That night, I stood on the veranda of a roadside shop after going to the ATM, my hand holding my cellphone camera, ready to capture the beauty that people often miss. Several large potted flowers were tucked away on the veranda, perhaps forgotten decorations or gifts that no longer meant anything to their owners. But to me, they looked graceful in the dim light of the streetlights, their petals blooming as if whispering to the night.
I moved closer, adjusted the focus. Click. The result? Ah, this hand, why is it shaking like I just met an ex who is happy with someone else? Haha. I tried again. Click. This time it was clearer, but there was a faint shadow at the edge of the frame. Wait, what's that? I turned my head.
An old man stood in the doorway of the shop, looking at me with an expression between curiosity and suspicion. Perhaps he thought I was doing something suspicious. Perhaps for him, an adult woman squatting on the veranda of a shop in the middle of the night to photograph flowers was a rare species that should be watched, haha.
"What are you doing?" he finally asked.
I smiled, trying not to look like someone who had just been caught stealing a flower. "Take a picture, sir. Nice flower."
He glanced at the pot, then back at me, as if to make sure I wasn't joking. "That? It's just so-so."
Ah, this is the problem with the world. Beauty is often only visible to those who are willing to look. I wanted to explain lighting, composition, the magic of color that appears deeper when night falls, but what's the point? The man probably cared more about his deserted shop than the philosophy of light in photography.
Finally, he sighed and went back into his shop. I returned to my mission. One more shot and voila! The neon light from the shop reflected the soft orange of the flower petals, creating a dramatic effect that made him look like the main character in a noir film.
I smiled in satisfaction, then glanced back at the deserted shop. The man would probably forget our brief conversation, but this potted flower? It would remain there, quietly beautiful, waiting for someone to see it as more than just an ordinary object.
The night passed, and I came home with a few flower photos, a little experience, and a question: Did I just become a weirdo in the eyes of the old man? Oh well! Here are the flowers, my friend!🙃
