Walking Past
Diane teaches a photography workshop on Miami Beach every Saturday. Eight years now. "Finding the Extraordinary in the Ordinary" is what she calls it. $200 for three hours. Tourists mostly, wanting better vacation photos.
She's fifty-three. Used to shoot commercial—catalogs, advertising. Quit after a kids' clothing campaign where they made a four-year-old hold Mickey Mouse ears for six hours. Kid cried. They kept shooting. Diane kept shooting.
Two weeks later she quit.
Now she teaches tourists about light and composition. Hands them disposable cameras, walks them around Ocean Drive, tells them to notice things.
"Not just the obvious stuff," she says every week. "Look for what you'd normally walk past."
They take photos of palm trees, art deco buildings, street performers. She develops the film, sends it to them, they're happy. Same thing every week.
This Saturday she has six people. Retired couple from Ohio, woman named Patricia from Atlanta, three college kids. They meet at 9, walk the beach.
Someone's selling Mickey Mouse ears on a blanket. $10 each. Kids dragging their parents over, begging.
Patricia photographs them. "The commercialization of childhood?"
Diane shrugs. "Someone's trying to make rent."
Near the volleyball nets there's a woman lying face down. Fully clothed—jeans, t-shirt, running shoes worn through. One arm stretched out, clutching a fedora hat.
The students walk past her.
Diane stops. "What about her?"
They look back. The woman's not moving.
"Is she okay?" Patricia asks.
"I don't know. Should we check?"
Nobody moves.
Diane walks over. Crouches. "Hey, you okay?"
The woman groans. Shifts.
"You need anything?"
No response. Just clutches the hat tighter.
Diane stands up. Walks back to the group. "She's sleeping."
"So we just leave her?" Patricia asks.
"What else would we do?"
No one has an answer.
They keep walking. Ohio wife photographs a palm tree. College kid photographs the ocean. Normal vacation stuff.
Near the boardwalk there's a man passed out, snoring. Bleached brown leather sandals, worn through at the toes. Tourist sandals, bought cheap somewhere.
The students photograph around him. The sky behind him. The palm trees. Not him. Never the body itself.
"Why not photograph him?" Diane asks.
"Feels wrong," Patricia says.
"But you photographed the Mickey ears seller."
"That's different."
"How?"
Patricia doesn't answer.
Diane doesn't push it. Doesn't know the answer either.
They finish the walk. She collects the cameras, tells them she'll develop the film and mail it. They thank her, leave happy.
She goes home. Develops the photos. Palm trees, art deco, street performers, Mickey ears. Patricia took one distant shot of the woman with the fedora—from behind, far away, could be anyone.
Diane files it with the others. Has boxes of these from eight years of workshops. Bodies at the edges of frames, suffering pushed to corners, people documenting without helping.
Doesn't know why she keeps them. Her ex-husband asked once. "That's depressing."
"Yeah."
"So why?"
She didn't have an answer.
She still doesn't.
Monday she gets an email from Patricia. "Thank you for the workshop. I feel like I'm seeing things differently now."
Diane doesn't respond.
Next Saturday she has five new students. Different people, same walk, same beach. Different collapsed person—or maybe the same one, hard to tell from a distance. Woman again, lying in the sand.
The students walk past.
Diane stops. Checks. The woman's alive. Sleeping or passed out. Diane asks if she needs anything. The woman tells her to fuck off.
Diane walks back to her students.
"Is she okay?" someone asks.
"She told me to fuck off so probably fine."
They keep walking. They photograph palm trees. Someone photographs the Mickey ears vendor—different vendor, same ears, same $10. A kid photographs a street performer doing backflips.
At the end Diane collects the cameras. Thanks them. Says she'll mail the photos.
Goes home. Develops them. More palm trees. More art deco. More bodies at the edges.
She's been doing this eight years. Teaches every Saturday. Walks the same route. Sees collapsed people, sleeping people, passed-out people. Checks on some, walks past others. Her students photograph around them.
She keeps developing their film. Keeps filing it away. Keeps teaching.
Doesn't know what else to do.
She thought about quitting once. Drafted an email: "Taking a break indefinitely." Never sent it. Just kept showing up every Saturday, kept teaching tourists to look, kept watching them photograph palm trees while people slept on the sand around them.
Her friend Karen asks: "Do you like teaching?"
"I don't know."
"That's not really an answer."
"I know."
Thursday morning, walking the beach before work, Diane sees a child. Maybe six, Black, wearing Mickey Mouse ears. Standing at the water looking out at the white sand, white surf, white sky.
Mother's taking photos. Father's on a beach chair. Normal tourist family.
The child turns, looks directly at Diane. Not shy, not smiling. Just looking.
Diane looks away.
Keeps walking.
Near her usual spot there's a woman collapsed. European accent when she groans at Diane checking on her. Same woman as last week maybe. Diane can't tell.
"You okay?"
The woman doesn't answer.
A jogger runs past. A photographer walks by, looks at the woman, adjusts his camera angle, keeps walking without stopping.
Diane stands there for a minute. Then keeps walking too.
Saturday workshop. Six new people. Same route. Different collapsed person, same questions. "Should we help?" "What should we do?"
Diane doesn't have answers.
They photograph palm trees.
She develops the film. Files it away. The boxes are full. She should throw them out. Doesn't.
Patricia emails again, months later. "Hi Diane, I'm back in Miami. Can I take your workshop again? I want to keep learning."
Diane responds: "Sure. Saturdays at 9."
Patricia shows up that weekend. Diane doesn't remember her at first, then does. The woman who asked about commercialization of childhood.
They do the same walk. Past the Mickey ears, past the volleyball nets. There's a man collapsed today. Patricia photographs him—still from a distance, still from behind.
After the workshop Patricia says: "I'm trying to be more aware. More present."
"Good," Diane says.
"Is it working?"
"I don't know. You're still photographing palm trees."
Patricia laughs. "Yeah. I guess I am."
The next Saturday Diane teaches again. And the Saturday after. And after. She's been doing this eight years, might do it eight more. Doesn't know.
The beach stays full. People keep collapsing on it. Photographers keep photographing. Tourists keep taking photos of palm trees.
Diane keeps teaching them to look.
What they see after that, what they do about it—that's not her responsibility. She tells herself that. Doesn't quite believe it.
But she keeps showing up.
Keeps handing out cameras. Keeps walking the route. Keeps developing film of palm trees and art deco and Mickey ears and occasionally, at the edge of a frame, a body someone walked past.
Her boxes are full of these. Evidence of something. Not sure what.
Just evidence that she was here. That she saw. That she kept teaching anyway.
Which isn't help. Isn't change.
But it's what she's doing.
So she keeps doing it.
