Text & Photographs by Norbert Schiller
This past summer marked my 40th anniversary as a professional news photographer. After tinkering with documenting my travels and a few news assignments I interviewed for a staff position at Agence France Presse (AFP) for their Cairo bureau. Without solid experience in photojournalism, I first had to learn the ropes. My first learning experience was in the streets of Paris which opened the door for an opportunity that changed my life.
My early camera work in Egypt, before going to Paris: A young man sleeping on the luggage rack of a third-class train traveling from Cairo to Assiut. A butcher delivering camel meat in Cairo.
In August 1985 I traveled to Paris where the AFP head office is located. Up until that point I could hardly call myself a professional photographer. I had documented my trips through Europe and Africa. And, starting in 1984, I began writing and taking photographs for Cairo Today (later Egypt Today), a local English monthly cultural magazine. During that period, I also managed to pick up a few serious news assignments including one with the New York Times. After struggling for almost a year, I met Carol Naggar, a writer of Egyptian Jewish origin who was working on a book about her family history in Egypt. After spending a few days showing her around the back streets of Cairo she suggested that I apply for the job opening at AFP. Carol said she had a friend on the Paris photo desk who asked her to look for possible candidates. “Even though you lack experience,” she said to me, “you make it up in street smarts and that’s very important in photojournalism.”
Some images from my portfolio that I took with me to AFP in Paris: A camel caravan heading north from the eastern Sudanese town of Kassala (L). Sufis performing Zikr as part of their Friday ritual in Omdurman, Sudan and Salafis demonstrating against the government in Cairo, which I took while on assignment for the New York Times.
When I arrived in Paris, Carol introduced me to her friend William Belch at AFP. He in turn directed me to the hiring manager and the next thing I knew I was sitting across the desk from Vaclav Neumann watching him leaf through my portfolio. The photographs I presented consisted mostly of images I had taken during my trip to Ethiopia and Sudan when I was a student at the American University in Cairo. Beside portraits and scenic views there were a few images that showed my work with the international press, most notably an anti-government demonstration I had covered for the New York Times. “Beautiful pictures,” Vaclav commented, “but do you have anything else that shows your work as a photojournalist?”
The side streets of Paris were crowded and dirty, filled with the constant wail of police sirens.
After handing me back my portfolio he suggested I work on a photo essay in the streets of Paris to show my skills as a news photographer. After discussing some ideas, he turned to me and asked, “I take it you can develop and make black and white prints in the darkroom?”
I nodded my head as if to say “yes,” but in reality, I had never developed film, nor had I ever made a print. My few assignments in the past year in Cairo had required me to either send my film directly to the publication or hand it over to Associated Press (AP) to be processed and transmitted from their bureau.
Just off the main boulevards on the side streets were the homeless and destitute.
When I stepped out of the AFP headquarters on Place de la Bourse I was in a stupor. Here I was given a chance at a dream job, and I hadn’t a clue about the fundamentals of photography. It was one thing to go out onto the streets of Paris and make a photo essay, but it was something else to develop and print photos without ever having set foot set foot in a darkroom before.
I was too embarrassed to share my dilemma with Carol, so I turned to family in Paris. Although Dominique and I were not blood relatives, we shared a sister and we had known each other since childhood. When I confessed my predicament, she immediately called a friend who was a professional photographer to see if he could help.
At first, I thought it would be difficult to find the drug addicts, the poor, and the homeless in Paris. But by simply turning down any side street, they were in plain view.
Reza was sympathetic and offered to give me a one-day crash course on the fundamentals of darkroom photography. The one major obstacle with the arrangement was that he only spoke French and Farsi and my French at the time was nearly nonexistent. Thinking back, I don’t know how we managed to spend the entire day working together, but in the end, we managed by using sign language, a pencil and paper and me pronouncing a few English words with a French accent. I learned the darkroom fundamentals including how to load and develop film, use an enlarger, and develop black and white prints. With that added knowledge I was ready to proceed to the next step and take my camera onto the streets of Paris.
Immigrants from Africa and Asia made up many of the destitute living on the streets of Paris.
Paris is known as the “City of Love,” and it’s not hard to see why. Everywhere you look lovers from all over the world converge to take photographs of themselves with the city’s spectacular monuments as the backdrop. My idea for an essay was to focus on the less glamorous side, the Paris that was hidden in the back alleys, away from the touristic sites. After gathering a list of homeless shelters and food kitchens, I set out to see what I could come up with. It didn’t take me long to find the seedy side of the city which was in plain view just off the main boulevards.
At the time I owned two Nikon FM2 camera bodies, a Tokina AT-X 35-200mm F3.5-4.5 lens and a Vivitar Series 1 35-85mm F2.8 lens. To make myself less intrusive, I chose to use one of the camera bodies with the Tokina lens because of its wider focal range.
Public benches and covered bus stops were common gathering places for the homeless in Paris.
I got my first reality check very quickly when I walked down the metro stairs and saw a man sprawled out on the steps face down, looking as if he were dead. As soon as I raised my camera to take a photo, he raised his head, sat on his knees and threw an empty glass bottle in my direction. Although the bottle missed me, it shattered all over the staircase creating a small panic among commuters entering and exiting the metro station. Over the course of the next two days, a few more projectiles were thrown in my direction.
