We have decided the following: If my next photographic collection does not result in more interest, my tongue will dedicate night and day to perfectioning Swedish. Swedish is a complicated language, but extremely delicious with a hoppy tone that resembles the melodic song of small birds. My happiness is indescribable, by the way!
Abbas
PS: Do not feel unease about your finances; the loan will soon be returned. You do not need to correspond me more reminders about the development of the interest.10
The first memory is from day care, and you’re lying hidden in the pillow room after having fought with someone, probably that jerk Gabriel. You have shuddery breathing from crying and you’re waiting for Dads and plugging in your invisibility shield and thinking about the difference between various parents. Normal parents are like Gabriel’s, dim gray shadows with brown coats and creaky voices who tiredly pick up their children and disappear out into the fog. But Dads eclipse the sun in a bright Djurgård scarf; Dads, who will soon come roaring with laughter into the pillow room with a beret on, who will start a tickle attack and pretend to take pictures of you with fingers and thumbs made into a rectangle. Dads charm pretend-angry day care ladies and use their shoulders to carry you all the way home. And normal parents have reading glasses, and they yawn and watch Eurovision and Tipsextra soccer matches on TV. While Dads subscribe to Current Photography, where the classic photos are so beautiful that Dads sometimes stop short in the middle of their homage speeches and tear their eyes. And normal parents work normal jobs and fantasize about normal charter vacations and normal Volvos. But Dads dream about changing ART forever, and every time they say “art” they say it in French and pronounce it with an a that’s elongated times four. L’aaaaaaart. Dads always talk about new plans for how they will follow in the great photographers’ footsteps. Dads have namely switched homelands in order to spread their photographic talent in foreign lands, just like the Roberts Capa and Frank and Philippe Halsman and Yousuf Karsh. ALL great photographers work in exile, shout Dads and give more example names than you can remember. Because normal parents have normal heroes like soccer players or politicians or the comedians in Monty Python. But the idols that Dads have have changed the history of photography. And not just photography, Dads shout. Because photography is art and art is seeing and seeing is the world! And not just history, because history is the future and the future is history, and you remember what Cartier-Bresson said about our relation to history, right? We erase the past but it returns as burps. You remember, right? And of course you remember and you nod proudly because normal parents don’t know any photographer quotes and when they go to the city they melt into the masses and when they crack their knuckles it sounds like quieter than when you break tiny toothpicks in airless Star Wars space. But when Dads go to the city people turn their heads out of joint and when Dads crack their fingers the noise is the ultimate hugest cracking sound, like if you break dry twigs or drive a monster truck into a mountain bunker and then close the door like on a safety deposit box and then slowly start to pull the hand brake. CLICK CLICK CLICK so that it thunders in your ears. And just then you hear Dads’ voice out in the hall and you know who it is because the voice shouts: Hello, you damn fools! And right after that it always gets a little quiet because the day care ladies never know how to answer.
The second memory comes from the time when Dads had just started driving subways and sitting at the gates and waking up sleeping drunk men at last stops. It’s the time when Dads stamp tickets and guide German tourists out of the labyrinthine platform at Kungsträdgården. It’s Dads who find left-behind evening papers and rattle their gigantic bunches of keys where the solution to everything is found, where the L key opens the door to the driver’s compartment between the cars when the train is too full and the square key opens the door on the escalator when hooligans have pushed the emergency stop. Dads unlock, make the escalator go, and return the grateful smiles of baby-carriage parents.
It’s the time when Dads let you skip day care even though of course they understand that you’re faking being sick to avoid hanging out with Gabriel and the others. As soon as Moms have disappeared running to the bus with their marmalade toast half eaten and the kisses on their cheeks half pecked, you fly up out of your bed and give a thumbs-up to Dads in the kitchen. Then you go to work together and Dads introduce you proudly to the others in the lunchroom: Voici mon fils and partner. Stefan with the horse-racing coupons and Jeffrey who drinks coffee from a plastic bottle are there, and Aziz, who is half Dads’ size and has a big Afro and always wants to talk pop artists you haven’t heard of. Then you go down to the trains and you hold Dads’ rough hands and Dads say that everyone else at SL is a complete loser, they’ll never get out of here, they’re content to just drive trains back and forth, they are the “generality of commonness,” Dads say and look proud about having mixed a little proper Swedish into the French-Arabic.
