h o t o g r a p h y  &  R e f l e c t i o n

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One can be passionate about what one does. No need to ask why. Or what one does can indulge a simple pleasure. No need to ask why. I do ask. I worry about why I take photos, in the early hours of the morning at least, in the dead of night in my existential dreaming.

I  worry I take photos as compensation for some missing, unfulfilled desire. I worry I've spent all this excessive photographic time and money to mask some personal emptiness. Clicking the shutter is a cry for help, some redress for broken, frustrated dreams. I worry the dream of photography will dissipate in the mist. A misplaced notion.

For always, T.S. Eliot’s line in The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock has taunted me, for when the woman settling a pillow by her head says, ‘that is not what I meant at all, that is not it, at all,’ her voice implicates me, and I stand exposed to all the fabrications I had hoped would mean something,but I was wrong! The ones I trusted -parents, employer, teacher- really didn't care much about me. And why should they have?

My companions are Eliot and Beckett and the muse of my journals. Nothing is so beautiful as the last words in Beckett's Waiting for Godot, 'let's go,' followed by the stage direction, 'They do not move. Curtain.'

I awoke this morning from my dreaming with a hope in my heart. I had the idea that clicking the shutter represents an opportunity for me to start anew. In 1/250 of a second, I have another chance to make something of value for my life. I can take a picture and fall in love with it, and with the taking of the picture is the possibility that someone else will love it, too.

All other options are exhausted. The education, the theatre, the great quest i pursued, all dried up, wizened on the vine, but for my impressions and the spiritual journey I wouldn't trade the world for having been on. Time is short though. Not much of it left. The click of the shutter has possibility. It’s why I take pictures. Call it desperate. A last gasp to taste the fruit of life. Call it self-deception. Call it seduction. But for a split second there seems to be hope. I feel it. I breathe it. Just a click away. 

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