le blog raphaelvillatte par : Raphaël

Understand me well. I roamed through Iran, twice in two years, two and three weeks. It's few and a lot. Certainly not to make me a specialist, an orientalist, a savant. A good tourist, probably. A traveller. A slacker. Enough time to have it rubbed on me, to forget that I was supposed to come home. Time, no doubt, and atmosphere, help. Atmosphere is humanity. No matter where, in the end, as long as you're having fun. I met happy people in what looked like misery, and desperate rich folks. It's a cliché, but a reality too.

Why talk about Iran when I'm telling you about Syria? Because both countries are geopolitically tied? No. On the leaders' level, the big shots, plotting and scheming, yes, but those guys I didn't meet. I would tell you if I did. On the people's level, people like you and me, the bonds between the two countries are practically invisible. In Iran, nobody ever mentioned Syria, and vice-versa.

So why then? Because my travels to Iran marked my life, my travelling life for sure, but not only. It's simple to summarize : you get out of your hotel, and five steps farther, you're engaged in a conversation. You're being bid welcome, you're being invited, you're being encouraged, you're being advised, you're being defended against the police.

In Syria, I spent little time, I just passed. I saw almost no one. I saw only passer-bys. They watched me pass. In Damascus, you pass. Except for the very young manager of our hostel, a little chattier and funnier. 

Damascenes don't pay much attention to tourists. They're used to them, they live their life. They don't need to get in touch with them, either because it wouldn't be seen with a good eye by the suspicious regime, or for some because they travel all right, and see plenty of strangers in their time. 

No hostility, but no contact. Impression of watching from afar. A vaguely uneasy feeling. 

Whatever you're buying, whatever you're looking for, you'll find it in the souq.

I always have the feeling I'm stealing images. In Syria more than anywhere else. 

It sure isn't the place to get rid of my habit of "shooting in the back"!

You'll find anything, I'm telling you. 

Including a character. The teaman is a pure damascene creature. So famous it's glorified at the entrance of the souq : 

We pursue, and it may come as a surprise, but we turn back and head to the century-old train station : 

In there is a café and a bookstore. You can see the railroad trench. No train comes here anymore. 

And why are we here? For the soccer World Cup. Even if you're not a big soccer fan, the event has its charm, especially when you're on the road. 

In Lebanon, it was THE event. In here, it's hard to find a café with a TV. 100% male atmosphere, unlike Lebanon. 

2 Souq.

What hasn't been written already about souq? Bazaar? In french, both words mean « mess ». It is kind of unfair, though, as would agree those who already walked through bazaars in Middle-East. Yes, there is noise and crowd. The shopkeepers, they know where the goods are stored and they keep it neatly in order, and as in every market in the world, the codes are strict, whether we're talking about opening times or bargaining.

Damascus' souq is its ancient neighborhood, its old town. I'll be honest : I have practically seen nothing else in Damascus. The two hotels we tested, the café hidden in the old train station, and the way to the souq.

The modern city is charmless, probably because it has nothing to offer as vibrating as the souq. Damned souq. If it wasn't there, maybe modern Damascus wouldn't have to suffer from the contrast.

Middle eastern genius, as every souq, Damascus' is covered. Fresh air, rays of light. You cannot understand. When I think back about that day, I get the impression the whole beginning of the day was over-exposed. All white, too much light, too much heat. And all of a sudden, fresh air, calm. Yes, calm, for 3pm souq is basically empty, the shopkeepers just hanging out before their shops.

No cries nor yells, not much bargaining. People just pass by, quickly, busy. Maybe they're passing through the souq only to benefit its shade, its fresh air, its smell. 

We don't stand out in the souq. Yet we should.

Tourists, there's quite a lot. Salesmen of all kind don't even bother trying selling us daily goods. A few antiquaires propose us to visit their den, with never seen prices.

In the end, the souq is a certain tranquility, and we start to see the Syrians better, much more timid people than the Lebanese we left the same day. Reality is unfortunately easy to understand. Everyone is looking over their shoulder. Or someone's, as we're told.

The raïs' portrait is everywhere, sometimes associated with other local celebrities, such as Cheikh Hassan Nasrallah, leader of the lebanese Hizballah.

The latter an obvious local icon. 

Not much police on the street, though. Just a different air. Mediterranea's far now, Beirut's Corniche is nothing but a dream here. I'll put it bluntly. Not much fun around here. 

July 3^rd, 2010.

Damascus.

