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Description
By now, this photo is quite old. During my small travels around Warsaw, I stumbled on a row of old dilapitated shops, most of them still open. I decided to go in one of them, take some quick photos and run away. I took me a while longer than I expected.
This man is a watchmaker. He runs a remedial/shop in a small Polish town. He inherited it after his father, who took it over after his father. It's a family business for generations. The room is decorated by guild certificates century old. By the door, a shop sign pierced by WWII German bullets.
Yet now the walls are covered by paint-splattered ladders and the details of the room can hardly be seen.
The watchmaker fixes ladders to make a living. In the era of one-time made-in-china plastic watches, he no longer can survive in his proffesion. He was never learned to do any other thing, never expecting time leaves him behind and never looks back. The family tradition is destined to die, fading into oblivion.
He agreed to make him a photo. He lit a light on the desk covered great quantity of exotic tools that will never be necessary to use again, next to rows of shelves filled with parts that will never fit any modern watch, sat down, and picked up an old time-teller. He kept looking at it, frozen, until I said the photo's done.
After a while, he put it away.

Description
By now, this photo is quite old. During my small travels around Warsaw, I stumbled on a row of old dilapitated shops, most of them still open. I decided to go in one of them, take some quick photos and run away. I took me a while longer than I expected.
This man is a watchmaker. He runs a remedial/shop in a small Polish town. He inherited it after his father, who took it over after his father. It's a family business for generations. The room is decorated by guild certificates century old. By the door, a shop sign pierced by WWII German bullets.
Yet now the walls are covered by paint-splattered ladders and the details of the room can hardly be seen.
The watchmaker fixes ladders to make a living. In the era of one-time made-in-china plastic watches, he no longer can survive in his proffesion. He was never learned to do any other thing, never expecting time leaves him behind and never looks back. The family tradition is destined to die, fading into oblivion.
He agreed to make him a photo. He lit a light on the desk covered great quantity of exotic tools that will never be necessary to use again, next to rows of shelves filled with parts that will never fit any modern watch, sat down, and picked up an old time-teller. He kept looking at it, frozen, until I said the photo's done.
After a while, he put it away.