Yellow
I am looking at an image. There are two men and a woman. They have crossed a road and are either on or near the edge of a pavement. According to the photographer’s records, it is Chicago, 1975.
They all wear yellow. Not a buttermilk or banana. Two pairs of shorts, one each for the men and a skirt for the woman are an eye watering pineapple. One man, maybe even both, have socks to match, teamed with black leather loafers.
The gent who reached the pavement first is reading a poster at the edge of the sidewalk, his thin, suntanned legs almost completely in view as a consequence of the sky-high hemline. His shirt is a less surprising cream. His friend, because surely the man following in the shorty-short pineapple ensemble – he has gone all out with a matching marigold shirt – has to be a fellow fashionista, a sports club member, an associate in an organisation who choose to be noticed for their brave colour choices. For no other reason, the shorts are identical, with a vertical side stripe and logo.
And, what of the woman? In her neat white shirt and navy blazer, she flips the usual norms by drawing far less attention. Without her pals, she may not have caught the eye of the photographer. It is the two canary gentlemen who suggest a patronage of some kind.
I am amused by the tableau, the datedness of the scene, the cut of the clothes, the haircuts, the accessories. It screams of the seventies, in a confounding, conservative way. Had the pants been long, wide-legged and made of cheesecloth, they might have appeared less incongruous. If the people had been young, with mirrored sunglasses, beads, headbands and flowers my eyes would have glided past. It is captivating, perplexing, slightly embarrassing even, for our modern tastes.
I notice something new. The man in the middle, gazing into the distance, with greying hair and a receding hairline is wearing a large, gold watch on his left wrist. On his right is another gold accessory. It is hard to determine its nature, but it looks decorative, like a bracelet. Maddeningly, his friend’s same wrist is obscured.
Have I wronged this trio? Are they, in fact, a trio? Is it a colossal coincidence that the woman only looks as if she is a colour-coded member of a party? Does the wrist accessory, the possible bracelet, mean something significant – two men showing great courage and bravery, bonded by a flair for the exuberant, the joyful.
I will never know, of course, but I am taught a lesson in judgement. Too quick, as always, until forced to consider and be open to the alternatives. I am thankful for that, at least.
If you’d like to know more about this image and the photographer, Vivian Maier, either visit this website, or read my post on the Journal page
https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20200902-vivian-maier-the-elusive-genius-who-hid-herself-away