Click. by Julia Johnson

(The character Elizabeth is based off of the photographer Anne Rearick).

Click.

Day One

I fly from Boston to Iceland to Paris. The stop in Iceland is fantastic. I have never been there before. As we pass over the land, all I see is green. Green. Green Green. There aren’t many houses taking up space. I’m exhausted and hungry but excited for this journey. My Nikon D3330 sits in the seat next to me, acting as my travel companion. The sun’s rising right now, and the vibrancy of the colors reminds me of the beauty in life. Bright pink, deep purple, burnt orange. The colors cascade across the sky, intertwining together, forming something new and unexpected. I take in every second of it.

I hear the pilot speak over the intercom “Folks, we have just begun our descent into the Klfavík International Airport. We will be arriving at the terminal in about ten minutes. The local time is 8 Am. Thank you for flying Iceland Air.”

I make sure my seat belt's buckled and prepare for landing. I prefer landing to taking off. It’s less stressful. I’ve gotten used to flying on planes by now, but sometimes it isn’t very fun. I watch the clouds drift up and up, even though really I’m going down and down.

Five minutes later, I walk off the plane, heading into the airport. My next flight leaves in an hour, but I have to find my gate first. Twenty-two. I pass by a cute cafe, but I don’t have time to stop unfortunately. Eventually I figure out where I’m supposed to be, and by the time I get there, they’re already starting to board the plane. Well, it was nice seeing Iceland. I take a quick snapshot of my surroundings.

The cute cafe to my left. Click. The gentleman sipping his espresso at the table in front of the counter. Click.

The souvenir shop selling these strange figurines. Click.

It’s my turn in line. I hand the woman my boarding pass, and she waves me through. I feel like I’ve been traveling for days. I’ve never been able to sleep anywhere besides my own bed. But oddly enough, I fall asleep right away when I take my seat. Maybe it’s because I’m in first class or maybe it’s because I’ve never been more exhausted in my life, but I have a nice rest.

Day Two

I’m on my way to dinner right now. Tomorrow I’m traveling to the Basque region, but for tonight, I’m in Paris. I make a pit stop at the Eiffel Tower. Even though it’s one of the most touristy spots probably in the world, I still feel the need to go there. It’s absolutely magnificent. Since it’s nighttime, the lights are on. Click. Click. Click. I capture the structure along with the variety of people who come to visit it.

A man comes up to me, asking “Excusez-moi? Madame? Voudriez-vous acheter une chaîne eiffel clé de la tour. Ils sont seulement trois euros.” (Excuse me? Madam? Would you like to buy an Eiffel Tower key chain. They're only three euros).

I consider it for a moment, but I say “Non merci” because I forgot to exchange my U.S. dollars for euros, which then makes me realize that I have to go to the bank before I go to dinner. I’m planning on going to L'Atelier Etoile de Joël Robuchon on the Champs Elysees. Then after that I’m going to stop in Laduree for some macarons. You can’t go to Paris without buying macarons. It would be a crime. My favorite flavor is salted caramel.

As I’m strolling down the street, heading towards the nearest bank, I take in all people. Mostly everyone here has impeccable fashion taste. Of course everyone can afford designer clothing here, but they all also look like models. It’s insane. I whip out my camera, but I don’t place the viewfinder against my eye, instead I keep my camera balanced on my hip. When photographing on the street, you have to be careful. Not everyone likes to be photographed, and there are always a few crazy people. I’ve heard many stories of my fellow photographers being chased down the street, mostly by homeless people, just because they took their picture.

Everyone feels so alive here. It might be the exhaustion talking, but it feels like the French understand that we only have one life to live, so why not make the most of it. I believe that’s one of the most important ideas to remember. I try to remind myself everyday of it. My world is surrounded by a plethora of people and getting to know them all is a pleasure. Learning of others life stories is quite amazing. There’s nothing quite like delving deeper into someone else’s life and becoming a part of one of their chapters and them becoming a part of yours.

Click.

I capture the man on the sidewalk, holding on to his golden retriever and sharing a blanket. They’re both smiling.

Day Three

Choo. Choo. The train leaves the station, and I’m headed for the Basque region. It’s south of Paris. I travel there often, documenting the people of that area. I strive to bring to light the beauty of all humanity, rather than seeking to reveal to the world all the poverty and violence that lives within it. As I get closer to the countryside, the train whizzes by whitewashed farmhouses. It’s a very different lifestyle here than that of Paris. When people think of the Basques, their minds generally go to Spain, but the French side is just as prominent. The Spanish section is an uncontrolled region with a Basque government whereas the French section belongs to the central government in Paris. There is a strong independence movement on the Spanish side at the moment, willing to be separate country, but there a very few people in France who are ready for that.

