A Bazaar Moment – A One-Shot Story

This photograph was taken about 45 years ago, when I was in my late teens. I’ve shown it before as part of a larger article featuring several images from the bazaar. While it may not be as immediately striking as some of the others, it carries a complete story of its own—one I’ve felt compelled to share, even after all these years. I hope you enjoy it, even a little, as much as I do.

I had visited this old bazaar in the historic part of the city many times, drawn by its picturesque atmosphere and the interplay of light and shadow. The place was usually very loud—artisans hammering copper pots, pans, trays, and bowls; handcarts loaded with goods pushed through narrow alleys; and neighbors shouting to one another from their shops, forced to raise their voices just to be heard. There was even a local saying about the place—something along the lines of “Boasting in the coppersmiths’ bazaar is no art,” a reference to the constant noise and the fact that no one would hear you anyway.

Back then, I believed that true photography meant either landscape photography—mastering composition, tones, exposure, development, and printing under the influence of Ansel Adams—or street photography, chasing fleeting, decisive moments in the spirit of Cartier-Bresson. And of course, it had to be black and white. I would later learn to appreciate other genres as well.

So, with my Canon film camera fitted with a 28mm lens in hand and loaded with Agfapan 400 black-and-white negative film, I entered the bazaar. I approached from the left side of the frame and didn’t notice these people at first. As I got closer, I could see—and then hear—that two women were haggling intensely over a purchase. Behind the women stood two boys, seemingly detached from the negotiations, looking around with the unmistakable air of boredom. The shop owner kept explaining that he couldn’t offer any further discount, but the women persisted.

The scene unexpectedly brought back childhood memories of standing beside my mother while she bargained—feeling bored, slightly uncomfortable, and eager to leave, yet unable to do so. That familiar feeling made me want to simply walk past without stopping. Even as I moved on, the women kept arguing, and when I was already beyond the shop, they were still at it.

The shop itself, however, was visually compelling and clearly worth framing. I turned back, looking for a composition. And then it happened.

An extraordinary set of expressions appeared on the three visible faces: the shop owner, worn down by the women’s persistence, stared blankly at a random spot, saying nothing and paying no attention to the women, while the boys were exhausted by their mother’s endless haggling, each wearing a fabulous, almost comic expression, matching each other as if they were choreographed.

I quickly composed, focused, and pressed the shutter—quietly crossing my fingers that the frame would come together, back when there was no way to check the result on the back of the camera. It was partly luck—being in the right place at the right time—but the photograph came together well in more than one way.

That bazaar no longer looks the way it did back then. In fact, this photograph was taken around the time when it began to change. Today, there are no artisans and almost no copperware shops left. They’ve been replaced by repainted, remodeled stores filled with Chinese goods or clothing. It’s a shame.

For me, this photograph worked on more than one level. Do you see that too?

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