Friday, September 18, 2015
I blew everything off last night--gym, birthday party, a walk, whatever--and came home in a dead tired funk. No one was around. I opened up some files I have never looked at from my trip to New Mexico, the color ones I took with my Canon. I just lazed through them with a drink. They were someone else's pictures to me. Was I there? Was there a time when I could just walk around with a camera and take photographs? I seemed to remember that it was going to be the start of something. What? I can't remember. There is nothing to remember but work now, work to remember, work to look forward to. Not just work, but the stress of work.
Later I lay in bed and read. I have a subscription to Vanity Fair. I haven't read one this year, I think. I opened the latest edition and flipped the iPad pages. Looking at the ads, I wondered why the photographer hadn't asked the model to move her hand up her head a bit or hadn't asked her to move her elbow forward two inches. That is all the photographer has to do. S/he doesn't style the shoot, doesn't command the concept, doesn't pick the model. S/he poses the model, frames, places the lights. Give me that job, I thought, if you want some kick ass images.
Or. . . I can give you these odd snaps of daily life, those moments when people become figures, stand-ins, cultural suggestions.
Or. . . I can give you nothing which seems to be a my modus operandi of late. Or maybe just my M.O. Period.
I want my next series to be called "Charlotte's Mother." Let me know if you think it a good one.