I remember a micro-bus trip, a wait. One, two, maybe three hours waiting at Charles Hélou Bus station, my knees blocked by the next seat. I remember the hundred plus degrees heat. I remember the driver, a bastard with a dreadful mullet and a dumb cap.

Christophe and Christophe are sitting right next to me, my two friends and road buddies. They're growing impatient. They shouldn't. Just gonna get hot, that's what'll happen. You don't want that.

Later, we'll pass the border checkpoint. But first, the driver stops, and says, go to that change shop, change dollars. I say what? He says yep. I say I got euros, he looks about to cry. Says we can't cross into Syria without dollars. I figured it wasn't the official currency. Yet we drive to the checkpoint, and there all Hell is loose. Funny how the custom agents look cold and relaxed while every traveler tries to look in more hurry than the next, and tries to prove it by shouting and waving his hands. It's a jam anyhow. We stick our hands down in our pockets, just to make sure there's only our hands inside.

The damned driver sends us to pay a visa. He never wanted to understand that we already bought our visa back in Paris. When the custom agent looks at our receipt, he asks, ice in his voice, frowning a Gandalf-size eyebrow : « Why did you pay? You already have visa. » . Then he turns to the driver. More ice. He asks for his papers. The loud, annoying, shady mullet loses his panache right away. He looks at the agent, and he sees cell doors. We can't help but feel avenged.

No pictures from that part of the trip. I guess we were too tense and tired in the van, and for the checkpoint, there's a rule, an explicit one, enforced everywhere : YOU DON'T TAKE PICTURES AT CUSTOMS. And beware of uniforms. 

Later that day, we arrive in Damascus. Coming from Beirut, it's back to school. No more mini-skirts, no more young people driving around, blaring music, no more terraces, no more fun. Just smashing heat. The cop almost runs away, says « Arabyi » and doesn't even look at me when I ask for a direction.

We check in an aging hotel, and head to the Souq. The best we can. Dehydrated, still processing the long trip (long time only, the distance is nothing) from Beirut.

On the way, we find an oasis : an orange shop.

One of the two Chris. No doubt this shot of Vitamins will save him. 

There, damascenes stop, drink, chat and go. When in Damascus, do as the Damascenes. 

Note: At the time, I was street-photographing a lot from the chest, without looking. I thought it smart to shoot without being noticed. Hoping for the happy incident. Also, I was too shy. Shy photographers will shoot you in the back, too. 

PS : Only men here. At that point, it doesn't shock us. It will. 

I'm quite active on social networks. And among others, on Instagram. I won't get into polemics, debates on ethics, rights... I take it for what it is, I accept the terms of the contract, no matter how bad. I point, I shoot, I share, I like, etc. I like to see pictures, to follow amateurs and pros alike, to see one's successes mistakes. 

I'm no Doisneau, but I like to go out and share views of what I see. I've done it a lot in my last trips, turning it into another sketchy medium of keeping my friends posted about where I was. Or just try to capture a beautiful moment of my hometown. My hometown is Amiens, a northern middle-sized city of France. About 137 000 inhabitants, up to 200 000 ounting the nearby villages. Stuck halfway between the much bigger Lille to the north and, well Paris to the south. 

I realized over the years that my former students (mostly foreigners, learning french in Amiens, most of them moving out later on) were quite nostalgic when they'd see my pictures. They would express it and tell me that they enjoyed to see this or that part of the city, while they'd be now so far away. Other friends, real or "virtual", would just enjoy discovering bits of my reality. 

So on that specific day, I was going to city hall. I must have been 11 or 12 of july, for I noticed that some city employees were busy decorating the building, hanging flags pretty much anywhere they could. On Bastille Day, july 14th, there's a ball there, followed by fireworks. France celebrates the fall of an old prison in 1789, and the Revolution that ensued. So there they were, about 15 meters high, patiently hanging their patriotic laundry. I thought, huh, that could make a nice image. Let's try at least. I was in a hurry, but even in a hurry, you should take the time to point and shoot. In this day and age, who knows? 

So I point and shoot this : 

Like I said, I'm no Doisneau. I just forget about it for a few hours, and then I take a little time to edit it. I crop it, and apply a filter, probably Amaro or Earlybird, both of which I was quite a fan at the time. 

So it looks like this : 

Now that's more like it. No great picture if you ask me, but it would please my 180 followers or so. I'm shooting for friends, here. So I get the usual few "likes", and then forget about it again. 

A few days later, that is on july 14th, just out of a concert, I turn my phone back on at 22.30. And right away, something strange. My Instagram account just blows. Hundreds of alerts, comments, likes, and scores of new followers. What the...? I nudge my fiancée, show her, we wonder. Then some comments congratulate me. For what?! For being chosen. 

