Photography is about more than just capturing a bit of light in a box. Depending on your perspective, the quest might be to frame the darkness–capture IT instead.
My camera, a mere tool. My eyes, a window to the real innards directing the tool. The filter is a mood, my circumstance: a long winter of bienge-watching zombie dramas and sipping whisky to numb the numbing bordem of small town life.
But in the big city, it’s four-hours of go-nowhere-traffic because a man attempted suicide on the Grapevine, jumping off an overpass. My dog needed to pee. Grass at a premium. Litter, ass-traffic, engulfed by endless squares of stained concrete the only option.
There’s a dread I feel whenever I’m in a city large enough to have multiple Wal-Marts. Where used needles and cigarette butts lay as common textures along the path. Vexing for my young dog, should she get too close with a curious sniff. It’s an environment unfit for her … I can’t wait to return to the tundra, something that bites her paws less.
But until then, I’m walking my dog down streets I’d never been on before, turning corners without a plan; just a point-and-shoot in one hand, and a poop-bag in the other.
I feel no safety in numbers. I’m the outsider. I’m the one the mugger wants. I’m the one the taxi’s about to hit in the crosswalk, as the Yellow winks into Red.
I imagined a world where humans were no-longer in the picture so much. I envisioned what Norman Rockwell might do, sitting on the corner, sipping iodine and painting everyday life on these streets all around me, the day after D-Day.