August112009
8/10/09 - Mistakes.
Early morning, the sky clear blue.
The sun’s rays stole through openings between vendors’ roofs. I followed my mother from one stand to another, striving to avoid mopeds traveling under no rules, and striving, at the same time, to tease out the market’s separate rules. There’s a different way of talking here, a different pace, and different price tags even, depending on your ties.
Barely 7AM, the street already wide awake.
Being in midst of all this life, it’s easy to forget the days of typhoon we’d just weathered. Here, only the cost of goods still bore our disaster’s mark; a head of cabbage had easily blown up five times its usual worth.
It’s always trying after a typhoon, my mother said. We face the challenge of preserving our quality against rising prices. Times like these test how we make the best of our situations.
***
Rewind: Photo I
Gabe studied a photo of the Italian Market and shook his head.
I’m not really sure what’s going on here, too much is happening.
But that’s the nature of a market place! the student argued.
Yes, it’s chaos. But you are organizing it. What makes a photographer stand out is what you do with a situation.
Rewind some more: Photo I, Day 1
In the introduction of our course, Gabe prepared us for our first crit. He motioned towards the white wall we were facing.
All your first attempts at photography will be here, it will be, he chuckled goodnaturedly and winked, a wall of mistakes.
***
My wall of mistakes:
I was assigned to make omelets for the rice accompanying the borscht we were serving. It was a special type of omelet that my mother wanted - a swirling one. I failed miserably at the task.
At first, the pan was not hot enough, so the eggs stuck; then the pan was too hot, so the eggs over-crisped. I did not swirl it fast enough, or I swirled it unevenly. I made the omelet too thin and it broke; I made it too thick and it delayed the cooking time, ruining the texture. A few times, I didn’t let the omelet set properly before moving it out of the pan, and at the last minute, it tore apart.
When finally, I began to have minor success, I had trouble taking the omelet out and placing it on the rice: sometimes covering only partially, sometimes too much bunching at the sides.
Am I stupid?
I felt the heat from the stove, but even more so, the heat from myself. I was frying in my own embarrassment. My sense of timing and my ability to assess mistakes were further warped by all that eagerness to make right. Much of my fault had been impatience, yet dumbed by anxiety, I could not slow down. Instead, I reached for redemption with yet more speed. That naturally only pushed me farther away.
***
You will learn, Damian said to me the last time we danced at the milonga, With more experience, you’ll learn to let go of your mistakes when they happen on the dance floor, and keep dancing. You won’t do a little twist with your shoulders or make a face, you will just keep going.
Grace, I understand as facing mistakes in real-time unflinching, unparalyzed.
The next time I see you, he continued, You will dress like a tanguera, talk like a tanguera, act like a tanguera.
***
For lunch, I brought a plate of my failed omelets home. I devoured those mistakes, to demonstrate this is how things work here - not the other way around.