Dads let you open the side door to the cockpit with the L key, and soon you’re riding at the very front through endless tunnels, and sometimes, only sometimes, you get to call the name of the station over the loudspeaker system. And Dads always choose stations with both r and s in the name because then the effect is extra funny for both of you. “Next thtation Wopthten! All pathengew exit the twain, pleathe!” And Dads just have time to release the microphone button before you fall together in a laugh attack and you remember the dark and the shadows and the quiet swishing of the lights, and no matter how much you laugh, Dads never lose control of the double-connected hand accelerator.
It’s Dads in the blue polyester suit and the cap with the silver SL logo on the front. Dads who carefully save tip money. Dads who have stopped marketing their collections for fake-smiling gallery owners. Dads say: “As long as one goes via the establishment one is never free; one must stand solitary in order to be able to transform one’s future. That is why I am going to start my own studio. I am tired of being dependent on others and now it is up to your father to realize his dream and … oops, now we’re getting close, are you ready?”
And you let yourself be lifted up onto the stool by the shadow-silhouetty bending microphone with segmented metal stripes like a steel worm, and when Dads give the sign you call out, “Next thtation Öthtew-malmthtowy.”
Dads laugh until their eyes tear up while the train hisses on, rushes itself though the tunnel with white laser-light lamps, and suddenly you leave the solar system; you and Dads are lone cosmonauts in outer galaxies and Dads are Shoobacka and you are Varth Dader, and together you’re going to get fuel on a supersecret planet that’s light-years from here, and it’s almost an impossible task but nothing is impossible for us, right, Dad? And Dads speed up to supersonic speed and particles change shape and you go from people to beetles to toothpaste tubes to croissants before your bodies find their way back to Shoobacka and Varth Dader. You cross outer-atmosphere borders and blind yourselves into the light zone where hundreds of two-legged fuel paddocks are walking around in a white-shining hall, and Dads slow down the speed, the control levers go backward, and you land safely in a remote corner on the planet platform. You connect the oxygen tubes and cock the laser sword pistol. Dads turn the hydrogen-helium thingy that opens the doors while at the same time you open the pilot door and start zapping all the bad-guy guards. The fuel docks and right before the bad guys have time to get up again and send out the atom-bomb monster you shout: “Watch the doowth, the doowth awe clothing!” and Dads close the docking stations with a hiss and the pilot door fastens sideways with a clunk and you burn away at max speed toward the next station.
The third memory comes from the weekend mornings when you and Dads walk around Tanto park and back, you carrying the tripod and Dads clicking their softly humming system cameras at snowed-over park benches, frozen-down bicycles, and iced puddles with shoe prints in the middle. Between shots Dads adjust their scarves and tell you about all the names that to you are just names but soon become more alive than everything around you. Y
ou remember Dads fervently telling about Henry Peach Robinson, who said that photography is a true art because photography can lie. And Dads tell about August Sander’s photographic catalog of the German people and Atget’s gray Paris photos and Abbott, who captured all the nuances of New York. And in particular you remember how Dads’ eyes shine when they tell about Capa, Robert Capa with the velvet gaze, the world’s greatest war photographer, who was born in Budapest and who, in exile, developed his own way to speak, which his friends called Capanese. And here you always interrupt and say: But Dad, you have your own language, too! And Dads answer with a smile because what is more welcome than similarities to heroes? Besides, it’s true, because normal parents either speak Swedish or Not Swedish, but only Dads have their own language, only Dads speak Khemirish. A language that is all languages combined, a language that is extra everything with changes in meaning and strangewords put together, special rules and daily exceptions. A language that is Arabic swearwords, Spanish question words, French declarations of love, English photography quotations, and Swedish puns. A language where g and h rumble way down in your stomach, where you always “walk” abroad instead of traveling, where toys must always be picked up from the “ground.” A language where “daccurdo” means “okay” and “herb salt” is synonymous with “really good” (just because Moms love herb salt on popcorn). Treatment