Monday, Monday in San Diego: Two Hazards of Street Photography
A pair of cautionary tales, one confusing, one traumatic
I’d like to share two cautionary tales of my street walking through San Diego. Pardon all the ink, but my stories require a bit of explanation beyond the 1000 words that the photos might convey.
Tale #1: Sometimes the Law Doesn’t Apply to Us Street Photographers
I was drawn to the deep blues that were reflected in the building’s smoky glass facade. We seldom get this rich of a blue sky in Seattle, so I was eating it up.
The Wells Fargo Building, situated downtown in the middle of the Wells Fargo Plaza, is the tallest building in San Diego. And from what I had gathered from my morning walk so far, it’s one of the most elegant in the downtown core. But to get this photograph, I had to break the law and earn the professional admonishment of a young security guard who did not deserve to have to deal with me in the state that I was in.
I noticed the reflections from across the street. I had a 50mm lens on my XT3 — which more or less means that what I snapped was what my eyes saw.
I took my first shot as I was crossing the street toward the building, but the drama of the sky was lost at that distance. I needed to get much closer.
So I stepped into the plaza and down into the water fountain where I could frame the statue heads with the building facade behind them. I began snapping.
But I was immediately interrupted by a young security guard in a light blue blazer who informed me, in a soft, polite but firm tone of voice, that I was trespassing, and that I needed to step out of the fountain.
I knew she was right. But I won’t lie: I snuck a second shot in, forcing her to repeat herself before I heeded her command. After my earlier confrontation (see Tale #2 below), I was feeling like I needed to tell someone to fuck off, even if it was in a passively aggressive way.
I stepped back from the fountain and onto the sidewalk and lifted my camera again, but again, her soft, polite and firm voice informed me that I was still trespassing and that I could not take a picture of the building and I should leave the premises immediately.
She spoke naturally, with a perfectly recited command. She’d obviously been in this position many times before and her words were second nature.
I was clearly standing on the sidewalk. I was several yards away from the fountain. If I took a half step back, I’d be in the street. In my understanding of the law, a sidewalk is a public place and snapping a picture of a building while standing on public ground is not illegal.
But she informed me otherwise, her soft, polite but firm voice continuing to command me to put my camera down and leave immediately.
Put my camera down?
“This is a sidewalk,” I said, looking down at her. I had a good 8 inches and 100 pounds on her and I was using every inch and ounce to express myself. “I can stand on a sidewalk and take all the pictures I want. I’m not trespassing. You’ve got your law wrong.”
She pointed to the brick construction of the sidewalk on which I was standing and pointed out that none of the other adjacent properties had brick sidewalks, as if that somehow proved her point.
“This is the bank’s sidewalk,” she said, “It’s not public property.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I rasped, feeling it now. “A bank can own a sidewalk? A private entity can own a public right of way? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
We dialogued some more, her voice, unlike mine, never rising above the soft tones that she first used on me. I was impressed.
“Sir,” she said to me, stepping a bit closer, her voice softening. “There are security cameras all around us. If they see that you walked onto their property and started photographing the building without me asking you to leave, I’d lose my job. I’m telling you, the sidewalk is owned by Wells Fargo. If you step off the curb and into the street, you can take all the pictures you want. But please, don’t take any more pictures from the sidewalk.”
She kept her gaze on me, her eyes as soft and clear and firm as her voice. She was just doing her job and I was being an asshole. I’m not proud, there’s no other way to put it.
I thanked her for being so professional and patient with me. I tapped her lightly on the shoulder as I walked away. I wanted that small gesture to undo everything I’d said to her up to that point.
But really…a sidewalk can be owned by a bank? I still don’t believe it.
Regardless, that young woman did not deserve my attitude. Someone else in that building deserved it, or maybe it was the someone who I’d met earlier in my walk and who you’ll soon be reading about who deserved it, but she did not.
Tale #2: Is My Life Worth a Kid’s Picture?
