Making Photographs
As I walk through the site, I use my camera as an extension of my memory. Photographs become another form of drawing. My camera captures a split of time, and seconds later, that moment has lapsed, and the site has changed. In response, again I release the shutter. Click. Click. Click. My body shifts slightly each time. The image changes slightly. The horizon line floats to the left, to the right, above, and below. I keep going until I feel satisfied.
My attention turns to two graves, side by side. One is new and made of immaculate beige sandstone. The other is grey and weathered, its lower half covered in green moss.
More close looking.
I use my left eye and I use my right eye.
Working together, they form a full image.
Doubling becomes one.
The process of pushing the camera’s button is instant, but I still feel latency. This click captures my experience as a digital file containing ones and zeros. Later, when I view it on a screen, the raw image will not satisfy me because it lies flat and still. It is erased of the senses I prize: the smell, temperature, taste, and weight of the world around me as my finger pushed down to make it. This problem persists.
Despite knowing this truth about the flattening of the picture plane, I blatantly ignore it. A translation is always a compromise; you inevitably lose something in the act. The act of taking the photo gives me a false sense of security. The camera hangs heavy around my neck with its weight as a reminder of its cyborgian presence as an appendage of my body. By taking images I am stopping time, counteracting the euphoria that tells me to keep going. A photograph is an intentional act of pause, despite that they are impulsive and quick. They rely on my hands and body to hold the camera steady rather than a tripod. They care little about the mechanics of the machine that produced them.
Light streams into my Nikon D5100 DSLR. An image is burned into my brain. My hard drive fills up and I lose count of the images I have collected. It is over 18,000. A native to the new era of the digital camera, I have no sense of resistance to this excess or the comparative precious cost of film photography. This camera is a tool that can match my level of endurance.
As I walk through the site, I use my camera as an extension of my memory. Photographs become another form of drawing. My camera captures a split of time, and seconds later, that moment has lapsed, and the site has changed. In response, again I release the shutter. Click. Click. Click. My body shifts slightly each time. The image changes slightly. The horizon line floats to the left, to the right, above, and below. I keep going until I feel satisfied.
My attention turns to two graves, side by side. One is new and made of immaculate beige sandstone. The other is grey and weathered, its lower half covered in green moss.
More close looking.
I use my left eye and I use my right eye.
Working together, they form a full image.
Doubling becomes one.
The process of pushing the camera’s button is instant, but I still feel latency. This click captures my experience as a digital file containing ones and zeros. Later, when I view it on a screen, the raw image will not satisfy me because it lies flat and still. It is erased of the senses I prize: the smell, temperature, taste, and weight of the world around me as my finger pushed down to make it. This problem persists.
Despite knowing this truth about the flattening of the picture plane, I blatantly ignore it. A translation is always a compromise; you inevitably lose something in the act. The act of taking the photo gives me a false sense of security. The camera hangs heavy around my neck with its weight as a reminder of its cyborgian presence as an appendage of my body. By taking images I am stopping time, counteracting the euphoria that tells me to keep going. A photograph is an intentional act of pause, despite that they are impulsive and quick. They rely on my hands and body to hold the camera steady rather than a tripod. They care little about the mechanics of the machine that produced them.
Light streams into my Nikon D5100 DSLR. An image is burned into my brain. My hard drive fills up and I lose count of the images I have collected. It is over 18,000. A native to the new era of the digital camera, I have no sense of resistance to this excess or the comparative precious cost of film photography. This camera is a tool that can match my level of endurance.