Taking chances, risking cringes and finding particularizing details in the world.
I took a photo a few weeks ago. It was a bit on the artsy side. An 11th century church tower huddled inside the mass of modern London skyscrapers that had been built around it.
Very deep…
Afterwards, I caught myself looking at that photo—a little bit too pleased with myself,
“what a metaphor.”
“It’s true what they say, a picture’s worth a thousand words—”
Indulging the illusion that this image captured on my 2017 iPhone X was anything close to original, wondering what I might do with it? Who I might show it to? Where might I put it?
Then I made the mistake of genuinely entertaining that thought—
Where might I put this photo?
Tumblr? I’m about fifteen years too late, but this was the perfect vibe for the broody teenage girl instinct I was tapping into.
Instagram? Jesus, and what’s the best I could hope for there? Eyerolls I’d deserve, “Look at Hamish’s latest phase", or worse: sickly sweet, contrived encouragement. “This photo is so sad.”
I got a little bit worried at this point. I lowered my phone and genuinely went through a twelve second crises.
Man, is this what I’ve devolved into? In my attempts to develop my writer's eye for observation, have I sipped too much of the cool-aid and tipped myself over the edge?
I was swallowing lumps and everything as I considered this.
In my attempts to push the limits, exit my comfort zone, had I somehow got myself to that oblivious place where you’re showcasing yourself in ways that can only draw out cringes and averted gazes. What would I say if I noticed one of my own friends posting something like that? “Is everything alright at home?” “Is there something you’d like to chat about?”
Then thank fuck, I hit the thirteenth second, came back down to earth.
I realized, I don’t have to post this photo anywhere.
Where does that worry instinct come from?
As I said, it was only a twelve second crisis. But it was a real twelve seconds.
Why?
Because I’m certain there there must be elements validity to m fears above present in what I’m doing here on this page. I’ve got no doubt some of the people who were initially impressed when I voiced this writing dream, now click on these posts with an element of sympathetic dread.
Is this one going to be weird? Am I going to get more over sharing?
(Trust me I feel the same thing after pressing publish on some of these)
That element is unavoidably built into most creative pursuits unfortunately. You’re putting something out there, saying, this is an example of me genuinely trying. I’m taking something seriously, hoping people will like it.
That in itself contains a modicum of cringe, even if the work is good. A great example of this is the following video of Thom Yorke of Radiohead fame playing an set.
Watch here.
Even though this man’s credentials speak for themselves. When he first begins to sing in that falsetto, I instinctually cringe. Even though it’s good. It takes a beat to recognize the song, settle in, and relax. “It’s all okay, he’s talented, this isn’t embarrassing.” All the same, there was a time when he didn’t have those credentials and still took that leap, not knowing whether it would be received in a positive way.
When you make the choice to put yourself out there like that, you’ve got no control over how it’s received. (and god forbid, they misinterpret what you were reaching for) Your torso is exposed and you’re going to take each punch to the ribs and belly completely unguarded.
But in the case of my delve into artsy photography, I like to think for the most part the higher judgement that noticed I was being self indulgent is the same higher judgement that will allow me to filter this type of shit out of my writing before I hit that publish button.
I like to think that the eye I’ve been attempting to develop is keeping me away from the cringy, weak swings at “depth” rather than pushing me into them.
After all, I didn’t start an Instagram, I’m never going to start an tumblr page because I know myself too well for that. My good judgement wouldn’t let me do that, because I know there’s no version of it which I could do authentically, or well for that matter.
But I will point out, my urge to take those photos wasn’t inauthentic.
What was it then?
It was a great example of how writing has changed the way I look at the world.
When you’re describing a scene, it’s not effective to list out all the objective features. That takes too long and doesn’t tend to land for a reader in a memorable way in any case.
Good writing identifies the one detail that allows the reader’s imagination to render the rest without the writer’s help.
“The back rounding in the wool cardigan, the fine bones of the fingers voicing through the papery skin.”
- Prophet Song, By Paul Lynch
In the above example, there’s no need to talk about the age of the person being described. There’s no need to describe a single wrinkle. You can see it through the above sentence which makes no mention of these things.
Because this principle is front of mind for me in my writing, when I’m walking around the world now, I’m unknowingly keeping an eye out for details of this kind.
A recent example of this occurred last week when a woman began spelling a word out to me over the phone. Because we both had different accents she was using the phonetic alphabet, “Alpha, Beta, Charlie” etc. But when she got to E, she used, “Elephant,” when she got to “B” she used “Bombay.”
Guess what country that woman was from?
On another phone call of this kind I had a man use, “Caffeine,” for the letter c. Immediately I knew, I was speaking to a kindred spirit.
Do you see how putting your finger on that simple use of language triggers the mind to render a big chunk of potential backstory without using any extra words?
This principle isn’t limited to language either. You can find it in images and actions that make a person betray their perspective on the world.
One which I’ll use in a story eventually, was of a fairly petite girl with a medium sized dog bundled in two arms as she rode up the escalator. Far too big a dog to be doing that on a regular basis.
In that brief moment, I knew she was either in a rush for some dog related crisis or she was a particular personality who was willing to endure quite pressing inconveniences, and no shortage of sideways glances for the sake of her animal.
Either way, it rendered a branch of possible storylines in an image that could be described in less than a few sentences.
”The escalator fed her upper body into my view, then the dog’s upper body. Two pointed ears, a tongue rolling from it’s mouth. Next her shaking arms betrayed her struggle to contain the weight of the German Shephard whose bared teeth showed the first signs of his own strain.
Or something like that.
So I haven’t regressed after all
Well, who knows? Maybe I have.
This is all just my rationalization. But it makes sense doesn’t it?
The impulse to take these photos is not an attempt to grandstand my budding photography career. It’s not me hitting broody teenage phase fifteen years too late. It’s a way of capturing those images that tell a tale bigger than the sum of their parts. The ones that are inherently captionable without any need for explanation.
Sometimes symbolic, sometimes just an apt placing of the finger to paint an outsized picture.
A once-white tote bag bearing the name of a luxury accommodation company, now bearing dirty stains from being dragged along to work every day. Betraying the distance between what is being sold and who is selling it.
The black butterfly that landed on me in the middle of a jiu jitsu competition, and the surrealism of noticing its presence and being focused on that rather than the man who was attempting to strangle me at the time.
See? It actually takes something away from the resonance when I go on to explain why it’s a loaded image. Better to just let the wider meanings speak for themselves.
The detail that convinces me I’m onto something here and not merely being preemptively defensive is the fact that these observations don’t just come in images. It’s scraps of dialogue, that get me rattling off a whole backstory for someone I’ve never met, a choice of words spoken by somehow who I can’t see, yet suddenly NEED to see just to place the source of that novel burst of conversation.
This is the writer’s mind at play, or I suppose at work.
Whether I’m talking about a good writer here remains to be seen, but I’m convinced this is what’s going on with me and my impulse photography.
Thank God. The alternative would be a little bit embarrassing to be honest. So maybe this is all just a rationalization.
In any case, here are a few of the photos from my collection for context, the rest will stay locked firmly in my personal photo album:
Ok now I’ll go back to words.