“Photography is a reality so subtle
that it becomes more real than reality.”
-Alfred
Stieglitz
When I think of an Art Gallery I see white
walls and posh people holding punch. Typically, they’ve developed crow’s feet
under their eyes because they’ve been squinting too much trying to figure out
the abstract meaning behind a canvas splattered in dust. Then I imagine myself
hopping from one photo to the next, hiccupping inappropriately and spotting
absurdly crass images in sculptures that are supposed to resemble War from the
1800’s. The first time I visited a photo gallery I continuously ran into pictures
that swayed me to ride nostalgia and revisit memories that were long gone because
I never had a Polaroid to remember it by. Great photography gives you the
chance to relive a moment vicariously through a picture and that’s why I loved
each of the following images so much. Even though I have no documentation to
prove parts of my past, I can lean on other’s photography and interpretation of
life to remember.
The
photo “To Be a Kid Again” is a black and white image of what I called “Monkey
Bars” as a nine year old child in the fourth grade. The photo smells like old
metal that leaves orange residue on finger tips and little calluses across pale
palms. At 9, our class had a field trip to the local park where we played on
the jungle gym and had a picnic. That night I was also going to see my dad for
the first time since I was three. I noticed a man sitting on the half sphere jungle
gym, eyeing all of us while eating a sandwich. I wondered if that could be my
dad, and if so maybe I should impress him. So I went over to the bars where you
swing from one triangle to the other, moving freely, letting my tummy show and
my feet dangle. I felt gutsy, so I lifted myself up, swung my knees inside the
metal triangle and let my hands fall, dangling only by the strength of my
knees. I looked to see if my possible father was looking, and he wasn’t. Upset,
I went to swing myself up as to get down, but went shooting straight down
instead. I happened to land on a little slab of concrete in which I dug my
front teeth into, and then bit through my bottom lip. I wish I had a photo of
myself in pigtails; sandals and a bleeding detached bottom lip. But I don’t, so
instead I store the memory in the back of my head and save it for a photo such
as the monkey bars to relive that moment again.
The photo titled “2” by Alexandra Poquette
left a positive impression on me. It shows a young woman, laughing comfortably
in an enormous bed, wearing a casual shirt, with her hand on her belly. When I
saw this I couldn’t help but giggle to myself and smile for her and anyone else
whose come close to feeling that kind of joy. As I walked around the gallery,
her smile stayed with me as I thought about what it was like the first time I
moved out on my own when I was sixteen. The contagious feeling of starting a new
journey lingers as you unpack, sorting through old toys with broken parts that
receive a new home on the bookshelf until the next time you pack up. This photo
acted as a glimpse into that milestone we’ve all accomplished before. And
that’s the beautiful thing about photography; you can capture a personal moment
that everyone can relate to.
Sometimes
you want to remember the small things but the scenario doesn’t allow any kind
of hard copy documentation without being looked at like you’re crazy. For
instance, the photo “McGurts Train” captures a passenger train on its way
through an abundance of black and white trees. I visited NYC this past June and
rode the train everywhere. Many times I wanted to bust out a video camera and
record beautiful faces, awkwardly cramped sidewalks, and the guy slurping his
gum too loudly beside you on the train. When the big city was getting off of work and
retiring to their daily subway commute, I joined them and noticed business men and
women strategically placed side by side, with a few tourists sprinkled in the
mix. The men with cuff links dug through their briefcases pulling out
newspapers and dry sandwiches. The ladies in pencil skirts and high buns walked
through each train in five inch heels, scanning for suitable seating. I sat
there embarrassed by my tabloid magazine, trying really hard to blend in as if
I also had something important to attend to. During that ride as I gazed out
the window and played my iPod blaring Bjork way too loud, I hoped somebody
would wonder about me too. I could be anybody for that train ride, just as I
made up stories of who these people were and where they were going. I would’ve
given anything to take photos of all those tired faces and look back on it now
and play some sort of psychoanalyzing card game. Instead, I’ve got a memory
that isn’t special to anyone else but me and allows me to smile when I see an
ordinary picture of an ordinary train.
I’ve always been hesitant to criticize
photography because I thought judging something so personal is unbecoming.
However, I’m learning that you don’t need to judge or criticize, rather be open
to what it makes you feel and then interpret it appropriately. Each photo in
the gallery was beautiful on the surface, but the ones I chose to write about
were stunning and familiar because they derived some sort of feeling and memory
from me. And who doesn’t like familiarity?
