I am looking for this light
—Raed Bawayah, interview with the Los Angeles Review of Books
*
She lies with her eyes not quite open; deep pools beyond the lens. Her hands are held in a cluster as they peek from the blanket around her body, blinking life amid lace. A black string of ribbon makes its way around her body and up onto the top of her head. The sheet gleams stark against the makeshift sofa, tucked and plumed over foam.
She rests.
The wall is white, half-papered in flowers growing sideways and butterflies, flying horizontally. More flowers fall as cloth, it fills with a breeze of space.
The window’s corner is exposed and over the top it is covered:
Sporty, Posh, Ginger, Baby—
Scary.
*
She lies flat against the mattress, adorned in the translucency of the sheet. She lies on a bed of snow; it speckles in pieces around her form. Splayed arms sprout flowers and leaves unfurl from her touch. She is footless, floating in a mass of fabric, arms firmly resting with the weight of sleep.
A thick wool blanket folds below her. It forms shadows in its bending, falls as bones, or a stem, manipulating its way to light, some kind of sun, some innate instinct for hopeless ease – some tangled manner of sleeping.
*
He stands; gleaming cowboy shoes, tied tightly, muddy toe. Hair combed back, he smiles, turning years into folds on his face. His suit jacket hangs oversized and sharp, self-assured.
The sheep stands on its hind legs, yearning the length of the man. Its nestled head points upwards, neck wrapped in the shepherd’s hand – another at his belly, warmth exuding into thinner skin. Firmly between fingers, his stick points to the distant trees.
Past the horizon line: dry grass and bushes, white bucket, the sky, monotoned – blanker.
*
His face is a spectre in a shard of mirror as it hangs from translucent thread. It is sellotaped. A fracture within fracture fixed, suspended in functionality. Perfect for shaving – metal and foam scratched against face, or buzzing of hair as it lands on the towel at his shoulders.
The other men watch as dimmer figures, double with the shadows at their backs. Night gleams black through the window behind them, the light-fitting takes the place of the moon. It elucidates his face, lit back as through the mirror moon. From his bowed head a calmness pervades, a neat moustache.
*
They walk on Jupiter, clutching space cloaks. Not face nor body, but legs and shoes.
They walk amid defined blankness, anonymity inflicted.
Scattered stone.
*
A girl’s fingers press against the image, cool circles. A reflected line cast over their faces, smears of water and condensed breath. Drips dapple texture over glass. A little knitted dress, a little fleece, a little jumper
– Racer in flames.
*
She holds an excess of flowers, swirling light and shade into the film, tangling folds of roses clutched in her hands. The dress crushes around her, spaces of light and shade as it floods to the ground. She holds herself; sideways face tilts towards
– glossed lips, glossed nose, eyes twinkling
Truth hurts
*
Mosquito nets form canopies (to lie under and look through the gaps). They are hooked and tethered to the walls with string. A flat crisp ocean surrounds, flaked plaster appears like coastlines eroding their way into land.
A shroud of softness over faces, a raised brow looks toward the camera. A gazing side profile does not. Down time.
Bare feet interlocked, hand against cheek he holds a grinning face. Arm behind his head, he reclines in the light
﹣photograph me!
*
She spins with her hips held towards the sky. Her back is dipped and graceful as it beckons. The threads of her skirt shift too quickly to capture. They turn to blur; up and down strawberries ﹣ a dance of fabric and air. Beads hit against each other with the swing of her waist. Each step, a silver trace. A glint of bracelet at her wrist, the sequins of her top. She cascades across the camera,
hissing glitter like the trail of a star.
***
Raed Bawayah had an interest in photography but without access to equipment or artistic education he was unable to pursue his passion. Upon an introduction to the director of the Musrara School of Art, Israel he embarked upon a photography course, on the condition that no one could know he was from Quatana, Palestine.
“I woke up every day at 5 a.m., I had to cross three mountains for 2 and a half hours, cross the line – which was not yet a wall – and then take a bus to go to the photography school. […] more risks: more risks of meeting and being arrested by the Israeli guard, of being shot by them.”1
Less than a year after he began studying, the Second Intifada broke out. Laws restricting entry into Israel made it illegal for him to attend. He was later arrested and imprisoned. Named after his ID card number, he was inspired to create ID925596611 (2003): a photo series which follows the lives of immigrant Palestinian workers.
His collection Safe Trip (2006) was produced in Paris via a residency at La Cité internationale des arts. By working with portraiture in black and white, he engaged with a traditional mode of photography. He aimed to capture people affected by the social and political conditions inflicted upon them. He sought to give his subjects the respect they deserve, placing them into galleries and museums, picturing the intimacies of their lives: “I am looking for this light, for this small white in the huge black.”2
SAFE TRIP 5, 2006, Courtesy of Galerie127 
ID 925596611 NO.5, Courtesy of Galerie127 
SAFE TRIP 9, 2006, Courtesy of Galerie127 
ID 925596611 NO.16, Courtesy of Galerie127 
ID 925596611 NO.11, Courtesy of Galerie127 
SAFE TRIP 12, 2006, Courtesy of Galerie127 
SAFE TRIP 11, 2006, Courtesy of Galerie127 
SAFE TRIP 3, 2006, Courtesy of Galerie127 
ID 925596611 NO. 1, 2006, Courtesy of Galerie127
View the Images from Safe Trip and ID925596611 online via Galerie127