Yndi Asp’s Little Finger

Photography has become an essential part of my life. I study it constantly because knowing how to use a camera is the bare minimum a photographer should be able to do. Eventually, though, technique has to become second nature. I need to be free of it, mentally, so I can give my full attention to what is happening in front of me. That is when I can truly experience the moment.

When I’m photographing, I take in far more than I can consciously register. My attention is occupied by the present; countless other details are absorbed without my noticing. They surface later, when I look through the pictures again. I often wait a few days before doing that. By then, I’m not just looking at photographs. I’m back in the heat, the noise, the rush of movement, and the emotions I felt when I took them.

That’s how I found myself looking at Yndi Asp again. I had followed her as she made her way across the skatepark. A few days later, while zooming in on one of the shots, I spotted something I hadn’t noticed at the time: a piece of medical tape on her pinky.

It made me smile. I tried to picture myself attempting a jump from four or five meters above the ground. I’m pretty sure I’d have a lot more to worry about than a sore little finger.

I wondered how she had hurt it, but soon realized that the answer didn’t matter much. The tape had already told me something more interesting. Here was Yndi, representing Brazil among the world’s top female skateboarders, with a small, ordinary reminder of the physical knocks that anyone can take. It didn’t make her any less remarkable. Quite the opposite: it brought her extraordinary courage back to the scale of an everyday human experience.

What stayed with me wasn’t the trick. It was that little piece of tape, a humble detail that could have belonged to anyone, even an Olympic athlete. I hadn’t known that about her.