We drove about five miles outside Mount Pleasant, pulled over to a small, Lincoln-log-looking cabin and hit the snow half-running. It was about three steps when everything slowed down. There were so many flashing lights; must've been at least six cop cars and a fire truck, neon vests and milling firemen everywhere.
Carefully inching closer to the scene, it started to sink in. The death was confirmed by a policeman, and my thumbs began aching with cold. We shifted awkwardly, trying to figure out where to begin, how to do the jobs we'd chosen to dedicate four years of education and the rest of our lives to.
A man and two women appeared from the small bar where Randi's car was parked.
"What's going on? Do you know what happened? That's my truck," the man said, and kept repeating it. "That's my truck. My son borrowed it."
I looked at Sean and there was a sudden heaviness in my gut. I knew what we had no business telling them.
And I wanted to gather these people up and bundle them away back inside the little log house where they'd come from, away from the half-mile of backed up traffic, the slink of quiet snow, the pretty lights, the bitter winter air. Wanted to hide them from the knowledge that in a few minutes a policeman would tactfully explain.
I watched a man find out his child was killed, and I photographed it. It was what I was there to do, and it felt like the winter was creeping between my ribs.
This is Roy Buckner, father of 38-year-old crash victim Candon Royal Buckner.
Sean turned in a photograph of this father walking away from the accident. These were photos that hurt us to make, but we made them. And all the questions about ethics and sensitivity we as students discuss in class were real.
My friend Neil, a recent Central photojournalism grad, always said he never wants to cover spot news...I get it now. Spot news is a little piece of hell.
Yet these are stories that we need to tell; parts of humanity that should be documented, that we all can remember that everywhere, people around us are dealing with situations about which we have no idea. Anyone could have been in that crash, or lost someone in one just like it.
It's important to be scared by this because it reminds us how short life is. I want to be able to make these tough images, and be scared every time. I hope I never lose the sense of helplessness this accident inspired in me.
This is really heavy, Libby. I have this same problem, but, I suppose, in a much different way with writing.
ReplyDeleteI trust that you are a splendid person though from what I know of you and I'm sure you handled it with empathy and class as only you could.
good, excellent, nice job!!........................................
ReplyDeleteLibby, it comforts me to know that if ever something like this should happen to me or mine, there might be someone like you there to document it in a loving and caring way. As someone once told me, "Good art isn't always beautiful", sometimes it's very hard to look at and even harder to shoot. I think you've found your calling. Prayers being sent up for Roy and his family... Sharon Sefton
ReplyDeleteThanks Betsy, 結婚生子, Sharon...your reading and comments are so encouraging.
ReplyDeleteLibby,
ReplyDeleteI hope you never get de-sensitized (is that a word?) to covering such scenes. Your gift for photographing people is that you tell their stories honestly - even if it hurts you. It's also important to talk about it with others as you do it or you will go crazy or quit and you shouldn't do either. I'm impressed with your work.
Lorrie Lynch