The Man who started it all.

My Grandpa Lluís is the one who noticed I was curious about his VHS videocamera. He started to show me how it worked: how the camera started recording by clicking a big red button, how to zoom in and zoom out, and also how to change the tape, carefully, when it ended.

Firstly with him behind me, and then on my own, I started to record things. He knew how I loved it, and he loved to have every single familiar event recorded. I recognise sometimes I prefered to keep eating at dinners when he said 'Pau, you could take the camera and record', but then I just forgot about the food and I was trapped with the eye in the viewfinder.

It was a simbiotical relationship, and I think that connected us powerfully.

He started it all, and I'm very greatful.

The Man Who Realised it.

It’s New Year in Paris. At 2:15 a.m., Ilgay decides to go back from the Eiffel Tower. He’s in the City of Love for holyday, and as a humble photographer, he wanted to hunt the famous monument in the night that shines more, so that his wife, currently in his hometown, Bursa, could contemplate the beauty of this gorgeous event.
Although  he has a simple compact camera, he bought a tripod last afternoon because he’s not used to this cold, and he knows his hands shake and the photo would had appeared blur in the night. Champs Elisée were so full of people that he can’t manage to put the camera and take the photo, because actually, he wants to appear in the photo as well, and leaving the camera alone with so many drunk people around is not a good idea.
He got a hundred photos, but a bit frustrated, he’s on the way back feeling that he couldn’t catch the image he expected.

He things people lose control when drinking. He doesn’t like it.

He arrives at Chateau Rouge (Metro Line 4) and he sees at some distance, in the middle of the crowd, a man that is drinking the last drops of a vodka bottle. The drunk man seems happy, but his body starts to dance freely while his hand opens and the bottle crashes in the floor. He wasnt dancing at all. The man collapses.
Ilgay’s religion generally doesn’t simpathizes with alcohol, but he can not understand how the crowd doesn’t react to the collapsed man, who has a little fall of salive between his lips and the close floor, and his view lost while dozens of shoes walk around him in different directions, but no one stops.

No one realises the man needs help, but some of them look at him badly, as a bothering obstacle.

Ilgay doesn’t understand why people don’t care. He can’t conceive how a brother is left on the floor. He’s not a problem, nor trash on the floor. He’s just one of us. Something is wrong.

It’s 3:20 a.m., at Rue Cligancourt, near the station, there’s a Kebab Restaurant were good Ilgay’s friends are working all night long. It’s enough missunderstanding for today. He feels very tired. A friend who’s cutting meat sees Ilgay’s approaching to the restaurant. Both smile.

“Iyi geceler, nasilsin?”

They kiss each other’s chicks.His friend doesn’t ask him for help, but Ilgay boils some water for the chai and washes the dishes until 6:00 a.m.

I met him a noon at this restaurant. He was sitting in a table and invited me to join and drink some chai. There’s a clear language barrier between us, but a good selection of english adjectives, dedicated hours and some efusive body language were enough to get this tale of unconformism.