We visited Mr.Jassem Ghazban-pour, Iranian photographer at his home.
He was lying down on a sofa with his left leg in a cast.
“ It happend with my chain saw when I was cutting a tree.
It’s really terrible thing for someone like me for whome taking pictures is life” Jassem was born in a town near the border where a fierce battle was fought in the Iran-Iraq war.
He took pictures of Tehran under missile attacks and published them. He has been taking pictures of Iran ever since. His recent masterpiece is documentary of the Bam earthquake.
Needless to say, the injury must be serious for him, but I was somehow relieved that it was not the result of his photographing the war. He didn’t seem like they typical “War photographer”
“I was really looking forward to seeing you. At the same time, I was wondering what I could talk about with you. You know, it’s useless to talk about something like cameras.” I said.
“ I wish I had no problem with my leg. I would drive you to meet the nomad tribes and we could take pictures together. You know, we wouldn’t need words if we take picture together. Should I introduce you to another photographer? ”
“Do you know any poet?”
“A Poet?”
“Yes, I heard about someone who read poems every night to propose to his girlfriend. I want to see him.”
“I know someone who brought his own photos every night to propose to his girlfriend,” said His wife, smiling.
I told them I grow Japanese cucumbers in the backyard of my apartment.
The moment I completed the sentence, Jassem shouted “What kind of soil? What about fertilizer? Where did you get the seeds?
“What do you mean?”
His wife showed me some gourds made from zucchini.
“He made These. Every time he goes out on a shoot, He brings home some plant he stole on location.”
“I don’t steal them! They live there wild!”
She took me to her terrace and showed me their garden.
Grapevines, oranges, lilacs, roses, herbs…etc.
“Why didn’t you show me this earlier? It’s dark already!”
“Well, I didn’t know you were interstead.”
“OK, the moon is over there, that means south is this way.
You must have nice morning sun here.”
“Right, The first time We saw this house, we checked out the sunshine from here, and we decided immediately.”
We were talking about Eugene Smith, the great American photographer, while flipping through pages of Smith’s picture book.
Once When Smith was appearing on Japanese TV, a Japanese man who had been interned in a war concentration camp where smith took pictures to campaign for better treatment, rushed into the studio and said “ This man saved my life!”
Suddenly, Jassem demanded a piece of paper and jotted something down. He put the paper up on the wall against the sofa.
“I was thinking and thinking about my next job but hadn’t gotten anywhere.”
“I got an idea now as I was listening to the story you just told.”
“For instance, when I made this book of mine, I put a black page which means night here, and the earthquake happens, then I put a picture of a date palm as a symbol of revival. In the other book, I placed the only color picture at the last part of the book as a symbol of hope. Then, for the next project…”
“This is good, you know. This exchange between friends, stimulating one another.”
I kept turning pages, and some pressed flowers showed up.
“Forget me not” she said.
“Just like a little girl!” I teased her.
“It’s not me, may be the girls.”
Jassem, who was listening quietly, spoke up.
“I did it.”
In sounded displease.
On the way home.
“He grew up in a town where a fierce battle was fought didn’t he?”
“Yes, I imagine he saw a good many things.
“Did he take any pictures?”
“I suppose so. But he has never shown them to anybody.”
Jassem Ghazban-pour