Aaaaaalriiiiight... Chosen, sure... By whom? By no other than Instagram itself. In its blog, Instagram picked my pic to illustrate Bastille Day in France. So instead of the 15 "likes" I'd usually get, I get a fair 135 this time :

On the blog, it looks like this : 

See? It's right there, near the bottom right corner. Amiens' City Hall. My two guys, hanging in the sky. 

But Instagram has also an Instagram account. It boasts around 36 millions followers. Yup, you read that well. And on that account, they chose no other than my little picture to symbolize Bastille Day. Las time I checked, two days ago, the picture had been clicked on almost 300 000 times. Meaning that a few million people had seen it without clicking on "like". I'll let those figures roll in the air for a while. It looked exactly like this : 

As a matter of fact, it didn't change much my day-to-day life at the time. Except for the 72 hours of crazy vibrating phone, all new comments and likes and new followers. About 400 instead of the original 180, do the math. 

In the longer run, it did change things. My way of instagramming things, first. Now I'd have to think before I post. I couldn't afford posting crappy pics after such a hit. Even better, I'd want to post really good ones, better than that one. Trying to prove that my skills as a photographer are better than point-and-shoot-and-post. 

Also, it got me thinking about what "my" audience wants. French flags, for one thing. In France, the three colors have been cunningly snatched by the extreme-right party, a way to claim that they're the true french, the defenders of the motherland. For a frenchman, no, it's no small gesture to hang the flag in your garden. It's way past unfortunate, but outside of a sports competition, flag-waving raises eyebrows. Sports or Bastille Day. Because of our military parade, the last in Western Europe, many liberal feel quite uncomfortable on that day, accepting that the day was snatched by the uniform-lovers and other warmongers. As for me, I have to admit that I was culturally more attached to the historical symbol than to the flag, for all the aforementioned reasons. But what about now? No way I pretend things are the way they were. I couldn't just wait for the fireworks, ignoring all the rest, essentially because of all the comments. Most of them came from abroad, and they just have it right, in my opinion. They mirrored the best image France has in the world, for good reasons or not. 

So I'm back on the streets, pointing and shooting. 

Oh, before I leave : I forwarded the french version of this post to the local newspaper, who had the kindness to publish the story. This city has always strangely lacked self-confidence. 

Also : sorry, Instagram, unlike what your caption says, this is NOT the Eiffel tower. This is Amiens' City Hall. 

Depuis quelques années déjà, je m'amuse à partager des photos sur des réseaux sociaux, dont le fameux Instagram. Je n'entre pas dans les débats éthiques, je n'y investis pas plus que mon amusement personnel, et j'accepte les termes du contrat, c'est-à-dire que je m'en fiche. Je joue les Doisneau du pauvre, quand je trouve quelque chose d'amusant ou de beau, je profite de la technologie moderne pour enregistrer le moment, et puisque je peux le partager, eh bien je le partage. 

J'ai ainsi pu faire découvrir ma paisible petite ville presque natale au monde entier, mais oui mesdames messieurs, croyez pas ricanez pas, on y vient on y vient. 

Un jour de juillet de cette année, sans doute le 11, le 12 peut-être, je passe devant le célèbre (mais pas encore mondialement) hôtel de ville d'Amiens. Là-haut, perchés dans un nid d'oiseau semblables à la cabine de la vigie des bateaux pirates, une nacelle que ça s'appelle, même, bref, deux braves employés municipaux s'affairent à accrocher des drapeaux. ils sont bien haut, je dirais dans les 15 mètres, rien que d'y penser j'en frissonne. Pas leur contremaître-superviseur, qui se marre et les interpelle quand je dégaine mon téléphone pour les prendre en photo (songez à cette fin de phrase. Il y a une quinzaine d'années, elle n'avait aucun sens.). Clic-clac, merci qui vous savez : 

Et comme je disais, je reprends mon chemin. Quelques heures plus tard, je prends le temps de m'amuser un peu avec, histoire d'en faire quelque chose qui plaise à la galerie. Depuis quelques temps, nombre d'anciens élèves m'ont fait savoir que mes photos amiénoises les emplit de nostalgie. Et même, j'ai commencé à comprendre que le drapeau français, à l'étranger, n'était pas du tout assimilé à certaines valeurs inquiétantes comme chez nous. Bref, qu'il n'était pas confisqué. Qu'il faisait rêver. Alors je me dis, ne faisons pas les choses à moitié, et j'en fais donc cela : 

Peu de modifications, le filtre "Amaro" je crois, ou "Earlybird", dont j'étais très friand à ce moment, le recadrage carré (Instagram oblige), et hop, je poste. enfin, presque : j'insère quelques mots-clefs, des "hashtags" comme on dit, précédé d'un # dont nous Français ignorions presque tous l'usage jusqu'à présent, sauf les musiciens bien sûr. Parmi les mots clefs, je place #14juillet, parce qu'après tout c'est bien de cela qu'il s'agit. 

