The memory of last night's final drink is a grim reminder of a break in my dietary routine. My tongue washes over its property of teeth and gums. I drag a hand over my hair and face, absorbing the light through cracks in my makeshift bedroom curtains. Beams of soft light break through black; dust scurries within. The morning greets me with a confusing batch of acid or anxiety. Hunger brings me from bed, to jeans, to kitchen. I let out a small breath, looking through my kitchen window.
I can see the start of rain. My mind races from wedding photography, to an improv comedy performance, to an afternoon filled with crafting a story in photos. It disappears in the sizzle of eggs and Canadian bacon on my stove. August marks the 2nd anniversary of my first portrait. Other thoughts roll through: Denver's fashion industry, Suicide Girls, portraiture, and it all culminates to remind me of my ever-expanding portfolio. Some days I feel lost in it all.
Photographers brandish their model of the day on my Facebook news feed. Back-lit beauties, happy couples, charming children. I toss my two-cents into the mix, mostly praise for those around me. One interesting link finds its way into my lap, proposing the question to photographers: "Is photography increasing your quality of life?" I ponder this a moment, glancing at the 35mm film camera my Grandma gave me after my father passed. Not to say life was low-quality before I found this endeavor, but it sure has increased the adventure in my life.
I've met hundreds of people in the "industry" of Denver. Makeup artists, photographers, male or female models, and other fashion-friendlies. My brief one-and-a-half year tenure at 303 Magazine left me with a few unanswered questions about my own photography. Its proposed to me the idea of going more studio-oriented. Buying high-quality lights, backdrops, and even renting a space to pursue storytelling in the realm of beauty. Its taught me that personalities clash, and even if your intentions are pure, sometimes there is nothing you can do if someone simply doesn't like you, or your work. Mostly, its been a lesson which has taught me to go after what I'm most passionate about and not try to fit within the boundaries of someone else's artistic preferences. If anything at all, it has certainly 'taught' me.
I flip back on the The Fighter. I had started it last night in a moment of insomnia. My days have turned into a study of the way light blankets the world, the way film-makers compose their shots, and the ever-apparent mortality of aging actors. There seems to be a indeterminable amount of time in an actor's life from his early twenties until his late 40's when he is one solid, youthful looking presence on screen. Films that started recording one or two years ago finally hit the screen, or in my case, another 6 months or so after when it finally hits Netflix, and act as a time capsule of human mortality. It also brings my thoughts back to the modeling industry in Denver.
I shot a model the other afternoon who said she was getting older, might be replaced.
"I'm lucky though, no younger model has appeared yet with my versatility, or look," she added.
Replacements. Everywhere. Growing one-by-one in art institutes, or at basement computers, or through meetup.com groups -- just to name a few spots. Any city I walk in, someone has a Nikon or Canon slung over their arm. Sometimes I watch people prod local street musicians with the tip of a large lens, trying to get an intimate, yet candid portrait while the musician distractedly belts out his tune. These moments remind me little of my start, but more of my observational tactics of how the world operates.
I stop the stove. Collect breakfast. Sit down. My living room window displays a rustle of trees in the distance, still alight with a weak storm and an afternoon sun. The tale of my inner-system, most days. I finish watching the movie. Starting and stopping it may have been mostly to blame for my lack of connection with the characters, but watching their emotions and reactions to each other made it feel disconnected, more often than not. There was a surge at the end that made me root for the characters, but otherwise a rather predictable effort at storytelling. My mood takes me outside to embrace the gray light spilled over pale sidewalks.
Disconnected characters. Mortality. Light. I embrace the sun with my face, eyes closed. This same sun must have washed over Mick Jagger one afternoon, donning a dirty tank-top, standing on his balcony while having a cigarette. The same light that fell into the lens of Annie Leibovitz while taking a portrait of Bill Clinton. For ages lighting heroes, artists, writers, Presidents -- humans, animals, plants alike. To what end? To be in the artificial spotlight with satisfactory peer appreciation? What quality of life will this light and photography bring into my life?
