What Life Is

Through my lens, a smile, a singing light across the room. It’s a warm embrace, a bead of dew on a blade of grass, the scratching of a bow on a cello. A second smile sang. I heard a third voice join the song, lower, richer. And then a fourth. And then a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, a choir of angels, like a tower of sound, like the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life. I took another photo, this time of the teachers crowded to the side of the room. Their eyes were lowered and their eyebrows were furrowed in contemplation. I couldn’t tell if they were trying to solve a problem or just anticipating the show. I couldn’t hear their discussion, but I knew they were talking about us: who had the most potential, who could reach a professional level, and who, like me, just didn’t have it in them. I walked through the students to my friends, until I was right in front of them. Katya turned her head to the side. A gleam of happiness crossed her face when she saw me.

The scene here was a stage play that everyone has seen billions of times. It wasn’t that surprising to see familiar objects here. But it was different seeing them and realizing they were familiar to me. I saw the ground. I saw the rust-coloured velvet curtain falling loosely on the stage. I saw the golden legs of the chairs, bent like those of a dancer. I saw the broad pattern of the rug, which looked like wood grain, but was blue. I imagined the seats filled with people, which would look like a painting rendered in three dimensions. I’ve seen the reindeer fur hue of the wardrobe and the sparkle of sequins on a suit. My circle of friends was sitting on the damaged floor, on the floor, in the middle of the room. Their legs were folded under them and their backs were bent forward. They had reunited in front of our year-end album and were basking in the warmth of their growing friendship.

Someone was sitting a little apart from the group: me. I rested my head on Katya’s shoulder. I tried to be enthusiastic about the opening of the ballet, but I didn’t maintain a very nice facade. I was exhausted from the hours of rehearsal. A sigh escaped my lips. I couldn’t summon more enthusiasm for the evening’s performance; it was way too much like every other night. Fatigue stifled my ardour. I’m glad they try to include me even though we all know that I don’t understand Russian culture and the fascination with ballet as much as they do. I can hear the sound of my breathing. These are my heartbeats. It’s the sound of the air passing through my lungs, over my vocal cords. The sound of my throat as I swallow. It’s the sound of every breath I take. The sound of air crossed my nose. I know it’s the sound of my own body, but it feels strange to me. I can hear it. Katya sings my favourite song. She sings it with our friends, it’s a ritual to relax us. I hear echoes of conversation, but I can’t take it all in. I look and I see people I know. They have their quirks, their own personalities. But they all have something in common, they all share something. The sound of laughter, the sound of bass, the vibrant pre-show energy, the calm voice of Katya singing, the sound of raindrops, the sound of the final note held too long, the sound of the last drumbeat, the sound of a breath held too long, the sound of people who have been together for a long time. It sounded more natural than a laugh should be.

I could hear all the sounds of my friends. I heard them breathing, smiling, swallowing, nudging, whispering, sighing, whispering again, a chorus of soft whispers, the volume of summer rain after a long hot dry season. I heard Katya’s song. I heard her voice, her home, her story, her day. I heard my friends sing. I heard the sounds they made when they met. I heard the sounds they made when they became friends. I heard where they were right now, at this place. I heard through the fog and saw through my lens. Laughing and giggling, telling offbeat jokes, laughing at each other’s comments, it seemed so natural. The discussion had a natural rhythm. They seemed to be having so much fun and I stood on the edge of the conversation, not knowing how to join in. I wish I had felt more comfortable living these moments, but instead, I was scared and pulled away.

Unlike me, Katya was in her place. Katya was the smartest, most outgoing girl I’ve ever known. and she had already made her place in the world. I hadn’t yet understood why. I was the perfect exotic little girl who tried too hard or too little to fit in. I tried my best to be there, but as my thoughts spiralled out of control, I wondered if it was even possible to find my place. Katya was always so positive, and confident in her decisions. I was so jealous... I didn’t know how she managed to be like that. She knew exactly where she was going and what she was going to do. I tried to be like that too, but each time I felt like I had found my place, a new problem arose that threatened my stability. So I hid behind my camera again, where I knew I would be safe. Photography was maybe the only thing I was good at. My Baba always said that I could glimpse the soul of people and the true nature of the universe. It’s my voice. For the rest of my life, I drifted around half-loved abstractions. Photography left me with questions about the world and about myself. With my camera in hand, I discovered that the world was both an incredibly beautiful and cruel place. It wasn’t just about capturing an image and recording a moment: it was about understanding that image and that moment, trying to touch something ineffable with the lens of my camera. A poem was never far from my mind when I looked at the world through my lens. My fingers moved through the air, quickly wielding my camera like one would touch a violin. The sound of the strings, those playing under the bow, the magic of this musician, erasing all the bad things, opening all the good doors. The results were felt and the magic that usually touched my soul slowly dissipated. There was a life in me, a life that was not mine. What I saw through the lens was a flash of a thousand suns, like an exploding star. It was a jewel of colour, as bright as a rainbow, but beautiful in a way no rainbow could ever be.

Wonderful young women enjoying a simple moment together. It was the first image that really crossed my eyes that evening, the last, and it engraved itself in my retinas. We were all animated by feverish anticipation of the times to come, of the spectacle to be given. We stretched as one body, our arms, legs and feet knowing exactly what to do. I remember the light at the back of the room as it illuminated the stage, and in that light, I saw us all dancing together. The music rose crescendo, the sounds of our breathing and the drumming of our feet thundering through the air. We could already feel the sweat, the training and the effort. Our skin, soaked in sweat, was slippery to the touch. Strangely, we were warm against the coldness of the room. The cool fabric of my clothes made me feel alive and awake. The troupe was beautiful in a way I had never seen before. I wish I could capture that moment. I felt a deep connection. When I heard the music, I was drawn to the dance floor like a magnet. I saw their faces and watched the movements they made.