of illnesses is called “Vicks friction” and to rub in cream is to “Pond-ize” and to eat muesli with jam is to eat “TSO” (or “the same old”). Something soft is “Pernillish” and something sad is “extra blue” and something that is super great is “excellent!” When you greet someone you roar, “Hello, you damn fools!” and when you leave home you yell, “Beslema hemma.” Is there more? Sure; hundreds more special words. Pasta is “potties,” candy is “halloua,” soda is “gazouz.” … And you remember that for a while Dads call you Mowgli and themselves Bagheera and Moms always get a little mad when you salute at precisely the same time and call them Colonel Hathi (and Grandma Shere Khan). Names are never innocent, and names are even the reason for your existence! Because Dads have certainly explained that Moms were named Bergman before and we are called Khemiri, of course … And what does that mean? Exactly! The man from the mountain! We are the men from the mountain, les hommes de la montagne, montemen! Do you understand, my son? Your mother and I were meant for each other and NOTHING, not even Shere Khans, can stop a love that is so decided by fate.
When you come home from the photo session, your toes are lumps of ice and your stomach is rumbling, but you still follow Dads into the lab, Dads’ own room, which once upon a time was called the little bathroom. Now it’s converted, with a pale orange lightbulb because red light is for amateurs (who appreciate sharp shadows). Drying lines hang from the ceiling, on the steel table is the copying machine, and on the floor are the chemical basins. Dads go through it step by step, all the careful instructions, the light that has to be turned off, the air bubbles that must be tapped away. You get the honorable task of taping up the light gaps around the door. Then a sudden darkness, which only almost smothers you. You hear how Dads load the film on the spiral and turn until it clicks. Then the light is finally back, you can breathe normally again, Dads throw in the developer and start to agitate and tell the story of how one time in Tabarka he accidentally started with the fixer and the customer was a rich German tourist and Dads laugh and shake the spiral box while you let your gaze wander between all the cutout photos from Current Photography’s classics series that are nailed up on the wall. There’s that sailor who left his super-flexible nurse wife and then regretted it and now he’s back in the city and they’re kissing each other for the first time and the girl bends her back backward like a bridge and people in the neighborhood are so impressed that they throw small bits of paper and yell hooray and have started a big carnival on the street. And there’s that poor blurry soldier who’s being forced to walk in a gray sea up to his waist as punishment for stealing a medal from his general and you can see how angry the soldier is because in the background there are metal islands, boats, and a regular beach. And there’s the poor white-haired, bearded old man with laced fingers and leathery hands whom Dads call Einstein. He’s waiting for his grandchildren, who never want to come visit because they’re tired of how he always slurps his soup and needs help both putting on his slippers and trimming his mustache. Hello, are you listening? ask Dads and of course you nod while the instructions continue, pour the fixer back, rinse carefully for twenty minutes, open, dry, wash the equipment, prepare for copying. The developer fluid in the red, stop in the blue, fixer in the white, never mix together and never use tools in more than one chemical and remember to be careful because they’re flammable chemicals and one little mistake can destroy a future masterpiece and … The air begins to get humid. The mirror steams up. The chemicals stink. But still there’s nowhere you’d rather be.
Dads are kneeling in front of the chemical basins with their butt cracks showing. Dads swear. And you are back with the old man Einstein; he twists his mustache and winks at you and says that you look brave sitting there in your long underwear, huddled on the flushing box of the toilet. The light is going to be turned off again soon, but you don’t need to be afraid, okay? It’s not dangerous, you know, dark is exactly like light, only it’s, hmm, a little less light? And he smiles his toothless hobo smile and the sailor, who’s done kissing, gives you a thumbs-up with one hand and pinches the nurse’s behind with the other and the soldier in the water waves to you and … Who are you talking to? Listen instead! Dads continue swearing about the bad copy machine, adjusting the aperture, dodging themselves sweaty. And finally on the fourth try the contours of the perfect copy emerge. Yet another snowed-over bicycle has been documented. Excellent! yell Dads.
