I’ve always been the choosy photographer. What I lack in volume I try to make up for in quality. The probability of the perfect shot does not increase with every frantic click, driven by this self-aggrandizing desire to document life. To the layman, photos of their life milestones are precious in themselves, as a reminder of what transpired; artistry is not even a driving consideration. Some might deign to capture artistry, but fail at it in varying degrees. I do not look at them with overwhelming snootiness, but with a frank recognition that their priorities with photography do not square with mine: both parties are perfectly happy with their own pursuits, as it should be.
I am looking for something else, however. That elusive quality that provokes a kindred soul into introspection. A photo that tells a story. And looks smashing whilst doing so.
But maybe I should start by picking up the camera and trying to see beauty in the ordinary. Age has jaded me, and my eye has become gilded and rigid. Each photo should be a tabula rasa, the photographer as child effusive with wonder, unfettered by poisonous preconceptions, the constructs of regimented thinking not yet forcing his explanations to take the trodden path.
Perhaps I should sleep. Early day tomorrow, carefree bonding with relatively normal college friends. You might think that a perverse creature like me would chafe against having to endure such well-meaning but predictable people; on the contrary, they keep me grounded with their comforting normalcy. This reasoning extends to friendships and family bonds that I’ve formed throughout the years. They might not provide the complexity and intensity of communing with the rare, fiery few who share my thoughts and singular behaviors, but they remind me to act human and lighten up. To find joy in simple things. To be comfortable in my own skin. To understand the pleasures of a bewildered but determinedly caring support group… Yes, to find beauty in the ordinary.