Everyone was moving and having fun. They danced in a circle around a central point, their bodies moving in precise rotation to the rhythm of the music. I couldn’t see their faces, but it looked like they were smiling, with their bodies and faces spinning in the air. It was a ballet of movements such as had never been conceived. Its accompaniment was a symphony, of which no instrument had ever been invented. We found our way back to our lives, lives that had been put on hold for performance time, our lives that were swallowed up again when the music stopped. We redid our summer’s journey by the fireside, then undergo an endless push towards the next memory, the next city, the next song, the next season. We created a memory that day that bonded us, created us together, and in doing so shaped us as individuals. We moved forward together. Sweat is born in our fire, created by the embers slowly dying from our hearts. We were all entwined at that moment as only photographs can usually capture feelings.

As soon as we got off stage, we pulled together for a group photo. The photographers approached us, two women and a man, and asked us to pose. The tall woman stood in the center, and the rest of us gathered in front of her in a semi-circle. She narrowed her eyes and her brow furrowed as she stared at the camera. I didn’t feel good being on that side of the lens. Our eyes were half closed, our bodies pressed together in a tight circle, our faces close to each other’s breath. Our mouths were dropped open, and we laughed and talked, still filled with excitement at our accomplishments. There were two flashes of light, and it was done. The photographers had a printer so we all took a copy. I saw our bodies, our faces, our half-moon-shaped feet. Our expressions screamed, “I was there!“. At the time, I didn’t know what the future held... But I was still young and naive, and I thought there was nothing to worry about. Of course, there was war, famine and pestilence, but I didn’t think that would affect me personally. These things only happened in distant places like China, Siberia, and small African countries. Even though I grew up in many countries; they had always been glorious. I was oblivious to what was happening in my home country, wherever that was. My life was going to become wonderful and magical. All that innocence was exuding from the glossy paper on which our photo rested. That’s the beauty of photography: it washes the present in a flood of light and alchemizes it in the past. I didn’t know that was the last time we would all be happy together.

I slip the photo into my backpack, press it firmly between the pages of my diary and close the flaps then tighten the buckles of the bag. The zipper is stiff from wear. The photo is pretty much the only thing resting inside the bag, aside from a few books, a notebook, a pen, and a box of matches. I found it at a yard sale a few weeks ago and am still looking for a chance to use it. At first, I wanted to try breaking my spikes with it. Now I don’t know if I want to risk burning them or not. I’m torn between burning them to get rid of the ghosts in my head, leaving it all behind me, or saving them because their presence reminds me of who I was and where it all came from. I shoulder my bag and turn to open the door. The worn leather of the bag is soft under my touch. The strap fits comfortably over my shoulder and somehow it holds me up. The weight is just heavy enough to be reassuring like it carried everything I needed to survive. It smells of a cool morning breeze and damp earth. It smells like an autumn day when the leaves change colour and fall from the trees and whatever is left can survive the winter intact. It smells of adventure but with the reassurance of home. As I step through the doorway, something feels different. The energy running through the house is special, but my head begs me to ignore it and I do.

“I’m leaving for school,” I said as I walked through the kitchen.

I don’t have an answer and I don’t want one. The door closes behind me and I feel a rush of cold air as it winds through the house and out the open door. It’s lightweight outside of how it’s supposed to be. The sun is shining, but the air is freezing and crisp. He bites my face and neck. I take a deep breath trying to take a deep breath and release it slowly. My breath turns to a light haze then disappears as quickly as it appeared. I walk through familiar streets, the same streets I walked when I was little and coming home from school or from the store or the library. I’m nervous. I’ve never been very close to my current group of friends, but I’ll miss them no matter what. I hope I did something to leave a good impression on them. Butterflies pass through my stomach and flap their wings in my chest. I feel selfish, but I will miss our shopping sprees, the compliments, the road trips and skipping school and the way other kids look at us like we’re queens. The oblique looks of strangers, as if we were from a different universe and not just a different class. The public school children’s eyes are big as baby birds as they stare at us, private ones as if we were made of gold and our smiles dot the sky with stars. I can see that flash of wonder in their eyes when they realize that we’re not special at all, just regular people who live in their town and are just as “real” as they are and besides our social status, we are all the same. I think I understand why people want to be famous just like they want to be special, rich or loved. People want to be noticed. It does not bother me to be noticed if that means they remember me. I guess everyone wants to be remembered in some way. I think that’s why we’re all so obsessed with our heritage, and the importance of our lives. I also think that’s why people have kids or try to achieve great things. I too want to be remembered.

As I walk, I see the faces of people watching me from the sidewalk, cars in the distance with their flashers, signs in stores, and trees swaying in the breeze. I feel the breeze on the back of my legs and I hear the leaves crunch under my feet. I know they are there and they are real just as much as I am.

Streetlights look like little dots of security strobes in the dark. They light the way for walkers and motorists, so early in the morning that the sun has not yet risen. I feel the traffic rising at the intersection, I see it in my periphery, the dull roar of cars racing towards me, thick as a swarm of insects. The air sizzled with their gears and their exhaust fumes, the little wispy clouds swirling with the wind and the smoke. I stop at the corner, waiting for the traffic lights to change. I wonder if I’ll see them again, if we’ll reconnect after this or if this is the end, the very end of something I loved. I think back and try to remember the exact moment I fell so in love with them, the exact moment I started to feel their light. I can’t locate it, but I know it’s there, like a shiny little orb, just beyond my reach. I’ve been holding so many thoughts, so many feelings, and I can feel them bubbling up inside me, wanting to escape.