I was out doing an ‘observational exercise’ on Monday night as part of my uni class. Standing about in Chinatown, wandering down to Sussex and later Pitt streets, it made me realise how little time I spend just hanging out, soaking things in. Really enjoyed it.
Anyway, the aim was a couple of short profiles, potential introductions to a magazine feature. A place and a face. Here’s what I came up with.
Faces
There’s no entourage to speak of, but she’s the star.
He pulls his backpack around and crouches in front of the Oporto restaurant. Green-striped polo shirt – collar up – and baggy jeans, he takes a camera from the bag, pulling the Canon E.O.S. strap over his short brown hair and suede tennis visor. He checks something in the viewfinder, presses a button and adjusts the lens.
She’s about the same height, approx. 170cm, dressed in a fawn jumper, snug over red shirt and blue jeans. Brown discus-shaped handbag. He snaps a picture as she curves her head around to him like a model. Eyes sparkling, teeth glinting. Her eyebrows arch, but she holds them smooth. She giggles with the pose. It’s a funny smile, like a recreation of something she’s seen.
He snaps. She reaches to see the preview, then steps back into position. Carefully pats her shoulder length straight brown hair, parting the fringe across her face. He looks past her, at the backdrop of light rail cables stretching back to a horizon of George Street and the glitzy Guys And Dolls billboard at the Capitol Theatre behind. Needs to get the composition right. He’s done this before.
She flashes that smile. He snaps, laughs, picks up a red Esprit shopping bag, and they’re off to rejoin their friends.
Places
Around the corner from Chinatown, at Hay and Harbour streets, a squat McDonald’s restaurant squeezes out beneath the Entertainment Centre. The hulking venue’s like a Millenium Falcon: futuristic ’80s, washed out, unwashed. Street lights, a big red sign to “Darling Harbour”; decades of intersecting dreams for the city.
A girl steps past the monorail, scooping ice from a Gloria Jeans frappe. The empty train has a full-length hoarding for Pom-brand juice – “Health’s Angel” – moments later, the light rail trundles parallel to Paddy’s Market, also empty.
Two mid-30s men talk too loudly at each other. One leaves, the other asks people in the square for money. Actually, it’s more like a triangle. 500 metres on each side: McDonald’s and Oporto sentry to Paddy’s, 100 years old this year. The market itself bares the scars of several rounds of reno’s.
A man in a square, grey suit swings his arms robotically, striding towards a row of three phone booths. There are specks of rubbish everywhere: cigarette stubs, broken plastic spoons, discarded wrappers. Chicken burger wrappers and napkins wedged into the old train track sleepers, the randomly placed seats. Plenty of pigeons and sea gulls. Two bins. A skateboarder’s oasis, if it wasn’t for the uneven paving.
