THE ARGENTINA SERIES
These photos were taken in Argentina 
in 1989 and 1990. 

Sixty days in Argentina

In 1989 and again in 1990, I spent a month in Argentina over the Christmas holidays. In the southern hemisphere, the seasons are reversed and so Christmas is actually in the summer. On Christmas Day, we all went to the beach.

I stayed with relatives of my then-boyfriend in Mar del Plata, a resort city of 3 million people, on the Atlantic about one hour’s flight south of Buenos Aires. Being with a family allowed me fast insight into the Argentine culture and psyche. The quintessential Argentine quality is melancholy which permeates people’s personalities, their attitudes, their behaviour, literature, music and dance—the tango.

One of my favourite shots in this series is the blind accordion player. I was focused on the accordion player when the two militia types walked into the frame from the left, their blur giving the shot some nice movement. The planets were aligned: I was at the right place, at the right time, and focused on the subject when something even more interesting happened. Sometimes, photographers get lucky.

Militia in Argentina are both feared and despised. Many are recruited from the northwest provinces where poverty is extreme and education non-existent. Militia are also reminders of Argentina’s Dirty War (1976-1982) where thousands of people disappeared (30,000 plus) and were never seen again.

Evidence now shows that many were drugged and thrown into the Atlantic from planes that left nightly around 11 p.m. and returned by midnight from their sorties of death. And many were tortured, raped or both beforehand.

Because of the heat in the height of summer, everyone goes home for lunch by 1 or 2 p.m. and re-emerges at 5 or 6 p.m. to have an ice cream, espresso, pastry, or tiny sandwiches at one of the many pedestrian malls. (Dinner in Argentina is typically around 11 p.m.) Strolling, to see or be seen, is largely a French and Spanish tradition. People dress up to stroll around. I shot the retired couple, walking arm in arm, at the Pietonal San Martin, a popular mall.

Differences in income levels are very pronounced. The quilt-like shot of the asbestos roof shingles and the bleached clapboard was actually someone’s home—no more than a shed—at the end of the street where we frequently visited my then-boyfriend’s aunt and uncle, a modest working class neighbourhood. Further down the same street, past some empty lots, was a dump where I took the shot of the burned-out bus.

Argentina being a Catholic country made the cemetery at Mar del Plata a great place to shoot. The wealthy have family crypts that look like charming little cottages. They are built one against the other so the effect is one of a city street in miniature. The shot of the crying angel leaning on the cross made me think of the song Don’t cry for me, Argentina.