Wide to Close

I was asked by an accomplished still photographer recently, how I approach a story on video. Without much hesitation I answered.

"I start wide, asking questions with my eyes the way a child might ask with their innocents, and then I move in closer, and closer, trying to answer each question the image begged to have answered."

It came out of my mouth like I knew the answer all along. In fact, I find myself rediscovering that answer everyday. It just happened again.

I was sitting in Perks, a coffee shop on the busy corner of Court and Union, when I noticed an older gentleman shuffling from newspaper box to newspaper box outside the shop's large windows. He was probing the coin returns as he scanned the ground for loose change. He was a large, heavy man, with shoulder length fringe of rust to white hair. His beard, also long and wild, made the mask of his face a full 10-inches wider on either side. At an age when most men are retiring he is busy looking for change left behind or caught between the bricks. My inner child asked, "Mental patient? Traveler?" as he shuffled out of view. I dubbed him Red Fred.

Red Fred appeared before me again, a day later. He was a passenger in a wealthy man's pickup truck. The truck cornered the intersection I was waiting to cross and in the brief slow motion moment when the brain tries to amend its definition of a person, I saw on his face a smile as he rocked his head to strains of classical music that escaped the wide-liner cabin. He was no longer the penniless man of questionable reality. He had people. In a day, a closer look had changed the possibilities. My inner child asked, "village idiot? incorrigible brother or uncle?"

I saw him again this morning at breakfast. It turns out that 8am Sunday morning is too early for most Athenians of the hill. I wandered around from diner to coffee shop in search of breakfast and was forced to hike into the valley where there is a 24-hour place called the Union. I spotted him as I walked in. He was sitting alone at a table talking to a younger man at the the next table, a biker who indicated that he was just passing through. I crossed to the far side of the room and sat with my back to their conversation, not wanting to get dragged in, or left out of their conversation without some choice. My blindness was illuminating.

Red Fred spoke with a smoky eloquence of a wise old gentleman. He was conversant on fishing, wilderness, engineering, and literature. He talked about his travels around the country, life in Canada and Mexico, culture, politics and religion. My inner child asked, "eccentric? stately?" and when I turned to get a closer look at him holding court with the wait staff and strangers he caught my eye and winked in a way that was indeed - stately.

In three brief encounters I experienced the discover of a man. What my eye revealed as an unfortunate existence that most would distancing themselves from, my ears unfolded into an auspicious life many would deem worth knowing personally. Distance and closeness hold many surprises like this and before breakfast was over I was to discover one more. He was a man with a real name and occupation. "My name is Cliff Craft." he said as he offered his hand, "I'm a student here."

At an age when most men are retiring, Cliff is searching for rare coins and knowledge and he succeeds by not being satisfied by the superficial view from a distance.