To be clear, this next tale, the traumatic one, has nothing to do with the Balboa Perk cafe above. The story I’m about to tell took place a few doors down, several minutes after I took this picture.
I’m a sucker for greasy spoons. I love heart-attack breakfasts, especially when I’m traveling. It’s comfort food for me, and sitting in a local diner gives me a sense of the community I’m in.
I stood in front of the Sunnyboy Biscuit Co. for several minutes before I decided to enter. It’s a small shack of a place on Park Blvd. — the main thoroughfare that would lead me to downtown.
I had been walking maybe 30 minutes when I noticed it. I had at least two more hours to go on my walk, and I wasn’t certain I wanted to fill my gut with grease and caffeine at this point. Believe me, strategizing over the locations of public bathrooms is as important to street photography at my age as is my choice of camera and lens.
But in the end, the temptation was too great, and I walked in.
It was a small place. Maybe four round picnic-type tables in the center and a few stools and tall cafe tables against the walls. Twenty diners would probably max the place out.
Immediately in front of me was a table of three — a man, a woman, and a child. The man was Black, the woman Hispanic, and the kid was probably six years old. I had clearly walked into a difficult moment between the father and child (for the sake of this story, let’s call the man the father and the woman the mother, though I don’t know this for certain). The kid was not happy and the father was miffed at something. The father and mother were studying the cafe’s laminated menus.
To their left was a table with two young, white women, early-20’s, hunched over their food. And behind the family was a young couple — a late-20’s black man and a Hispanic woman. They were also hunched over their meals.
A burly delivery man moved in and out past me with his cases of foodstuffs, so I was pressed against the wall, giving him space to get by.
All of this information sort of just expressed itself in my brain; it’s how I travel, always needing to assess and understand my surroundings. It’s automatic.
There were a few open tables, so I decided to stay.
I was still holding my camera, but had zero intention of taking any pictures. Once I was at a table I’d set it down in the off position.
As I took one step toward the cash register to order, the father noticed my movement and he immediately stepped in front of me, with the mother following behind. It was an asshole move. Undoubtedly. He saw me make a gesture toward the counter and he cut in front of me. But honestly, it was no big deal. I was in no hurry. In fact, I was happy to have more time to look at the menu. But I made a note to self: the guy pulled an asshole move.
As the father and mother were surveying the pastry case, I looked down at the boy, who seemed to be on the verge of tears. He probably wanted to be with his folks looking at all the goodies, but he’d been relegated to that seat.
He caught my eye and I started making small faces at him, arching my eyebrows, curling my lips, sticking my tongue out a bit. This happened for all of 15 seconds, innocent kid play.
And when he responded with what was about to become a smile, I did something that I never will never forget, that I will regret for the rest of my life, that I have no clue why I did it, that I had no previous plan to do it, the likes of which I had not done since 2018 when I saw a bunch of kids playing in a Hell’s Kitchen park in a water fountain on a hot July New York City afternoon: I snapped the kid’s picture as he stuck his tongue back out at me.
In New York that July, as soon as I brought my camera to my eye to photograph the children in the fountain, a woman — a mother of one of the kids — started screaming for the park cop, running up to me and calling me a fucking pervert, demanding of the cop that I be arrested. I had asked the parents standing around the fountain if it was OK for me to take pictures, and they responded with a collective shrug. But that wasn’t enough apparently. The woman was relentless, screaming non-stop even after the cop came up to me. The cop was largely indifferent, more or less rolling his eyes to the woman’s hysteria, but he curtly asked that I delete the pictures, which I did. Lesson learned. I promised myself never again would I photograph a child that wasn’t my own.
In the cafe this time, I didn’t surreptitiously photograph the young boy with my phone; I didn’t try to hide the picture taking. I simply lifted my camera in front of him and snapped it. Once. That was it. Don’t ask me why I did it; I was caught up in a brief moment of kids’ play. That’s the only explanation I have.
The man sitting with his girlfriend saw this and immediately got out of his seat, tapped the father on the shoulder and said, pointing directly at me, “Hey, you need to know, this guy is taking pictures of your kid behind your back.”
