Sebastiao Salgado, In Memoriam

Added on by Jaime Permuth.

There was a time in my life, around twelve or thirteen years of age, when my interest in photography started to deepen and become a passion. I treasured every roll of film in my camera and each frame counted. Seeing a contact sheet felt like reading pages from a diary because I had managed to stretch those 36 frames over a week or two, sometimes even longer.

Back then, I was open and susceptible in the way that only the youngest hearts can be. And the works of the great photographers, whom I had never met in person, were voices that whispered to me like the closest of friends.

Some were so mighty that I could hardly reconcile the fact that - like me - they worked with a camera. Could these be photographs too? Their images seemed to emanate from a higher and unattainable realm, even though they were firmly rooted in the same world I walked.

I encountered Sebastiao Salgado’s photography for the first time in the most unlikely way: a poster hung in a classroom of a woman and her children traversing a barren landscape in Africa. The figures were unevenly distributed over the field, and wrapped in coarse sheaths of cotton fabric. Only their faces were visible and they seemed exhausted and emaciated by their journey. They were walking together but in a fragile manner, at risk of falling apart. Overhead, the darkening dome of the sky glowed with delicate, compassionate and diaphanous light.

Even though I was on my way to meeting friends, it broke my stride. I don’t recall how long I gazed at it in silent wonder. There was a feeling of sacredness to the photograph and experiencing it was an epiphany that changed me forever. Over the years, it would be followed by others, just as powerful.

Sebastiao Salgado, you were and will always be an inspiration. I never thought of you as a journalist. I always considered you a poet. Farewell, and thank you for so much.

Saturday night in Munhori

Added on by Jaime Permuth.

My first Saturday night in Munhori. All is quiet around me. Gone are the neon lights, the heavy hum of street traffic, the feeling of looking down at the city from the far remove of a 15th floor balcony.

The darkness around me is broken only by the lit windows of a dozen or so neighboring houses.

I pour myself a glass of Zacapa, light my last Cuban cigar and step out onto our porch to think about all the changes our family is going through.

I get lost in a cloud of blue smoke, taste the sweetness and nostalgia for Guatemala in the rum and let the intoxication and reverie wash over me.