One Night One Day in Belgrade

One Night One Day in Belgrade

I woke up at 10, had a quick wash and quietly walked downstairs. The friend was sleeping on the couch next to table-fill of beer bottles and cigarette butts. I circled the flat for a brief five minutes and came near him whispering ‘hello, hello.’ He didn’t hear and sat down on the chair on the other side of the table, waiting for him to wake up. I took out my guidebook and tried to read, if not it would look awkward when he opened his eyes and saw a stranger staring at his face praying for him to wake up. It wasn’t my fixation that rattled him up.

A loud noise from someone unlocking the key to the door and slammed it opened startled the both of us. I turned my head to the door while he instantly rose up from the couch greeting the woman who had just entered. ‘My mama,’ he said. Ooh, I hope she didn’t think whatever it was I thought she was thinking. Sometimes when people say “it is not how it looks,” it is not how it looks. It was hilarious. I hadn’t even met the mothers of my current boyfriend and a few others before that. But here I was caught by Mama while sitting next to her son near his bed.

I had never been happier to see any man’s mother in my life. I excused myself and left the flat. I took a cab to the central bus station. There is no train to Kosovo. The next bus to Pristina was at 16.00 and arrived at 21.00. I didn’t feel safe to travel to a new city in this ‘kind’ of country in such late hours. The next buses to Skopje were one and three hours later, but I would be there also late in the evening. Either way, I would waste half a day traveling, not seeing anything in the new city and a day of accommodation. I took the advice of the man who sold train tickets at Wasteels office and bought a round-trip train ticket to Skopje. The train wouldn’t leave until 21.40, giving me an entire day of sight-seeing.

The long ride from the day before, the lack of sleep and my apathy about Belgrade made it hard to motivate my legs. I went for a long lunch in one restaurant at the train station, check my e-mails for another hour before mustering up the enthusiasm to get ready for Belgrade. I randomly got on tram no. 2 heading toward the fortress and the city center and completed a circle of the route. I started to remember the scenes from my visit two years ago. Back then Jelena, a friend from Belgrade, took care all of my logistic issues. Now, I was all on my own. On the second route, I hopped off at the stop on the street intersecting Kalemegdan and Republic square as I saw a large outdoor photo exhibition titled “Belgrade Diary” (Art Zamur).

A man approached me while I was examining the pictures. “Excuse me? Are you a photographer? Do you look for a story in your photos?” “Ummm no I am not a photographer, and yes I do try to create a story from the pictures I take.” We started to discuss photography, and I explained to him about a photo project I’m currently working on and asked if he could get the people around here if they would take a picture with me. We walked around, skipping many young couples who I didn’t think would add any depth to my photos. An old couple caught my eyes. I gave the signal to him that I wanted him to ask them. I heard the conversation, and from the couple’s gesture, I understood it was a no though I was surprised to hear ‘nationalist’ and ‘communist.’ The couple turned me down because they thought that I came from Vietnam and Czech Republic, communist countries and they hated them. “You know, our country is going in two different directions: left and right.”

We started walking to the street looking for someone else, but I had lost interest and decided to just have a conversation with him. He told me he was a painter and looked for photographers who could provide him with photos to use for his paintings. He asked if I wanted to visit his studio. Not having any specific sights to see, I agreed.

He lived in a very small room about 10-meter square where the kitchen, living room, and bedroom were all squeezed together. Clothes were strewn out from the closet onto the bed. Paper, foodstuffs scattering on the table and storage. On the wall hung three of his paintings and ceramic seals of Serbia. I figured he didn’t do anything else besides paintings and didn’t make any money from them either. Even the wrapped paintings in the corner were presents for his uncle who often gave him money. He talked a lot about his paintings and the painting process and seemed to be very proud of his work despite the gloomy financial aspect of it. Sometimes I wonder how much struggling artists are willing to endure before they get their breaks or only just to create.

We bid farewell. We exchanged emails, and I promised I would send him a few photos of mine in return for any kinds of arts that he made from it.

[slickr-flickr tag=”belgrade” description=”on”]