I made a conscious effort lately to pull out the camera and take photos of life. Not posed images but the images where the Doritos are still in a packet on the kitchen table and the kids faces are illuminated by their phones. The images where we are in the car or there is a smudge of dirt on a five year olds cheek. The ones where I set the timer and hop back into place and find out later the focus totally missed the mark and the table I leaned it on is in focus and we are but a kaleidoscope of colours. We could be anyone.
Wrinkles. Blemishes. Hair messed up. Sweatpants.
I’ve fallen in love with these images. Their imperfections and the impermanent of it. Just a second in time, gone. I feel like a journalist, like a historian. Every time I press the shutter I think – this will mean something some day. These will be the images that hold my attention. There is no bullshit here, no trappings.
When I use to shoot, clients would often say, “We like unposed photos.” And I would have to explain to them that EVERY image in my portfolio was posed. Every single one. The ones that looked candid were really just disguised poses.
“Hold on to Daddy’s leg so he doesn’t run away.”
“Can you kiss Mummy on the cheek?”
“Pretend you like each other.”
Click. Click. Click.
A friend once sent me a text from nowhere last year when I was in the depths of depression and asked how I was. We hadn’t talked in over 12 months but she use to be one of my best friends and had been my confidante for years. Then life got in the way and we drifted apart and I felt like a shitty friend and the more time that went by the more I felt embarrassed about reconnecting with her. I don’t know how she knew to reach out to me then. I cried when I got her message which was simply little more than, “I’m thinking of you.” I apologised for being a crappy friend and she told me there was nothing to be sorry for – which of course made me cry more. I lay my sorrows at her feet and told her I couldn’t stop crying, I cried all day for weeks at just about everything and she said to me, “Life is awkward and precious.”
I loved that so much I wrote it down and went back to it every now and then. Because it is awkward. The mess, the reality, the indignities. The laughs where you snort during them. The tears that smear your eye makeup. The sweat. The blood. The sex. The love.
And, my god. It is precious.