The newspapers’ tone encouraged us to go outside in the afternoon, and we went to an exhibit of photographic portraits in a gallery in front of the American University. The photos were all old, the kind that hang on living-room walls, or that are kept in thick, leather-bound albums. The photos of the first type retained their antique frames, decorated with ornamentation and gold leaf. The second type had been placed in simple, modern frames. Both were gathered under one title: “Lebanon Long Ago”.
Occupying the place of honor was a traditional photograph of a large family: the grandfather in the center wearing Ottoman-style clothes, and with a thick mustache and a long beard that hung down over his chest. Beside him was the oldest son who threw his head back with an arrogance befitting his family’s prominence, with his fez moved to the back of his head. The firm edge of a stand-up collar drove into his chin, and was encircled by a thin ribbon affixed to a wide necktie. He was wearing a jacket and vest of colored checkered cloth, and striped pants that disappeared at the knee inside the high tops of his boots.
To the left of the grandfather sat his wife or oldest daughter, and then the second son who was distinguished by the jacketed book he was carrying in his left hand, and by his ordinary pants and shoes. Behind the four seated people there was a row of three young men and three girls, all of whom resembled each other. The last girl in the row had placed her hand with special affection on the one holding the book. At the grandfather’s feet, two small boys sat on the ground; next to one of them was a straw hat. The picture seemed to have been taken outside, since its background consisted of a curtain or sheet that failed to conceal a stone wall.
There were no captions next to the photograph or in the catalogue we got from a girl at the entrance who wore extremely tight jeans. Wadia volunteered some explanations: these were the clothes of the Druze, and these people were Shia or inhabitants of Mount Lebanon, and this woman was the old man’s third or fourth wife.
He pointed to an old man in a long robe with a half-collar and an extremely short fez that revealed two white temples. Beside him was a woman who could be his daughter’s or granddaughter’s age wearing black clothes consisting of a loose-fitting outer robe, a vest and a veil. Between them stood a six-year-old child wearing a full suit and short-topped shoes. The old man had another child on his knees who was giving the camera a fatuously serious look. As for the woman, she was on the verge of smiling. In grief? Or in amusement? Or in compliance with the photographer’s wishes?
I followed Wadia to a photograph of several young men with thin, delicate mustaches that barely reached the sides of their mouths, wearing tall fezzes leaning to the left or back, and dark sarwal trousers, as well as jackets that revealed white shirts without neckties, worn over robes or puffy sarwals. They were standing around a young man who sat on a wooden chair with a straw seat, like the chairs in lower-class cafés. Two of them were resting their hands on his shoulders. He was wearing a full set of European clothes, with a fez that was not as tall and leaned more toward the front and right, as well as a small-knotted necktie that almost concealed the bottom of the shirt collar, and a small Hitler-style mustache. He was gazing confidently at the photographer, with his left leg crossed over his right. His hand clutched a thin cane that was balanced on the side of his shoe.
“Antara on a brief visit to his village.”
It seemed that the corner where we were standing was devoted to photos of the countryside and of Mount Lebanon: a handsome young man whose mustache almost reached his ears, with a dagger sticking out from an opening in his embroidered vest. A mother clothed in black from the top of her head to a few centimeters above her feet — only her eyebrows, eyes and the tip of her nose could be seen — with a barefoot child beside her. Ten men, most of whom were wearing a shirt, pants and a fez at an angle: they sat around two wooden tables set out in the open air, laden with mezze dishes and small glasses of arak. One of them poured the drink from a flask the size of a fist, while another one puffed on a narghile, and a third leaned back, giving the photographer a heroic look, with a cigarette showing behind his left ear. Behind them stood a man with European features: he might have been the Armenian owner of the place.
We moved to another gallery, and it was as though we had crossed a divide separating two worlds. I stood for a long time in front of a photograph of the entranceway to a bourgeois residence in the city: the solemn wooden door composed of two panels, the lower halves of which were covered with engraved ornamentation, while the upper halves consisted of two glass windows encased in iron gridwork of symmetrical designs. The pots for houseplants. The familiar, colorful rocking-horse ridden by a child in a sailor suit. Standing next to him, in Napoleonic style, was another child wearing the same clothes.
The next photo had only a girl with delicate features in a silk dress that flowed down to her feet. Its narrow sleeves reached her fingertips, which she used to support herself on the ornate brass edge of the couch. Her hair was done up in a chignon, held in place with the rubber bar that was used for that style in the past. In a corner of the photograph, I noticed a signature in Roman letters, from which I could make out the name “Mary”.
In one of the photos, there was a date: 1918. The era of the Arab revolt against Turkish rule, two years before the defeat of the Arab Army at the hands of the French at the battle of Maysalun, which was followed by the imposition of the French mandate over Syria and Lebanon. It was one year before the great Egyptian revolution against British occupation. The photograph was of a stern-faced mother with light-colored eyes. She was sitting beside her older daughter, while the younger daughter stood behind their chairs. The three of them were bareheaded, and they wore long garments that were notable for their many folds and ornamentations. But only the two girls stood out with light colors and lace sleeves that ended just below the elbow.
In another oval-shaped portrait, two girls had their heads so close that their cheeks touched. One of them was looking at the photographer with a confidence that clearly reflected the force of her personality. As for the other one who supported herself with her cheek against the first, she stared off into space with a foolish grin.
Instead of arak drinking-sessions, cafés and large extended families, individual portraits of elegant young men looked out at me. One of them had his hair parted on the left, with a slim lock of it hanging down over his forehead. He had bent the stiff collar of his shirt along its edges, so that its rim stood over his wide necktie. His right forearm was bent to clutch a chain that hung from his waistcoat pocket.
Another one had swept his hair back, and wore a shirt with a double collar and a bowtie, underneath a narrow suit with two rows of buttons. In his left hand, he carried a pair of gloves, while supporting himself with his right elbow against a wooden fence, gazing into the camera in contemplation. A third one wore a fez of medium height that leaned to the left, a high stiff collar, and a jacket with one row of buttons. Prayer beads dangled from his hand, while the tapered ends of his mustache pointed up toward his cheeks.
I couldn’t keep from smiling when I saw a portrait of a bareheaded young man wearing evening clothes with a high stiff collar and bowtie. He was sitting at a table with playing cards scattered on it, leaning his head over the left hand of an elegant girl. He was raising her hand to his lips with his index finger to plant a giddy kiss on it. His eyes were lowered, while the girl was looking at him with a smile.