Describing a photograph to someone who can't see it

Okay, I admit it. Asking writers in my memoir-writing classes to choose any photograph they want and describe it to someone like me, who can’t see, was pretty self-serving. Thing is, though, the writers came back with pretty remarkable stuff!

I’m having my husband Mike post the photo writer John Simmons chose here. Before you read on, stop and guess where this photo was taken. Just a quick guess:

If you guessed Chicago, you must live here. In class, listening to John’s words, I was sure no one would ever guess this photo was taken in the Windy City. “If I were to drop a plumb from our balcony, you would hear a splash as it enters the Chicago River.” That’s his first line, and that’s how close he and Mary Jo Field, the woman who took the photograph, live to what he described as the “storied river that was once a receptacle for garbage, toxins, and raw sewage — and maybe a few of Al Capone’s enemies.” That’s all in the past now, John says. “Today the river is almost as pristine as the baptismal font at Saint James Cathedral.”

John continues his piece by comparing living on the river to living in a vaudeville theatre. “The scene is constantly changing,” he writes, describing how he might see a Seagull flying low on a reconnaissance mission, then a resident Canadian geese squadron making its way along the western bank, and then a powerful barge navigating the turn by the Chicago Tribune plant. College rowing teams practice on the Chicago River, too. “In the late fall when it is still dark around seven o’clock in the morning, I sometimes catch a glimpse of eight men rowing in perfect unison so silently its almost eerie.”

Having set the scene, John then starts describing his photograph: three sculls idling on the water directly under the Grand Avenue Bridge while coaches in aluminum boats beside them shout instructions from bullhorns. “It takes enormous exertion to move these boats at top speed,” John writes. “The fact that the crews are at rest wearing their blue sweat suits with a white stripe suggests there is chill in the air.” He continues:

At this time of day, the river seems to have a silver hue from the reflecting sunlight of the late afternoon. You hear a clanking sound each time a car passes over the Grand Avenue Bridge, a classic built in 1913. It got a fresh coat of rustproof paint that is almost the color of burnt amber and glistens in the dying sunlight. The bridge spans the river, which is about a wedge shot from one side to other.

John’s research for the piece told him the Grand Avenue bridge is 270 feet long and is known as a bascule bridge. “I guess that means it opens by lifting both sections, something I have seen, but rarely.” He describes two quaint little clapboard houses painted in green trim at each end of the bridge and assumes they housed the bridge master. “A base of concrete and red brick supports the western end of the single span bridge,” he writes, taking note of a gray sedan, the only vehicle crossing the bridge when the photo was taken. “If you look closely you can see two white gates in the vertical position, signifying the bridge is open for business.”

And here’s the part of John’s essay that had me totally convinced no one seeing this photo would guess in a million years that it had been taken in Chicago. We’re known for crime, the lakefront and skyscrapers. Not riverfronts! “If you look through the bridge you can see redbrick townhouses, fronted by well-mowed green grass and a pedestrian walk where the local dog population enjoys a bit of fresh air, always on leach to comply with the covenants of condominium association.” Thanks to you, John. I can just picture this scene!