Wednesday 29th October 2008

The huge glass doors of Gallery Espace open up to white echoey caverns. We could be standing in any gallery off Hoxton Square. Except that as soon as I step outside, two children run up, reaching up to my knee with little brown arms. They hold their hands on each side of their horsetail hair and wear a starved, pained expression. This is the universal of beggar children all over the city. The children, as they plead with money can be terrifying, each of them speaking with a gutteral husk from having breathed nothing but the dusty Delhi air. They have a ringwraith grasp.

And then something happens. They spot the camera around my neck, and all of a sudden everything changes. Rupees are forgotten, their browns uncrease and they start giggling and hopping around. They want their photo taken, of course. It has never ceased to amaze me that wherever I’ve been in the world – from the poorest, remotest parts of Africa to the playgrounds of Central Park – kids want their photos taken. They want to see themselves on a screen. Even those who act coy at first hardly need to be coerced into joining the fun. Kids have no hangups about whether or not you’ve got their best profile, or whether you’ve caught their double chin. Seeing their own static reflection is such a novelty.



Here, out on the pavement outside the gallery, the smallest boy, dressed in a grubby blue shirt and torn shorts, hangs from my jeans. His hair is sticking up from all directions. He must be about five or six, though it’s difficult to tell since he’s so malnourished. His sister points to him maniacally and then to my camera. He jumps up and down, and stays still just long enough for me to take a non-blurred image. He grabs at my shoulder strap. No fear that he'll take my camera – he just wants, for a moment, to see his own image. Does his sister want a photo? She makes the coy face and shakes her head. Eventually, after more pictures of her scruffy little brother, and a shy smile, she gives in. As if from nowhere, handfuls of kids are gathering, and jumping up and down. A fairly reluctant little boy with a dark face and black eyes is pushed forward. They all screech and roll on the ground. People stop and stare, with the slightest look of disapproval bending their lips downwards. But then they move on. Perhaps they have forgotten the excitement of seeing their own faces in pixels.



I take a shot of the reluctant sister, who has been yanked in front of the viewfinder again by her brother. His hands, which are roughly the size of my lens, grab the screen and he screams when he sees her face there, kissing the glass. Eventually I manage to extract myself from the four foot reach of the melee and step back into the gallery.



When I get back inside, I wipe the saliva from the back of my camera and look at the picture I’ve taken. The little girl is beautiful, I think. Her serious little eyes stare outwards. Their look should belong to a person far older than she is.

There’s a muffled noise from outside and people in the gallery begin to stare. The little faces are pressed up against the newly washed windows and no one’s impressed. They know they’re not allowed inside, so they do a little dance instead. They wave at me, just in case anyone could be at a loss as to who caused the rucus in the first place. Long ago, they forgot that they were hungry and that I could feed them. Instead, they just wanted to play. They are children after all.



Just for a moment, the nannied offspring of the Upper West Side and the streetkids of South Delhi have one thing in common: they just wanted to play with a camera.