My camera was broken when I wrote this back in January 2005. This essay is an experiment in literally putting pictures into words.

There are many images I see now and I miss my camera for it. I have hundreds of images already from Argentina, but there are so many precious ones I passed on. It is impossible to capture everything, even with a camera. And much of what I do capture ends up doing little more than occupying space on my hard drive.

I belong to a gym in the neighborhood of Congreso here in Buenos Aires. It has a beautiful 25 meter swimming pool that is my haven for a few hours each week. Each time I have gone to this gym I have passed a scene that shakes me. I would pass this sheltered entrance of a small building. The entrance was about the size of a small showroom. In this area lived a “family” of people, 8-10 young adults and a couple babies.

The entrance was wide and plainly open to the street, to all who would walk by or drive by. It had the appearance of a stage, a scene of life that contrasts with the urban sophistication of a modern city. This was the home to a family, and they lived in plain view to the world with a few beds and all their belongings crammed between. At different times of the day, some were sleeping, others eating or sipping beer, or cleaning. I sensed a certain pride they shared for their home.

These people had a home but were also living on the street simultaneously. I couldn’t judge these people only observe their exposed lives through my eyes. I would oblige usually whenthey asked me for change, which may have been for beer or for food. I was impressed by how they were surviving with dignity in a difficult situation.

A little before I went away on vacation, I sensed a regression. The young guys were passed out more, and the place was not so clean any more. I assumed it was a shift in demographics with a couple of the more matronly women leaving. I returned from vacation two weeks later and didn’t see the stage. At first pass I thought I was just too preoccupied in thoughts to have noticed them, but I returned to the same block and found the stage gone, replaced by a wall of cement blocks.

I never photographed this scene, but contemplated the idea several times. I am sure they would have been more than obliging if I offered a couple pesos. But even though they were open to the public, I felt that a camera would be an intrusion. Not everything needs to be documented the same. Still the memory is there. And the words are here.