning in Dordrecht, a story was unfolding in front of me that was an exaggeration in the most literal way of what my photography was supposed to be all about. To document people in city life was to document people living in an unnatural close proximity of each other. If that was my truth, the truth I had been convincing myself of, then this moment, in this train, had to be a sign that I couldn’t ignore without ridiculing everything I had been telling myself. I had no excuses this time. My camera wasn’t loaded with the wrong type of film — as, of course, I always managed to convince myself it was. It happened to have the right lens on it, a nice 28mm wide angle lens, perfect for this tight location — which, of course, rarely happened. Of course, if I were to take out my camera now, or even think of doing so, every single person on this train would judge me. They would bury me with looks of disapproval that would break records. I would tragically collapse in a theatrical nervous breakdown. The train’s emergency brakes would need to be used, and an ambulance called. It would make the news. If my camera were to stay in my bag, how could I ever convince myself again of my photographic identity?

When I looked through my camera, I didn’t immediately start taking photos. I was mostly surprised of what I saw. These people had some guy in their midst that was pointing a camera at them, from only inches away! And they couldn’t care less! Even when I started taking photos, they kept their empty stares of morning train uncomfort. Had I really become invisible? The rest of that day, I was two inches taller.