Wonderful little moments like these always make me wish for a handy camera, even though it would be downright unsafe to stop in half the locations where I see these things. Maybe this is life’s way of urging me to put down the fucking camera already and just savor certain moments as they come.
The truth is that I’ve become far too dependent on my lens in recent years, to the point where anxious dreams about my camera failing have usurped my previous recurring nightmares (the oh-my-god-it’s-time-for-finals-and-I-haven’t-been-to-class-all-semester dreams, the my-legs-are-like-lead-weights-and-I-can-barely-move dreams, the Holocaustesque I-am-being-hunted-and-I-must-flee-and-hide-hide-hide dreams). Over and over I dream that a perfect photo opportunity arises, but when I push the shutter, nothing happens.
It seems like, on some level, I’m afraid certain moments will be lost if I don’t mechanically record them, as if I don’t trust my memory to do the job. Or maybe I’m just eager to share the things I see, especially when they erupt from nowhere in the middle of a painfully mediocre landscape. My instinct is to photograph it and then rush the photos to Flickr and Facebook so I can scream, “Look at this! Can you believe this happened??” Case in point: a few months ago, as I drove home from work after a storm, the evening light suddenly exploded. The setting sun illuminated the cloud cover from behind and the entire sky became a brilliant shade of yellow, like melted butter. And the light saturated everything, made every tree and building become luminous with this unnatural, enchanted light. One part of me cracked the whip and hissed, “Step on the gas! You’ve got to get home and photograph this before it’s gone!” Another part of me trilled, “There’s no way you’ll get home in time, so just enjoy it while you can!” I tried, and I guess I succeeded, but it didn’t stop me from racing home at top speed, tearing into my condo like a proverbial bat out of hell, ripping my camera off its hook, and skidding out onto my balcony. And, no surprises here, the light was gone. Just the barest traces remained; the magic had already exited stage left, leaving nothing but the dark stage curtain dropping heavily into place.
Regardless of its subconscious underpinnings, I think the realization that I’m too dependent on my camera first surfaced in 2003 at the Edinburgh Military Tattoo in Scotland. It was a perfect August night and the whole thing—from the music and performances themselves to the dazzlingly lit castle—knocked my socks off. About halfway through the show I noticed that I was so busy juggling my camera and my camcorder and trying to capture everything on film, I wasn’t actually paying much attention to the event itself. I certainly wasn’t savoring it and letting myself live in the moment. I try to be a bit more mindful of unique experiences now, especially while traveling. During my ’05 trip I forced myself to put down the camera every once in a while and think, “Holy shit! I’m in Russia! I’m actually in fucking RUSSIA!!!!!” I’d let the realization wash over me for a bit and then I’d go back to snapping photos every three seconds. I think I need to do this more often (the mindfulness, not the manic snapping).
The photography piggery is really a double-edged sword, because although it’s pulling me out of the moment and forcing me to fixate on snagging the perfect shot, it’s also conversely forcing me to notice things more carefully. I can be a bit of a space cadet, dwelling in the haze of my own little world, and reaching this point where I view everything as a potential photo opportunity has caused me to notice minutiae that always escaped my attention in the past. For example, the intricate designs that can be found within a single icicle or the fluttering light I see when sunlight hits the rain-filled rumble strips on the sides of highways.
song heard most recently before posting:
The Snows—Maighread Ni Dhomhnaill
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