Some days all I want to do is have a family and a nice house in a well-developed neighbhorhood. The next, I want to put everything in storage and roadtrip the United States shooting anything I can in remote cities. In the back of my mind also rests the dream of Japan. All I can hope is that if photography takes me anywhere, it's there for at least a few weeks.
I can see the start of rain. My mind races from wedding photography, to an improv comedy performance, to an afternoon filled with crafting a story in photos. It disappears in the sizzle of eggs and Canadian bacon on my stove. August marks the 2nd anniversary of my first portrait. Other thoughts roll through: Denver's fashion industry, Suicide Girls, portraiture, and it all culminates to remind me of my ever-expanding portfolio. Some days I feel lost in it all.
Photographers brandish their model of the day on my Facebook news feed. Back-lit beauties, happy couples, charming children. I toss my two-cents into the mix, mostly praise for those around me. One interesting link finds its way into my lap, proposing the question to photographers: "Is photography increasing your quality of life?" I ponder this a moment, glancing at the 35mm film camera my Grandma gave me after my father passed. Not to say life was low-quality before I found this endeavor, but it sure has increased the adventure in my life.
I've met hundreds of people in the "industry" of Denver. Makeup artists, photographers, male or female models, and other fashion-friendlies. My brief one-and-a-half year tenure at 303 Magazine left me with a few unanswered questions about my own photography. Its proposed to me the idea of going more studio-oriented. Buying high-quality lights, backdrops, and even renting a space to pursue storytelling in the realm of beauty. Its taught me that personalities clash, and even if your intentions are pure, sometimes there is nothing you can do if someone simply doesn't like you, or your work. Mostly, its been a lesson which has taught me to go after what I'm most passionate about and not try to fit within the boundaries of someone else's artistic preferences. If anything at all, it has certainly 'taught' me.
I flip back on the The Fighter. I had started it last night in a moment of insomnia. My days have turned into a study of the way light blankets the world, the way film-makers compose their shots, and the ever-apparent mortality of aging actors. There seems to be a indeterminable amount of time in an actor's life from his early twenties until his late 40's when he is one solid, youthful looking presence on screen. Films that started recording one or two years ago finally hit the screen, or in my case, another 6 months or so after when it finally hits Netflix, and act as a time capsule of human mortality. It also brings my thoughts back to the modeling industry in Denver.
I shot a model the other afternoon who said she was getting older, might be replaced.
"I'm lucky though, no younger model has appeared yet with my versatility, or look," she added.
Replacements. Everywhere. Growing one-by-one in art institutes, or at basement computers, or through meetup.com groups -- just to name a few spots. Any city I walk in, someone has a Nikon or Canon slung over their arm. Sometimes I watch people prod local street musicians with the tip of a large lens, trying to get an intimate, yet candid portrait while the musician distractedly belts out his tune. These moments remind me little of my start, but more of my observational tactics of how the world operates.
I stop the stove. Collect breakfast. Sit down. My living room window displays a rustle of trees in the distance, still alight with a weak storm and an afternoon sun. The tale of my inner-system, most days. I finish watching the movie. Starting and stopping it may have been mostly to blame for my lack of connection with the characters, but watching their emotions and reactions to each other made it feel disconnected, more often than not. There was a surge at the end that made me root for the characters, but otherwise a rather predictable effort at storytelling. My mood takes me outside to embrace the gray light spilled over pale sidewalks.
Disconnected characters. Mortality. Light. I embrace the sun with my face, eyes closed. This same sun must have washed over Mick Jagger one afternoon, donning a dirty tank-top, standing on his balcony while having a cigarette. The same light that fell into the lens of Annie Leibovitz while taking a portrait of Bill Clinton. For ages lighting heroes, artists, writers, Presidents -- humans, animals, plants alike. To what end? To be in the artificial spotlight with satisfactory peer appreciation? What quality of life will this light and photography bring into my life?
Some days all I want to do is have a family and a nice house in a well-developed neighbhorhood. The next, I want to put everything in storage and roadtrip the United States shooting anything I can in remote cities. In the back of my mind also rests the dream of Japan. All I can hope is that if photography takes me anywhere, it's there for at least a few weeks.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
veilchen:
Beautiful
kay:
Well said.