My photographic journey through the side streets of Paris, that isn’t covered in the guide books, took me to places where the impoverished found refuge. Popular hang outs were covered bus stops, metro station entrances and beside garbage dumpsters. I often found the homeless walking aimlessly in the middle of the street carrying all their possessions. The trick was to work fast and then move on to avoid any confrontation. At one point I arrived at a dumpster full of people rummaging through old clothes that someone had thrown out. I walked though empty lots in the poor parts of the city and took photos of the neighborhood kids breakdancing. I went to Jim Morison’s gravesite at Pere Lachaise cemetery where, a few years earlier, I had seen drug addicts shoot up heroin. In the graveyard I had to be particularly careful because the youths hanging around the rock musician’s grave were suspicious of outsiders.
Just over a decade after rock icon Jim Morrison’s death, throngs of young fans still gathered daily at his grave in Père Lachaise Cemetery — some to pay tribute, others to take drugs.
After two days of capturing street life, I figured that I had enough material to create a photo essay. My next task was to develop and print my work at the AFP darkroom. I was more anxious about this part than photographing the destitute on the Paris streets. It had been almost a week since I had taken my crash course, and I was still a little uncertain about doing darkroom work on my own.
Fortunately, I had company in the darkroom. I just happened to share the space with an AFP technician who was making prints. When I asked him where the spools and tanks were to load film, he said, “no need for spools here. Just lower the film into the big developer tank and hit the timer. When it buzzes dip the film into the rinse and then into the fixer tank. It’s as simple as that!”
Jim Morrison’s grave at Père Lachaise Cemetery was covered with flowers, marijuana plants, and drug paraphernalia (L). Nearby tombstones were scrawled with graffiti paying tribute to the late rock icon, including lyrics from his songs. Graveyard cats lounged in the sun among the tombs.
When the films were dry my next task was to make prints using the enlarger. I set the exposure to 40 seconds, like Reza had taught me on his enlarger which was a few generations older than the ones used at the new agency. However, the next step was different than what I had learned during my one-day initiation course. Instead of manually placing the exposed light-sensitive paper into chemical baths, AFP had an automated system whereby the exposed paper went into a machine which produced a finished print within a few minutes.
Three homeless men lay unconscious on a Paris side street, apparently struggling with addiction.
My first attempt at making a print was a disaster with the print coming out of the machine pitch black. I changed the exposure time to 30 seconds but ended up with the same result. I then proceeded to reduce the exposure a few more times but nothing changed. My final recourse was the technician who identified the problem right away. He looked at my enlarger setup and said, “Why do you have the timer set at 15 seconds? A half second or second is plenty!”
I spent the rest of the afternoon in the darkroom making prints. When I was finished, I sat at a typewriter writing out captions to tell the story illustrated in my photo essay.
A passerby offers money to someone less fortunate, while in a poor Paris neighborhood, French kids breakdance in an empty lot below a subway trestle.
When I finally finished, it was dark outside, and Vaclav and most of the photo editors had left for the day. The next morning, I presented my work to Vaclav who called over a few editors to have a look. While they discussed my work, I sat there staring at the ceiling feeling relieved to be done. I had begun the week as a novice, and, over the course of 5 days, I learned how to function in a darkroom, take newsworthy photographs, and create a photo essay. At this point, I almost didn’t care about the outcome of my meeting at AFP because I had at least learned the basics of news photography.
The poor rummage through dumpsters in the commercial districts of Paris, searching for anything they can use or resell.
When Vaclav came back, he told me that, overall, the photographs looked good, and the essay was well-composed. This news came a relief to me. After a short pause he announced that the agency had just hired a photographer for the Cairo Bureau. “His name is Mike Nelson, and he is an American like you and about your same age. He has had a lot of experience previously working for UPI (United Press International) in Beirut covering the civil war.”
In a way I was relieved because I knew I was not prepared to take on the responsibility of running a photo operation. Vaclav suggested I contact Mike who would need help with local news coverage in Cairo when he was on the road. “I will send him a message and tell him I met you, saw your work, and can recommend you as a backup stringer.”
In a poor Paris neighborhoods, street vendors lay out whatever they can find of worth, hoping to make a little money.
That evening, I said my goodbyes to Carol and thanked her for connecting me with AFP. I then took the train to Switzerland to visit family and make final preparations for my return to Egypt.
I arrived in Cairo at the end of October and found a telex in my mailbox from Mike Nelson saying that I had been recommended to him and that I should make contact ASAP. He was planning to travel on an assignment shortly and needed someone to look after the photo operation in his absence. I was thrilled at the news until I noticed that the telex had been sent nearly two weeks earlier. I panicked thinking that Mike would have found someone else for the job.
Life on the streets of Paris is harsh for the city’s homeless and destitute.
Without much thought, I started running through the streets towards the AFP office at 33 Kasr El Nil in downtown Cairo. I took the elevator up to the 12th floor and asked the first person I saw if Mike Nelson was there. I was led to the news ticker room where, behind the glass, was a young guy looking over news copy coming out of the wire. We almost looked identical sharing the same height, weight and both sporting a beard. When Mike looked up and saw me, we both burst out laughing.
From that moment on, Mike took me under his wing and showed me the ropes of how to become a photojournalist. After two years working as a stringer in Cairo, I was sent to Dubai for my first major assignment covering the “tanker war,” which was a byproduct of the Iran-Iraq war.
Love how you became a photojournalist and the photos! Thanks for sharing.
Thanks for posting this. I have fond memories of you from aikido days, and wondered how you became a photojournalist. It’s great that you figured out what you wanted to be, and then met people who gave you guidance, but it was your fortitude and talent that landed the opportunities. What a fascinating life you have led!
Great story! Amazing pics too!