Day 1
Arrival at Cotonou airport. With his white beard and Panama hat, Albert Watson looks more like a charismatic adventurer, on his arrival, than an experienced celebrity photographer. His gaze is inquisitive, open, alert. “I can’t believe I’m finally here”, he says—words that strike a chord with me.
Day 2
The soil of the savannah shines red; here and there we can see mud huts: time appears to have been standing still in the countryside north of the capital. Our convoy consists of three off-roaders. Albert Watson, in the front vehicle, calls on us to stop. What then follows is a pattern repeated scores of times each day: Albert Watson climbs out, followed by his three assistants. Lights, a tripod, and the Hasselblad camera are all unpacked. The master photographer has discovered something fascinating. Sometimes it’s a roadside stand, sometimes a woven fence, most of the time, however, it is people. At a marketplace in Abomey, we come across a group of dancers and musicians. Watson rolls out his reflector and asks, with the help of our translator, if he might photograph them. The polite sincerity of the stranger in the hat is convincing and they are all willing. “Just act as if I’m not there”, he shouts. As soon as he is finished, he shows them his pictures on a laptop. Many are bashful, almost ashamed, not used to seeing such a flood of pictures. It is difficult for us to imagine how this feels. Watson puts them at ease with the few words of French he knows: “C’est parfait”—it’s perfect.
Day 3
“They remind me of Moroccan nomads”, says Watson while looking at a group of Peuhl people who have gathered in Natitingou. The Peuhl were originally nomads, but many are now working as settled cotton farmers. Watson is enthralled by their peculiar charisma. Their faces are tattooed, they are brightly adorned, and they seem serious—almost unapproachable. The centrepiece of the celebration taking place is a ceremony including the ritual flogging of young Peuhl men causing blood to flow, apparently as a kind of test of courage. Watson mingles with the crowd, shooting away as if in a trance. Now and then you can see his white hat between the heads of the young men. In his improvised street studio, he takes a portrait of a young cotton farming woman. Her name is Aissatou Mahamadou. The picture is emblematic of Watson’s talented creations. Whether with Hollywood stars or farming maids, he appears to effortlessly capture everything he wants in his photo: self-assuredness, intimacy, naturalness.
Day 4
Four farmers are working in the midday heat on one of the few remaining unharvested cotton fields. Can Watson take a photograph? They agree. A woman scuttles across the dusty field, lowers a big barrel of water she had balanced on her head, leaves it for the men, and then goes on her way. Watson tries to lift the heavy container and only just manages. In the evening he asks himself, and us, without finding any satisfactory answer: “Why didn’t I photograph that woman?” Only to conclude: “It was a wonderful, fleeting moment.”
Day 5
The yams are cooking on a hotplate in the middle of the yard; the cotton farmer, who has been expecting us, introduces us to his two wives, his seven children, his brother, his brother’s family, his parents, and finally to his oxen—the animals he wants to be photographed with. The farmer has been working with Cotton made in Africa for some years now. “That’s how I can afford the animals and the cart for the harvest”, he explains. All seven children go to school and he plans on them becoming doctors and engineers. “You can see the pride in his face, pride in what he has achieved with your help”, says Watson, pleased.
Day 6
On the road, we see a motorbike coming towards us; amazingly it carries six people. Stop! Albert Watson climbs out of the van and talks the people into having their photo taken. They ride past his camera endlessly until he is finally satisfied with the shot. “That was nearly surreal”, he says, waving to them as they finally disappear in a cloud of smoke.