As if on cue, the father dropped his menu and turned to me, his face inches from mine.
“Did you fucking take a picture of my kid? You better fucking delete that. Delete that fucking picture right now. Who the fuck do you think you are? Taking a picture of my kid! I should call the cops on you, get you busted right here. Get that fucking picture off your camera you fuck. Delete it.”
He wasn’t touching me, but the space between us was getting smaller with each breath he took, and he was using that space as a weapon, using it to force me against the wall. And it worked. I was trapped. He had me completely covered.
“You fuck, get rid of that right now. Get rid of it! I’m an undercover cop, I should bring you into the station right you, you fuck!”
I mumbled some kind of apology, I was just messing with your kid, you’re right, I’m sorry, I’ll delete it, I’m sorry, but he kept at me. You fucking this, you fucking that, get rid of that fucking picture right now you fuck.
I had six inches on him, but he had 60 pounds on me, and I wasn’t going anywhere until I deleted that picture.
But when I lifted my camera to delete it, the strangest fucking thing happened to me, something that has never happened to me in my entire life. I looked at the back of the camera, where all the buttons are. It was a camera I’ve owned for three years and have taken thousands of pictures with. But at that very moment, the interface was Greek to me. I stared into that camera and and I had no clue whatsoever how I could possibly delete that picture. The buttons and icons were all gibberish. I felt authentic panic like I’ve never felt in my life. My brain was incapable of figuring this basic task out.
He kept yelling, his face in my face. I could see the other guy staring straight into me from a few feet away. The women to my left were visibly shaken, the counter woman frozen in place.
“You need to back the fuck down, right now,” I was finally able to say. “I will delete the picture of your kid, I promise, but right now you’re scaring the fuck out of me and I have no idea how to do it. So you need to walk away so I can figure this out.”
With that, the mother gently put her hand on the man’s shoulder to motion him away. He backed off by a step or two.
I looked at the camera again, and the buttons thankfully made sense now. I saw the play button and the garbage can button, and I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I hit play, and the boy’s face with his tongue sticking out at me appeared on the screen. I hit the garbage can button, and the “ERASE” message appeared.
I turned the camera around so I could show the father I was deleting it, but he was walking away.
“Look, I’m about to delete. You need to turn around and watch me.”
“Fuck you,” he said, without turning around. “I don’t need to do shit. You just delete that fucking picture.”
So I deleted it. I have no idea who saw me delete it, but I deleted it.
I leaned against the wall for another 30 seconds or so to regain my bearings, somehow undecided whether I should stay or go.
Of course I left. But before I did, I placed my fingertips lightly on their table and apologized again, telling them that I was wrong. I caught the eyes of the guy who narced me out and just shook my head.
What the fuck just happened? I wanted to ask everyone in that cafe.
But I didn’t. I left and I continued my walk, down through Balboa Park and toward downtown, physically trembling for a good 15 minutes.
And then I just wanted to cry. I’m not speaking figuratively. I was suddenly awash with post trauma, and I just wanted to know what the fuck just happened? What has happened to my world? I felt my life in danger over a picture of a kid sticking his tongue out at me. Someone, anyone, please tell me what the fuck has happened?
I can hold opposing thoughts without contradiction. I know I shouldn’t have taken that photo, just as I know that I didn’t do anything wrong.
So on I went, two more hours of my Monday morning walk through San Diego still in front of me.
PS: I want to leave this piece on a positive note, with a few nodules of evidence that innocence still exists. Here are a few photos from my 2023 trip to Poland. Each one was taken with the complete and happy permission of the nearby parents.
The concept of "picking our battles" is very appropriate when it comes to practicing street photography. One may have the right to make the picture, but convincing a non-photographer that it's the principle of the thing can both be pointless and ruin a perfectly good day.
Well strictly speaking I consider Poland Central Europe rather than Western Europe, so they haven't quite sunk to our depths yet:)