Raindrops aren’t just
raindrops. They are incandescent messengers; they scatter and race about the
car window bursting with a story. The wondrous thing is that the story is
whatever I want it to be. Before, those raindrops were probably
just raindrops. I saw them as a wet pest, they were a wet pest, they made the
roads dangerous and slippery and they ruined hairdos. But, now? Now they are
much more.
I often see the world through a
camera viewfinder. I’ve caught myself holding up my hands in an attempted
rectangle shape to see the surrounding area as a picture. The whole world
changes right in front of my eyes, peoples shadows aren’t just shadows. They’re
the deeper representation of a person, their crooked nose and blemishes from
past days don’t appear anymore and what is left is a darkened reality. Maybe a
truer reality. Chipped nails and
paint-splattered hands aren’t signs of hygiene laziness or a cultural
statement, they show that a person was there and they made something. Wrinkles
aren’t ugly, they burst, or rather, sag with a story of life well lived. What I
see isn’t always there. Meaning, my world has been distorted from reality.
My brother says I’m strange, my
mother says I’m an artist, and I sort of think I’m a noticer. I’m oblivious to a lot of things, my
friend Stephanie says I need to notice that my clothes don’t match and I think
my mom wishes I’d notice the messiness of my bedroom more. Noticing can get annoying, my brain
sometimes won’t shut off and storing these observations can be cumbersome. I
sound crazy. I feel crazy sometimes, when I’m caught inside my head and the
inner dialogue starts, the pictures appear, and my heart fills. It sounds
ridiculous and romanticized, like bad poetry written by a Junior High girl in
hopes of being accidentally seen by her crush. I am that girl, my photographs
are the poetry, and the crush is the magic. I think about this sometimes. If
there is anyway that I can catch what I feel and put it in a picture. If it’s even possible to transfer that
magic, I’m still not sure.
I squint my eyes when I drive
to see the mess of streetlights turn into a swirl of light and color, I make
faces in the mirror of expressions I’d like to catch, and I doodle lyrics I
want to tell the story of. My
entire world has been changed, distorted, and skewed that like that young girl
in love. Photography is what
happened to me.
I was fifteen and a shiny
camera found itself in my hands. I plundered my limited babysitting savings and
squealed in delight when it showed up on my doorstep. It was bright and full of possibility
and I didn’t stop taking pictures. I began taking photography classes at my
high school and with the guidance of a teacher who believed in me, my passion erupted. I was intimidated by photography, but
coupled with my competitiveness and disillusioned confidence, I grew.
Photography is an obsession and one that I had to perfect. I wanted to prove to
others that I had a distinguishable talent and I worked and worked. My style
evolved.
I’ve taken photographs ranging
from profound to absurd, a series of faceless portraits and one ridiculous shoot
that involved wrapping myself in carnival raffle tickets. Before art and photography, my world
was compact and normal.
Years ago I started scrap
booking. Or as my inner pretentious artist likes to call it, “art journaling”.
Lots of young girls scrapbook, but few did it like I did. While researching for
inspiration, I happened upon websites full of the most gorgeous scrapbook art
pieces, photographs like I had never seen before, and a sense that this is
where I belonged. I started saving for that expensive camera and that’s where I
am now.
I was never one to call myself
an artist. I wasn’t especially artistically gifted as a child,. Of course I
made Popsicle stick houses and drew in coloring books like all the other kids.
But, I’ve always had a desire to create.
I drew floor plans to grand, imaginary houses, made up stories of lost
orphan children living under my bed, and often operated in an imaginary
world. I didn’t like to be
bothered by siblings or by friends who had different ideas. I created a
different world and they could choose to adhere to my rules or not. I think that’s why art appeals to me so
much. I’m not a team player, I’m either the boss or I fly solo. I create the
world and don’t have others suggesting that I should take a different route.
The problem I encountered with
this mindset was when the elaborate Barbie houses were finally finished and I
had named the Barbie’s appropriate names, like Roxanne and Olivia, and I had
decided Roxanne and Olivia were vegetarian fashion designers who lived in New
York city, was that fifteen minutes into playing by myself, I got bored. That’s
sort of what art is like without humanity. If I didn’t at least try to
communicate reality or, heaven help me, ask for assistance every once in
awhile, art is useless. Art is communication and what I had been trying to do
all those childhood years while my inner artist was bursting to come forth, was
to communicate something. I have this ridiculous obsession to relate to others.
When others compliment my work or say my favorite, “I don’t know why, but it
just makes sense to me”, I fly. I’ve always been one to like pretty things and
a insane obsession with not forgetting stuff. I write funny quotes down and
blog and journal like nobody’s business, I think that’s why I love photography
so much. I once read that nobody
takes a picture of something they want to forget and that is true in my case.
You’d assume that being a
photographer wouldn’t affect everything. But I suddenly had this acute
awareness of beauty confront me. I could escape in art, I could put on silly
clothes and pretend to be someone else for a while, I could hide under the
collages and little books I’d make, and photographs did the talking when I
couldn’t. Art affects the way I
talk and they way I dress and the way I see the world. It’s also affected what
I want to do with this life of mine.
I don’t remember the day that I
decided to go to art school., I’ve just assumed that’s where I’d be. It was a
decision that seemed to be carved into my being, a necessity for my art thirsty
soul. I’ve had many people question
my desire to go and argue that I won’t be able to do it. I can’t picture myself
anywhere else though, I’m fine with living a life where I’ll probably be paying
off bills for years to come. I’m okay with “following my dreams” and taking
risks if that is what makes me happy. To live a life where I’m avoiding who I
am is not the life for me. I have dreams of my photographs being in Vogue and
on Vogue, dreams of books with my name on it, and a hope that my passion will make
other feel a little less alone. And I’m going to get there, a few student loans
at a time.
The moral of my story is that I
found something that made sense to an impressionable, confused me. Other people
find it in books or sports or pots and pans. I found it in a camera. And that
it is your job to fall in love with it and let it change you and make you into
something new and someone better.
I see the world differently. I
feel it differently too. Maybe I’m in those raindrops. Those bright ones I was
talking about earlier, the ones that wander around the window and join with
others. My story and myself used to be a pest, but I figure if I’m so wet and
messy, I might as well share it. I
have a story and I’m running around to tell it.
