Michael Tsegaye:  Homegrown Photography

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Woman. Michael Tsegaye (c) 2008

I first met Michael Tsegaye at the Bulgarian Embassy in Addis Ababa. A photography exhibition was taking place, and I happened to be with a group of friends planning to check it out. We stood inside the embassy compound under a cold, grey sky, waiting for the doors to open. The turnout was decent; Mahmoud Ahmed and other famous personalities stood amongst groups of journalists and art enthusiasts, bundled in their leather jackets and scarves. A couple of speeches later, the ribbon was cut, and the doors to the exhibition hall swung open.

The photographs displayed were striking. One was a portrait of a young woman with long brown dreadlocks and piercing dark eyes. Others were of children, houses, mountain ranges and dilapidated buildings. Soon I found myself returning to a corner of the hall for one particular image: a large close-up of a carthorse; his eyes, nose, and lips prominently displayed in the foreground. The leather blinders around his ears had scraped off most of his skin, and flies buzzed around the exposed flesh. His eyes bulged in despair.

I stared at the image for a while. A tall man holding a bottle of beer and an exhibition program walked up and stood next to me.

“It’s a bit depressing, isn’t it?” I said, gesturing.

“Is it?”

“Well he’s bleeding isn’t he?”

The man sipped his beer, looked at me, and back at the horse. A silence settled between us that didn't break until I tried describing what I sensed in the horse’s eyes—a pained, sadly resigned weariness; two pools of muddy water on a bleak day. The man smiled in a private way. It wasn't until later I learned he was the photographer of that image, and inevitably spotted him around the jazz clubs in town. Our mutual one-line greeting became “So what about that horse?” Years passed before this evolved into what one could call conversation.

Recently I met Michael for an afternoon trip to Merkato. We walked through stalls of women making qocho, and the air throbbed with its pungent smell. A lively discussion ensued every time Michael asked to take a picture. Some women vehemently refused, accusing him of taking advantage. Others were ashamed. “This is no way to make a living,” they said, gesturing the mounds of qocho with their soiled hands. “Why do you want to show Ethiopia’s poverty to the world?” Still others were indignant at those refusing. “He’s one of us, an Ethiopian. It’s better he take our picture than a foreigner."

The women’s response to Michael betrayed a layer of sensitivity - Ethiopia’s representation on camera has long had an emotional past. In the 80’s, the images of famine that flooded the world media dealt a blow to the country's national psyche that has yet to heal. In the Diaspora, it’s hard to be rid of the idea that a good photograph is only one that celebrates Ethiopia’s historical legacy, primarily with images of castles and church ceremonies. Depictions of the day-to-day lives of every day people are largely off limits. Even painters are more comfortable producing works of abstract expression. "Appreciation for photography as a form of art has yet to develop in many ways,” Michael said. “Some photographers are doing good things, but overall we lack organization.”

Michael’s career in photography was unexpected: his first stab at higher education was an economics major at Addis Ababa University, which he abandoned during his third year. “It just didn’t make any sense,” he said. “I realized I was more interested in semetawi subjects—something that had to do with feelings.” He soon enrolled at a private art school. Eshetu Tiruneh, a master painter who studied in Russia, was one of his instructors before Michael gained admission to AAU’s highly competitive Fine Arts program. The studio hours were long; an average day’s work consisted of fourteen hours. It wasn’t unusual for art students to spend the night working on their projects. Michael soon developed health complications.

“I became allergic to paint fumes and stopped studying. It’s quite sad actually, but I managed to cope." Michael was at the university library one day when he came across a workshop taught by Ralph Becker, a German photographer. "I sat in on the lecture and pretended I was a student. Later, I introduced myself and started asking Ralph questions.” Under Becker’s tutelage, Michael developed a style of photography that’s become his own. “I have a painter’s background, which I use to look at my photos for good composition. I approach them more like paintings than photos.” He cites Rembrandt and Vermeer as primary influences, particularly for their use of light.

Michael currently works as a free-lance photographer, and exhibits his work frequently in Europe. Last year, he spent time teaching photography workshops through D.E.S.T.A. for Africa. Founded by fellow photographer Aida Muluneh, D.E.S.T.A. trains artists in Addis Ababa to produce their own photographic images while also teaching self-marketing techniques on how to present their works to an international audience. Since 2008, D.E.S.T.A. has trained thirteen students. Michael hopes for much more.

“It’s a wonderful feeling actually, to feel as if you’re contributing to something much larger than yourself. I really enjoyed learning from my students.”

There’s a moment where the chatter at the qocho section grows a bit overwhelming, and Michael and I duck out to the sun. It’s past noon and dust blows up the sidewalk as a small truck putts past. I blink to get my bearings. We were in the middle of the basket weavers section. A number of tents are scattered across a small clearing, rows of baskets lined in front of their entrances. Mike is already kneeling next to an old woman sitting in the middle of her arrangement. Dressed in pure white, she is ancient. A white netela wraps her hair, deeply etched lines and spots cover her bright skin. Shy as a little girl, she smiled when Michael asked for her picture. Graciously, she placed her hand on his wrist and blessed him. “Priceless,” I heard him mutter, as he snapped the picture. It was.