Departure

ŽELJKO SINOBAD (1962–2021): STORIES IN PICTURES
Mr. Photographer
Descendant of those from Sinobad Glavica in Knin, from the old Krajina sort, yet born in Belgrade, he did not become famous by taking pictures of celebrities. His focus was always on ordinary people, with their pain, suffering, fears or hopes, sometimes joys. Seven days before his departure, he posted his self-portrait from the hospital on social networks, looking worn out and exhausted. Someone asked: why? He laughed and said he wants to save his friends from asking the meaningless question: how are you? It was his last picture and his last laugh

By: Miloš Lazić

When he irreversibly left on Sunday, October 3, even his lame friends realized why newspaper photographers do not have their own pictures... except those for personal documents. Fate has intended for them to spend their life on the wrong side of the lens. Only a few appear, made when a colleague was “sharpening his shutter” and unknowingly saved it in his documentation. Thus, about a dozen were collected during the sad days, for obituaries and necrologies, or newspaper stories.
Only a few people knew that he inherited the coat of arms and Venetian title of the knight of the Order of St. Mark from his distant ancestor Jovan Sinobad. He, personally, was more comfortable with the Knight of Photography title, given to him by his colleagues in 1981, when his first professional photo appeared in a certain newspaper. He actually became the laureate of the just established Diploma for Photography of “Politika”. He was not even nineteen at the time.
So he continued, always led by the motto that a genuine photo can replace a thousand words. Anyone who has ever visited at least one of his exhibitions, and there have been many both in the country and abroad, or seen at least one of his works, could notice it.
He did not become famous by taking pictures of celebrities. On the contrary, his focus was always on ordinary people, with their pain, troubles, fears or hopes, sometime joys.
He rarely recorded “still nature”, or was it his ability to bring it to life? Once, a long time ago, in Macedonia, while illustrating a report about the last family working with Ohrid pearls, he stayed by the lake shore a day longer, constantly gazing at an olive tree, more than a thousand years old according to a legend. He explained the insane “idleness” in simple words, that it took him that long to estimate the right moment for a good photo. Therefore, justified. He surely extended the life of that olive tree – if not on the Ohrid lake shore then in some collection or catalogue?
In order to get a good photo, he put his head where others wouldn’t even put their leg. Scenes of wars, which he saw plenty, both here and around the world, speak about it. Those were photos which, despite evil, brought hope. That was why he was respected on both sides of the front.
His revelation of hidden beauty appeared in this magazine as a broach on the lapel of warm reports about Serbia. He traveled the world and our former joint state, but Knin, where his roots were, Belgrade, where he was born, and Serbia as his mother, have always been in his heart.
He took the last photo of himself, a so-called “selfie”, when he was admitted to Zemun Hospital a week before he would leave us, and posted it on a social network. He was exhausted and worn out, unrecognizable. When asked why he doesn’t let his friends remember him in a better edition, he laughingly said that he just wanted to spare them from the meaningless question – how are you?
Those were his last photo and his last laugh.
He was an extraordinary photographer and an even better man. We are thankful to him for all the time he spent with us.
By the way, the more beautiful part of this story can be read from photos made by him. Mr. Photographer.

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OBJECTIVEly
When speaking of an objective and good man, it is easy to be objective in the objective lens of his personal and professional opus.
Željko Sinobad, grandmaster of photography, through whose lens many important people have passed and the most dramatic events recorded, with his works today, before the Lord, illustrates his soul representing it in the mirror of eternal life.
Željko was an elegant man of Dinara and aristocratic Belgradian.
Extraordinary photo-reporter, crowned with the most prestigious awards, respected in all circles, was an introvert and unobtrusive charmer. Sitting in a corner of a hotel, he would sip his drink with a cigarette, leisurely watching guests and making portraits of them in his head at a cocktail held to honor some important work, which would later turn out to be completed only after passing through Željko’s lens.
Many things were more beautiful in Željko’s photos than in reality. My portrait proves it.
I met Željko already in 1988 in the Bermuda Triangle. We could never remember which of the three cult places of the Bermuda Triangle we first went for a drink to.
Young, handsome, with a bit elongated typically Dinarian face, born Belgradian, dressed in white pants with hemp espadrilles, a beige shirt made of thin cotton with a brown reporter vest over it.
Women were flying around him, but, as he once told me, he often missed.
Many have used his innocence mixed with a high percentage of naiveness, but he never cared. When he suffered, he did it quietly, when he was happy, he was happy without noise – quietly.
Željko Sinobad was valuable in every aspect, privately – a friend, in business – a supreme associate.
Kingdom of heaven, dear friend!!!

Mišo Vujović

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One of Us
All the magic of this damn work of “creating newspapers” remained written on his skin, as if on a parchment. All the passion and madness, all the faith and disappointments, tricking life and endless dedication, childlike chastity and bohemian dissoluteness, unconditional uprightness on the outside and great internal vulnerability.
Željko Sinobad, our brother, did not work for the newspaper, he lived it. He did not simply take photos, he was hunting the sparkling of genuine life, unfeigned and raw, without sugaring, all its faces. He was taking from the bottom of the vat, from the center of the margin. It was not a craft, it was a philosophy. While documenting such life, he collected his own evidence that God exists. By denying calculations, he showed us that poetics is a way of surviving. He was also, always with a smile, feeding the dear beast called newspaper with his blood. When it was beautiful and full, he was fulfilled and calm, believing he was investing into something greater than himself. And tomorrow? Tomorrow is a new edition, and the beast is hungry again.
Due to all that, just like all those from the old school who remained, Željko Sinobad had the misfortune to watch evil sorcerers ruin newspapers, kafanas and readers. The crisis of meaning turned into the meaninglessness of crisis. His smile was retreating, sorrow was inhabiting his face. Deep, heavenly sorrow. Things around us were impossible to watch anymore. He did not spend life greedily, he calmly let life consume him.
Just to be clear: it is not just the lens. He took away our entire world in his blue eyes.
Luckily, it will be known “that he was here and passed”. There is no death anyway, just migrations. We’ll meet again, maestro.

Branislav Matić