Photography | Mahmoud Dabdoub: Colors are for everyone

Given the title of your current exhibition, an obvious question arises: Do you see yourself as an artist – or rather as a documentarist?

When you emphatically claim to be an artist, it quickly sounds a bit arrogant. I've never called myself an artist. Nevertheless, I try to make my pictures not only emotional, but also artistic. After all, I was once an art school student. But later, I also worked as a press photographer for various newspapers. So I guess I fall somewhere in between.

The oldest photos in your exhibition are from Lebanon in the early 1980s. How did you get into photography there?

At first, I painted and drew. The equipment needed for that was significantly cheaper than photography. But it did train my eye for images. Life in the refugee camp was absolutely bleak. I then began to paint beautiful, colorful pictures that I hadn't seen in reality. At the time, I thought they only existed in wealthy areas.

And then?

Later, I worked for a photographer during the summer holidays. I was so interested in what he did that one day I asked him if he could lend me his camera. That was my first experience as a photographer. Shortly after, I went to West Germany as a laborer. With the money I earned there, I bought my first camera.

You only stayed in West Germany for a short time – after just nine months you had to return to Lebanon.

Exactly. That's where I started working for the Palestinian Artists' Association in Beirut. During that time, I was able to do a lot of photography and collaborate with many important artists, such as the painter Ismail Shammout, who was then Secretary General of the Artists' Association, and his wife Al Akhal Shammout, both of whom supported me greatly. That was something special for me: When you go to a museum and look at paintings by Dürer or Picasso, you always maintain a certain distance from the object. It was different in the context of my work at the Artists' Association, because there I talked and interacted with the artists—and I packaged and carried their works.

In 1981, you finally received a scholarship to the Academy of Visual Arts (HGB) in Leipzig, where you were able to begin your photography studies. How did that come about?

At that time, the Palestinian Artists' Association had good relations with the GDR Artists' Association, which can certainly be understood as part of their solidarity with the Palestinian people. This was expressed less in a military sense than in a spiritual sense. As a result, four to five university places were awarded to Palestinian refugees each year. Shammout asked me, "Son, do you want to go to university?" Of course I did. It may have even saved my life: just one year later, in 1982, there was a massacre in the two refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila (perpetrated by Maronite Catholic militiamen; author's note). I had previously lived in the latter.

Was it a conscious decision to go to the GDR at that time?

No. I would have loved to go to West Germany just as much. But there were no scholarships for people like me back then.

How did you experience the country back then?

Above all, I was grateful. I didn't come here to complain. I considered myself a guest. In Lebanon, I learned that as a guest, you have to respect your right to be treated as a guest. That was important to me. Today's view of the GDR, which is strongly characterized by aspects such as a shortage economy, decaying architecture, or a lack of democracy, played no role for me back then. I didn't come to condemn, but to study and then return to my homeland. It was a very educational time for me.

In what way?

When I was in Beirut, I didn't know any Western photographers. At the HGB, I got to know various schools and their most important representatives. I was particularly fascinated by the work of Henri Cartier-Bresson...

… a French photographer and key pioneer of street photography.

Exactly. I love his photographs; their humanistic impetus is hard to miss when looking at them. He succeeded in capturing quirky and offbeat moments, thus expressing humanity not in a didactic but in an at times humorous way. This had a profound influence on me and my later work.

Like Cartier-Bresson, your photography mostly focuses on ordinary people. Where does your interest in them come from?

From humanity. I often photographed children, in particular. I was fascinated by their carefree attitude. They don't think: What a terrible environment we live in! They sit in the dirt, in the garbage, and laugh. These moments of joy infected me. Even though, or perhaps because, it was so depressing for us adults.

" I photographed with my heart," you once said. What do you mean by that?

By that, I mean feeling what I'm photographing. Many of my early photos from Lebanon are over- or underexposed. But the technique was never the focus of my work. I walked through the alleys where old people sat and children played, letting myself drift and snapping away. What was important to me was respect for the people I was photographing.

As a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon, you were part of a social minority, just as you were later as a migrant in the GDR. To what extent is this experience of alienation reflected in your photographic work?

Both have had a profound impact on me, especially my experiences in Lebanon. I wanted to document the situation there, the people and their dignity, and at the same time show the Western world that this is not a good way of life. The experience of being a stranger helps us engage and show solidarity. And also helps us change our perspective.

Many of your photographs appear to be meticulously detailed, yet also reflect a high degree of spontaneity. How do you maintain this balance?

I rely on what I find. I don't give any signals, but wait for the right moment and then press the shutter. Staging occurs at most in the sense of choosing a specific frame and deciding whether or not to include subjects in the photo.

How has the transition from analogue to digital photography changed your photographic practice?

At first, I was reluctant to switch to digital photography. Eventually, a client told me they would only accept files. My photographic practice has remained more or less the same. Only the tools have changed. And it's much more convenient today: I used to have to carry my own suitcase full of new film when I traveled. Today, a small chip is enough. And I no longer have to choose between black-and-white and color photography; I can retrospectively adapt images to suit my current preferences.

You once said that you don't consider your work political. Are you so sure about that? Isn't the decision for or against a photographic object already a political decision?

What I mean by this is, above all, that I don't act as a politician or activist. As an artist, you are, of course, always part of a political context, and that always influences your art in one way or another. But I'm more concerned with bringing the reality of the streets to the public and thus showing what is real. I have no influence on the political conclusions others draw from this.

Does that mean that they do not pursue an activist but an enlightening aim?

Exactly. I want to keep the consciences of the people who see my photos alive.

Mahmoud Dabdoub “The Street is My Studio,” Contemporary History Forum Leipzig, until June 22.