eternal ephemeral
I've been thinking lately about returning to photography.
My relationship to the medium reflects a lot of other aspects of me. I like being behind the camera, not in front of it. I resented being photographed and was repulsed by existing in photos. But I like photos as communication, as ways of saying "here, let me show you this cool thing or place I saw." I wasn't really a photos-as-memory person until I met my partner (and, honestly, until I stopped measuring my life in years rather than decades) and could understand the value of saving these moments for later.
I did and do photography only as a hobbyist; I would take photos when I went out for walks. I did study it for a brief time in university and I used one of my own photos as the cover for the book our group published, but--other than the brief time when I thought I might try freelancing--I've never really wanted to monetize it. (I'm kind of allergic to people giving me money for things outside of my "official" job, turns out.) I feel even more strongly about that now: it's a hobby. It's a way for me to be more present in the world, to actually engage with it.
This is relevant to haiku as well. Reading BashĹŤ's work recently was a revelation in what poetry can do. But it was also a reminder that, despite our attempts to capture a moment in a photograph or on a page, there will always be an uncrossable gap. The photo cannot perfectly recreate what our specific eyes see, because no one has our eyes. The poem cannot perfectly recreate a scene, a moment, an image in words, because the image the poet once saw cannot be perfectly conjured in our minds. There is even a gap within ourselves, a gap between the precise moment of capture, our memory of it, and the object--the photograph, the poem--that is the result. We are all grasping to bridge the unbridgeable.
But I also don't think it particularly matters. It cannot be perfect, because perfect is not attainable. And that gap is actually where the interest lies. Where conversations can happen. Where change can happen.
All this to say, I'm thinking of picking it up again. As usual, I like to put the cart before the horse; I say "I cannot do this hobby unless I have X, Y, and Z" and then waffle for ages before giving up. Somewhere (can't remember where) I talked about the idea of doing things with a sense of childishness, of just doing the thing and damn the official processes, the equipment, the rules, all of that. I do that with haiku, though I will admit I'm trying to read more now, to better understand what makes the form great. But I actually wrote a bunch of haiku first. Some of them are probably good! I have no idea! But I enjoyed it!
This is the attitude I want to have with photography too. I don't need to buy a fancy camera. I don't need to (re)learn the rules of composition and all that. Not yet, anyhow. That can come later. Right now, I have a phone with a camera function on me at all times. I have exactly what I need.
Little moments—a foggy morning, a bird on a branch, a sunset—have become just as important for me to save as the "big" moments. (I am always that guy at a restaurant taking a photo of my food when it's an event like a birthday or anniversary.) They help me to bridge the gap between what I've photographed and what I can—or often cannot—remember about the day or event in question. They help me start up a conversation with someone else present at the same event, who may have different memories than me.
They let me be present in the world, and with other people. They let me hold onto a fading past. They remind me that I exist, that I am alive, that I saw these people, places, and things and took a moment to capture them.