Photography Essay

“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?