As we arrive in the heartland, it begins to rain. I can hear the pitter patter, pitter patter on the roof of the train car. Water droplets race down my window; I watch to see which one wins. It seems to be a tie. The older people either don’t speak French or Spanish but instead the Basque language of Euskara. These people have acquire a reputation for being closed off and distrustful, but this is not the case at all.

I have worked with these people for years. I have gotten to know them beyond a professional level, learning about their lives and their families, and they have gotten to know me as well. I can even recall the first time I ever traveled to the Basque region. It was raining, just like it is today, and I was in St. Jean Pied de Port. I went to look for shelter, and the closest thing I found was a little house belonging to an elderly woman. She had a face that made me think of my grandmother. The woman, whose name was Madame Hatoig, invited me in for tea. She gave me a slippers while the water was boiling. We chatted for hours, and when we had finished, it was sunny outside, and I was dry. Madame Hatoig’s kindness and generosity got me through the first day. The reputation these people previously had disappeared from my mind. The characteristics of Madame was apparent in many of the other people I came into contact with.

I am welcomed into this world time and time again, and I couldn’t be more grateful. The train stops at the station, and I collected my luggage. I’m in one of the first carts, so I am also one of the first to get off. I walk down to the village I’m staying at and see familiar faces.

I take my camera out and immediately begin photographing.

There’s a cafe owner placing the open sign on the door. Click.

There are students milling around the town, heading to their next class. Click.

The postman is delivering the mail for the day. Click.

The farmers wave to me as I pass by them. Click.

A red barn stands at the end of the pathway. Click. It acts as a beacon, leading the townspeople to it.

The little children play in the grass, chasing after pigs and chickens. Click.

The pigs squeal and the chickens flap their wings. Click.

The children laugh with delight. They are happy. They aren’t aware of the negatives in life. They don’t need to be.

I feel at home here.

Day Four

The red barn door swings open, and I step inside. The aroma of the hay engulfs my nose, and then the manure hits me. The scent is like a tidal wave crashing over me. It’s strong and violent. I scrunch my nose and try not to pinch it because that would be rude. I haven’t visited a barn in a some time, so I forgot about the intensity of all the smells. One of the farmers brings his horse in.

I heard the sounds of the horse’s hooves clicking against the ground.

Click. Click. Click.

The horse has a beautiful chestnut brown coat. It’s mane is pure white though, and its eyes, surprisingly, are hazelnut colored. It neighs, and the farmer runs a hand along its back. Smoothing its fur. The horse calms down.

Click.

The farmer hears the sound of my shutter speed, and I bring my camera away from my face. “Salut parlez-vous français?” I ask. (Hi, do you speak French?).

“Oui. Je suis Antoine, et qui êtes-vous?” he responds. (Yes. I am Antoine, and who are you?).

“Elizabeth --”

He stops me after I say my first name. “Oh! Vous devez connaître mon grand-père puis, Patrice Campbell ? Il m'a dit beaucoup de choses sur vous. Vous êtes un photographe professionnel, non?" (You must know my grandad then, Patrice Campbell? He has told me a lot about you. You're a professional photographer, no?).

“Oui , je suis, et je connais votre grand-père. Il est un homme merveilleux. Ça vous dérange si je photographie votre travail?” (Yes, I am, and I do know your grandfather. He's a wonderful man. Do you mind if I photograph your work?).

“Non non. Aller de l'avant. Faites tout ce que vous devez faire.” (No, no. Go ahead. Do whatever it is you need to do).

“Merci,” I say, smiling graciously at him.

He smiles back at me, and I notice a slight gap between his two front teeth. I feel my fingers getting into position.

Click.

He watches his horse, so he doesn’t notice me. Then, Antoine goes back to work, completely forgetting that I’m here at all. This works in my favor though. It makes him feel less conscious about what he’s doing, and it allows me to capture raw moments.

The border collie herds the sheep into their pen. Click.

The sheep don’t move. Click.

Eventually they begin to waltz into their pen. Click.

The border collie jumps around them, practically toppling over a few. Click.

I observe Antoine as he leans against his shovel, watching his animals do their jobs. Click.

He laughs as the mother pig rungs up to the cow, and they exchange what appears to be a silent conversation. Click.

I vanish into the background, capturing these precious instances of a single life. Antoine isn’t aware of the love radiating between him and his farm. It reminds me of the wedding I just shot for Lauren and Penn. I portray this love as literal stops in time. Click. And I smile. This journey has just begun.