I’m heading, I think, for a fall. Lately I’ve renewed my love of photography, and have come to discover that I have something of a passion for it. This revelation, it should be noted, comes with not a little bit of trepidation; less of the “…what now?” variety and more and more of the “…oh boy, what next?” kind. Notions like this are no surprise to those easily distracted by nostalgia, or the individual that faces any house- and closet-cleaning task with the dread of intense reminiscence; this weakness - for that’s what it is - makes any flippant perusal of a photo album as delicate an operation as the threading of a mine-field whilst wearing a blindfold.
Now that I’ve thoroughly throttled those metaphors, I should narrow my eyes and lower my gaze, so that you should know that I’m merely serious. Peering at you from under my substantial brow, then, I’ll point out that every time I root through my collection of 35mm negatives - which is of a fairly considerable size, for a rank amateur - it’s an abrupt stutter-step motion, figuratively speaking, that carries me along. Attempting to harvest the best negs for printing, for an abortive attempt at assembling a portfolio, I read each print not so much for emotion and composition as history itself, as each was created by me in a particular moment, still distinct and sharp, despite the time come between, against the background of my life’s context. It’s almost as if I could remember every time I fired the shutter as individual, independent decisions to alter my very course. Surely, though, the effects of those instants would not be felt for many days, but finally yet once I look into the image. Only then, after feeling the whiplash that can come from craning one’s neck about while careening upon the rails of time, can I close my binders and boxes, exhausted. Perhaps I’ve finally carved the relief of my undoing, etching the story of my plodding destiny onto film. That’s probably fitting.
And so I can only ask, “…oh, boy, what next?”
Posted by j