Khemirish is Dads’ language and the family’s language; it’s a language that is only yours, that no one else owns, and that you will never show anyone (until now?).
10. Your father actually repeated “my happiness is indescribable” triangularly in the same letter. Do you realize, then, what an indescribable happiness your birth gave him? He lived in a divine bubble the evening he returned from the hospital after your birth. He has described how, the entire first night, he parked his body at your kitchen window, stared at the desolation of the yard, toasted himself to tears, and chorused along with Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely?” (He just replaced “she” with “he.”) That for you he focused more on the disappointment you brought him is something that he presumably regrets. Here follows yet another pause in my correspondence with your father. During this time Tabarka’s tourist industry grows. I polish my career from kitchen-responsible to pool-responsible to planner of dance competitions. In parallel Swedish time, your father maximizes his attempts to sparkle his photographic career. While your mother recovers her strength after your delivery, your father passes his time at the restaurant on Rådmansgatan. He cleans the greenness of the carpets of gum, he glitters the toilet’s shine forth from vomit, he searches under the coatroom’s counter in pursuit of forgotten one-crown coins. In the afternoons he assists Raino’s developed entrecôtes and adjusts the light and contrast of fish soups and desserts. On the weekends he combs his curly coiffure, puts on his beret, and wanders his steps from gallery to gallery both in Gamla Stan and on Hornsgatan. His two prepared photographic collections lie ready in his portfolio. His fingers sink door handles, bells jingle; black-polo-shirted gallery owners with big plastic lunettes receive him, smiling nervously, browse his portfolio, hmm their approval, and accept his homemade business card. They praise his talent. They promise potential cooperation. But …just before he goes, they ask, of course, the oh-so-vital-for-Swedes question of national background. And your father’s tongue auctions with more and more tired voice that his roots are unimportant for his photographic ambition. The gallery owners excuse themselves and promise their effective telephone calling. Relieved, your father goes home to his wife and auctions: Soon my career will find its gallop!
Is it not bizarre that your father, who would later expose suspicion toward everything and everyone, actually seems to believe the gallery owners’ words? Perhaps the desire to believe was so well formed that no alternatives were provided to him? Because do you know how many gallery owners picked up the phone and called your father?
Not a single one.
The years pass.
In 1982 your father transforms himself from dishwasher to metro driver for Stockholm Public Transit, SL. He receives his position after having passed a Swedish test by actively reflecting his glance toward his neighbor’s paper …
Here I suggest that you inject your three earliest memories of your father. Do you feel ready? Good luck!
Dearest greetings!
Thank the correspondence of your three earliest memories. Hmm … I presume that we will class this text as preliminary and in need of a great deal of polishing? Why have you decided to describe yourself as “you” instead of “I”? Why do you write “Dads” instead of “Dad”? Is this carelessness, or intention? The quality of the text can be substantially stimulated, with my opinion, with a more classic form, à la “Oh, my father, let me now form my first memories of my great hero …”
Did this take you three weeks to formulate? Now I am starting to realize what you mean about being “sooooo not pumped” to write your secondary book. It must be so much easier to accuse one’s dear author colleague of insufficient honesty and competence … Is it not tempting to mask one’s own inability by aggressively attacking others’? Because is that not what you are doing? In the next message you are welcome to disambiguate your ambiguity. First you hail your father’s poetic letters. You write that my translation is reminiscent of the professionalism of BabelFish and you write that their injection into the book would be like “gilding the lily.” What is more beautiful than a gilded lily? Then your tone suddenly becomes harsh and sharp. You write that now it is your turn to participate more in the book and you suddenly accuse your father’s letterish writing style of being “suspiciously like” mine? Let me response like this:
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