I meet a friend at our favourite coffee shop on Water Street. He is writing a book about Foncie Pulice, Vancouver street photographer, an iconic 45-year veteran of the candid image. I feel a kinship with Foncie. But in this age of stolen identities, paparazzi and the ubiquitous presence of cameras, the quest to capture souls is an uncertain passion.
One sunlit evening finds me at Stuart Park where mostly women dance, alone or together in a festival of motion. With camera, bag and cards I approach the heel-toe-stepping figures and focus on a young woman who licks an ice-cream cone. She is clearly aware that my camera is poised, but does not move. Her tongue flicks slowly, once, twice, giving 18 million pixels a perfect moment completed by a coy smile.
I skirt the lakeshore, past Ogopogo and the Sails, that leads to City Park. On the emerald grass a man fiercely tattooed and pierced like an urban tribesman releases a burst from my camera. Like Foncie I approach, and extend my card to a face framed by dreads and a goatee. His black eyes are not amused. And a Spanish accent protests photography without consent. My apology is proffered without explaining that seeking permission misses the moment. And when I volunteer to delete, red lips draw on a cigarette and surprise me by allowing my camera more.
I am intrigued by a pixied woman seated on a wooden bench. Her tanned arms are broom-sticks loosely covered by wrinkled skin. Wrists are crossed one over the other and posed ladylike on bronzed bare knees. And when I ask for her portrait a tight smile graciously approves and is followed by a strong scent of spirits. My viewfinder sees a weary movie star in a fox-fur vest, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. “Thank you!” She says, “God bless you!” She blows little kisses to a friend seated by tall sandy grasses, and when I leave, her voice casts pink petals of blessing toward me.
Night fills the day, and my camera, hungry for light, conveys me to Kerry Park where photons fall unevenly upon bands and spectators. A woman in faded blue-jeans dances alone; wild hair flailing the darkness; limbs telling stories to which only she is privy. I boldly ask, “Miss, I wonder if I could take some photos while you’re dancing?” And with surprise she says, “Sure!” So I snap freely until a young man approaches from behind. “I’m gonna say this only once,” He exclaims, “Stop taking pictures of her!” When she informs him, he is embarrassed and shakes my hand.
In the absence of light I am impelled by the wisdom of cameras to go home. My car drives Clement Street and pauses at a traffic light where I remember a story: A group of explorers makes first contact with an Amazonian tribe. In haste to capture the event, the photographer takes a ream of photos. And when he displays the images the natives think he has stolen their souls…which they redeem by killing and eating him. I wonder what Foncie would have said about this story?
