Monday, March 21, 2005
Self-portrait.
I have a largish collection of photos of myself that I've collected over the years. To arrange them in chronological order is to witness the evolution of a personality, a particular world-view, in very stark profile. I don't know what caused me to fire the shutter each time, but to look at them now I'd say it was something deeply subconscious.
Each image is quite distinct, and so intimately attached to place and time it's as if it were nailed to a wall. Most are dark, and brooding. I'm usually seated, or slumped, thoughtful; but with eyes open and piercing nevertheless. And as I think of them, I recall being lonely. Very, very lonely indeed.
I think now that I was grasping at something, catching myself in a box and making an attempt to objectify what was otherwise ruthlessly subjective. But each time, when I finally got a chance to view the images I had captured, I found myself looking irreversibly into the past, scratching my chin trying to imagine what the heck I had been thinking. In trying to record something about my experience, I had captured a reflection of the way things really were to get a grip on the landscape of my life. The great irony of the digital revolution, though, is that the delay inherent in film processing probably gave me more perspective than I could have otherwise hoped for. I wonder if, in a way, having to wait for my prints may have saved my life.
Today, I'm far-removed from those images, and I don't know that man any longer. But sometimes, when life imitates art, and the world outside begins to look like the picture inside the frame, I wonder what it would be like to set the self-timer and press the shutter, just for old times' sake.
I have a largish collection of photos of myself that I've collected over the years. To arrange them in chronological order is to witness the evolution of a personality, a particular world-view, in very stark profile. I don't know what caused me to fire the shutter each time, but to look at them now I'd say it was something deeply subconscious.
Each image is quite distinct, and so intimately attached to place and time it's as if it were nailed to a wall. Most are dark, and brooding. I'm usually seated, or slumped, thoughtful; but with eyes open and piercing nevertheless. And as I think of them, I recall being lonely. Very, very lonely indeed.
I think now that I was grasping at something, catching myself in a box and making an attempt to objectify what was otherwise ruthlessly subjective. But each time, when I finally got a chance to view the images I had captured, I found myself looking irreversibly into the past, scratching my chin trying to imagine what the heck I had been thinking. In trying to record something about my experience, I had captured a reflection of the way things really were to get a grip on the landscape of my life. The great irony of the digital revolution, though, is that the delay inherent in film processing probably gave me more perspective than I could have otherwise hoped for. I wonder if, in a way, having to wait for my prints may have saved my life.
Today, I'm far-removed from those images, and I don't know that man any longer. But sometimes, when life imitates art, and the world outside begins to look like the picture inside the frame, I wonder what it would be like to set the self-timer and press the shutter, just for old times' sake.