I went with a specific, if silly, mission. In 2004, I took a handful of street portraits in Marrakech. More than 20 years later, I had a stack of prints in my bag, hoping to find any of those subjects, and maybe photograph them again.
I thought the most likely person to be found was the boy in Souk Haddadine, the metalworking area, who I shot in his ripped t-shirt and sandals, hacksaw in hand, amidst the dust and cacophony. I figured he was the youngest of the dozen people I captured in Marrakech, and more likely to be working, to be around, or even to be alive.
I started by showing the photo to a few people selling metal pendant lamps. “Do you know him? It was 20 years ago.” There was squinting. Crumpled faces. They excitedly waved over some friends to look. But no luck. They didn’t know him. I moved on and asked again. More squinting. More consultations. Turning the photo sideways. Contemplative rubbing of beards. They suggested I ask at a certain location, around the corner and up ahead, querying people who’d been around the souk forever.
I walked into an area thick with dust and the distinct smell of cut metal. A man with an angle grinder was working away at a table. Beside him on the ground, another man pounded away at small swirls of metal. A cat wandered through. More hammers rang out in the distance. I asked again.
They knew him.
Still alive, still working in Souk Haddadine. But he was away, set to return Monday. I was leaving Sunday.
They took the print with the promise to share it with him, and went back to their grinding and hammering. I took this photo of them with the promise to return sooner than 20 more years.
