You Have to Go Through the Snake

You Have to Go Through the Snake
A composite image pairs a three-frame sequence of a passerby playfully stepping through a chalk “snake” after accepting a joking challenge with a panoramic view of the artwork that became the centrepiece of an evening of conversation, photography and spontaneous participation at Stuart Park. (Randy Millis photo composite)

I wasn’t looking for a story.

I’d finished what I needed to do for the day. I was tired. I had a few hours before the last bus, and I really didn’t feel like going back to the shelter just yet.

Not because there’s anything wrong with the shelter.

Oddly enough, I’ve started to think of it as home, at least for now.

So I rolled down to Stuart Park with my camera and sat on a bench.

For a while I just watched people.

Then I noticed it.

Someone had gone to a surprising amount of work drawing a giant chalk snake across the promenade. It stretched far enough that people couldn’t help but notice it, yet almost everyone walked around it as though it wasn’t there.

I changed benches.

Instead of sitting beside the piano, I parked myself in front of the snake.

Because I have a habit of talking to complete strangers, I started making things up.

“You have to go through the snake.”

People looked at me.

“It’s a bylaw,” I said.

Some laughed.

Some asked if I was serious.

“If you’re eating ice cream, you get bonus points.”

“If you don’t want to go through the snake, you have to play the piano.”

One woman chose the piano.

Another family chose the snake.

Before long I wasn’t photographing a chalk drawing anymore.

I was photographing permission.

Children led their parents through the curves.

Adults who had probably intended to walk straight through the park suddenly found themselves weaving back and forth across yellow chalk because a complete stranger insisted it was the rules.

I became the unofficial snake marshal.

A young woman using a single underarm crutch walked by with a friend. I joked that she couldn’t just walk past the hopscotch.

She laughed.

Turned around.

And did it.

Nearby, children covered the pavement with chalk drawings while skateboarders floated through the air for split seconds at a time. A little girl sat down at the public piano. Later, another visitor did the same. An RCMP officer stopped to greet a little boy he was meeting for the first time. Hours later he recognized me, remembered my name, and smiled when I emailed him the photograph.

As the evening wound down I met a young woman carrying a Fuji camera.

She told me she was “just playing around.”

I laughed.

“No,” I said.

“You’re a photographer now.”

We talked about newspapers, editors and making pictures. I passed along a few names and encouraged her to keep shooting.

Then she asked to see what I’d been photographing.

I handed her my phone.

She slowly scrolled through the gallery I’d made in just a couple of hours.

The snake.

The skateboarder.

The piano.

The little boy.

The hopscotch.

The families.

She stopped.

“You shot all of these tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“On your phone?”

“Yeah.”

She looked back at the photographs.

It struck me that nobody had come to Stuart Park looking for a story.

Not me.

Not the people who drew the snake.

Not the families who wandered through it.

But for a couple of hours, a piece of chalk on the sidewalk invited complete strangers to laugh, play, talk to each other and become part of one another’s evening.

I never learned who drew the snake.

I hope they know it worked.

Because by the end of the night, dozens of people had gone through it.

And almost every one of them left smiling.

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