Et puis je n'y pense plus. Je reçois sur mon téléphone quelques notifications, mon petit public (environ 180 personnes, essentiellement des amis) aime bien cette petite photo, et passe à autre chose. 

Amis amiénois, vous aurez noté qu'il s'agit bel et bien de notre hôtel de ville. 

Et alors? Et alors? Et alors? 

Alors le 14 juillet, au sortir d'un concert, vers 22h30, je rallume mon téléphone et constate vite que quelque chose a changé. Je reçois notification sur notification, des dizaines, pardon, des centaines. Mon compte Instagram explose, pour tout vous dire. Des inconnus s'abonnent à mon "flux" de photos, et "aiment" des vieilleries "postées" depuis quelques mois (pas évident d'écrire en français classique pour traiter d'un sujet très actuel). Parmi les nombreux commentaires, des félicitations pour avoir été choisi. Choisi? Choisi pour quoi? je n'ai rien demandé, moi! 

Réponse : ma photo a été choisie par l'équipe du blog Instagram (link) pour... roulement de tambour... représenter, que dis-je, illustrer, symboliser, personnifier le 14 Juillet! Avec pour légende une petite explication disant que nous autres Français nous préparions à la fête. 

Ce jour-là, sur le blog d'Instagram, voici à quoi cela ressemble : 

On retrouve notre hôtel de ville en bas à droite. 

Dites ce que vous voulez, ça fait un choc. Un tas d'inconnus se précipitent pour vous féliciter. Sur ma "page" Instagram, ça donne ceci : 

comme vous le voyez, 135 personnes (dont un paquet d'inconnus) ont cliqué sur "j'aime", et un certain nombre me congratule pour avoir été choisi. Assez rapidement, je ne peux plus les remercier un par un.

Bien plus impressionnant, vous retrouvez ma photo de notre hôtel de ville sur la page d'Instagram sur Instagram, c'est-à-dire Instagram en tant qu'utilisateur. il y a quelques jours, ça donnait ceci : 

Et là, nous parlons de près de 300 000 "likes" comme on dit. Et on approche les 2000 commentaires (dont certains n'ont rien, mais alors rien à faire là, du type "Cher Instagram, moi aussi j'aimerais être choisi, comment faire?" Moi j'ai la réponse, nigaud : prend l'hôtel de ville d'Amiens en photo!). 

Pour information, le compte d'Instagram s'enorgueillit d'être suivi par 36.65 millions d'utilisateurs. Un peu moins avant ma photo, mais je ne crois pas dans un lien de cause à effet (à part ma propre adhésion, bien sûr). On peut donc se risquer à dire que cette photo a été vue par plusieurs millions de personnes. Ma petite photo, à peine cadrée, retouchée à la va-vite. 

Je ne peux pas nier que cela m'a fait quelque chose. A l'évidence, maintenant, le 14 juillet aura une petite résonnance toute personnelle. Jusqu'à présent, je reprenais volontiers les vers de Brassens sur le sujet. Je dois aussi reconnaître que savoir que ce que vous avez vu a été vu par des millions de personnes, le tout parti de votre petit téléphone, en passant devant le magnifique hôtel de ville d'Amiens, oui, ça vous fait légèrement trembler des genoux quand vous devez "poster" la photo suivante (le nombre de mes "followers", suiveurs, abonnés, est passé de 180 à près de 450 en quelques jours). 

Je dois également avouer que, moi qui ne me suis jamais considéré comme un photographe (mais vu ce que je vois parfois sur Instagram, je devrais probablement arrêter la fausse modestie), je dois beaucoup à Instagram. Non pas mon éphémère gloire, mais la stimulation de rechercher la meilleure photo possible dans les conditions données par Instagram : cadre carré, nombre d'effets limités et répétitifs, etc. De la contrainte naît la créativité, dit-on. Merci Instagram, et merci l'hôtel de ville. 

PS : notez bien que pour Instagram, nous avons sous les yeux une vue injustement méconnue de... La Tour Eiffel. Bravo.