A madness descended upon me. Those hours I was not at my desk surrounded by scattered books and papers, by saucers overflowing with ash and cigarette butts, I was wandering the streets of Vilnius with my camera. The women I photographed were mothers with small children.
At first I took the shots surreptitiously. Sitting on a bench in the park, my camera at the ready, set for the right distance and the right light, I waited. Hidden behind my copy of the Lithuanian Morning, I pretended to be engrossed in the innumerable political scandals which in truth depress me heartily, and which I avoid. On most other benches were pensioners like myself, some talking earnestly, others gazing away blankly, across the grass, lost in their memories. By mid-morning the mothers would come, drawn out by the warmth of the sun. Unobtrusively I would pick up my camera, take the picture, and disappear once more behind the newspaper.
Later I grew more courageous. I approached the women to ask if they minded me taking the photo. The fact that I insisted they had the baby with them, preferably in their arms, relaxed them. After the first few attempts I invented a story. I was a newspaper photographer taking shots of citizens relaxing in the park. I did not have to go into details; it was enough to call myself a reporter.
There were times of course when it was hard for me to tell whether the young woman was the mother or a nanny, but this was important to me. I took time to engage her in conversation, ask about the child. It was important that she should be the mother; the picture would lose its authenticity if she were not.
After I had taken on the role of photojournalist the whole thing seemed less mad, less questionable. I began to defend it aesthetically. In fact, as I continued, I took more time posing the shots. It was only those first photographs that were rushed and blurred. Later they were of a good quality. Often I shot in black and white, but I also experimented with colour. The women were happy to pose on park benches or standing beneath the emerald canopy of old trees.
One Friday evening I hurried to the library and took out a lavishly illustrated text on the development of Western art. Late into the night, I pored over the pictures in the dim light of the apartment. Centred in Daddi’s Triptych of 1348 is a rosy cheeked, fair-haired Madonna. The infant God nestles in the crook of her left arm. It is a painting of wonderful warmth and tenderness. It is not the shining gilt that draws the eye. Neither is it the image of Christ glorified, or Christ hanging grey from the cross, scarlet blood spurting from the wound, spraying his disciples. The dying Christ is pushed to the side. In the centre of this image, under the dark sky glittering with golden stars, before the beautifully worked red and yellow backdrop, is the simple picture of a woman looking down with gentle indulgence at the child nestled in her arms. While she cradles with her left arm, her right hand lifts and gently strokes the baby’s chest. And he, the young child, looks up with equal adoration at his mother. He lifts, too, his right hand, as if to caress the cheek of his mother. The apostles linger at the feet of the mother. Here, one says, looking straight out of the frame at us. Here, this is what you have to look at, this is what is important. Yes, this is to be the object of our worship, the mother and the child.