During my walking tour around Uluru, a sandstone monolith sacred to the Anangu people, we walked through sections where we were not allowed to take photos because we were visiting particularly sacred sites. It made me reflect on photography, on tourism, and on “capturing” and “documenting” the moment. Here is a quote I wrote down from a sign posting:
Warayuki is an Anangu men’s site and is sacred under Tjukurpa. The rock details and features are equivalent to a sacred scripture; they describe culturally important information and must be viewed in their original location. It is inappropriate for images of this site to be viewed elsewhere. In an oral culture, stories are family inheritance. Under Tjukurpa, cultural knowledge is earned and with it comes great cultural responsibility. Please do not photograph or film this site. Thank you.
Why do we have the impulse to photograph? Are we trying to capture subjects as our own, or to freeze a moment forever, or to create beautiful art? The fact that videotaping and photographing has become our impulse in special moments instead of just looking, listening, and being present with our five senses is fascinating.
And that is why I have been recalibrating my relationship with photography recently. Because as a little kid, I was taking pictures because I felt moved to do so by a moment or an occurrence, and that was that. But now that photography has become my “thing,” I feel more pressure and my sensitivities have changed. Now I feel like I need to be ready to take photos, and to take a lot of them, because otherwise I’ll “miss” the moment that could turn into an iconic shot. It is an obligation almost, driven by the insecurity that comes with identifying as a photographer or as an artist; because I now have a reputation to uphold.
Especially these days, on my Watson journey, I have let my fear of missing the shot trump the more subtle and deliberate voice of instinct. And ironically, that makes my photographs more diluted. I want to get back to intuition again. To trust myself that I have all the shots I need, that even if I’m not documenting or making art frequently that’s okay and could actually be a good thing. Because photography is most potent when driven by sensitivity and the heart, not by fear.
And that line of thinking, coupled with the fact that photography is physically banned in places around Uluru, made me want to challenge myself to not take any photographs around the rock, even though it’s technically allowed in some areas. Because the whole point of being anywhere, really, is to experience it and take it in. And I think for me, using my phone or camera for the sake of documentation can be a barrier to immersing myself with my senses. It shifts the priority from being present to getting a good shot.
And that is a slippery slope. Because when getting the shot becomes the priority, photography can also start taking precedent over respect. And I hate that. James the Anangu ranger said on our tour today that some tourists come in and start photographing the sacred sites where it’s clearly marked as forbidden. And, when told to stop, they push back against the rangers, saying “I paid all this money to come here, so I deserve to take this photograph.” As if shooting and capturing is what they are owed.
In this way, photographs are a colonial tool. Taking a photograph of someone turns their being into someone else’s possession. Another good example is the Pitzer kid’s dad who gave a presentation at the Hive talking about his experience as a photojournalist at the Tiananmen Square riots in 1989. He proudly told a story about almost being beaten over taking a photograph, because two local men had told him not to document a certain Chinese official, but he did it anyway. I was appalled at this story and shocked by his pride. This man felt that having a camera and being a photographer made him entitled to steamroll what is sacred to someone else and to capture its interpretation for himself.
And what does that say? We are so conditioned in Western culture to see the world through the lens of ownership that we feel the need to possess what moves us. And that goes for being moved by both desire and by fear. Because without a baseline respect for all beings, our impulse to “capture” turns fear and desire into violence. And photography has historically been used as a means to that end – as a way to dehumanize, to fetishize, and to classify others, therefore “justifying” violence against them.
Photography provides a vehicle to project our biases and call them objectivity. As someone with a camera, I think it is beyond important to acknowledge this un-earned power – so that I can help create a more reciprocal form of image-making that prioritizes respect. The fact that photography is banned in Uluru says something. And I want to be respectful of the land that I am on, and to challenge my own impulses to “capture” the moment at someone else’s expense. I want to focus on feeling, connecting, and being.
Another thing James said on our tour said is that the settlers, immigrants, and tourists in this Country are all babies on the land. Meanwhile, the Anangu people have been here for over 60,000 years. And we need to acknowledge and respect that. Because knowledge comes with time, and with knowledge comes responsibility. We must respect those Elders who hold the knowledge of how to care for this place and understand that our role as newcomers is to just listen.
We can’t just show up, plant a flag – or take a photo – and say, “I own this.” Which is exactly what colonization is. It is showing up fresh on the scene and feeling entitled to who and what was already there. It is saying, because I signed a paper, or paid my money, this belongs to me. That might work at the grocery store, but it turns to horror when it comes to other people and to Country. And imperial regimes around the world have just spent the last 600 years into the present trying to pretend otherwise, through racism and murder and legislation.
It’s high time for that to change. And I’m figuring out what role I can play. And how I can use photography to defy the history that predates it.