Towers for power lines.
What views are worth sharing?
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I’ve got some black and white film I’d like to use soon, so I checked my camera to make sure everything is in working order. I had forgotten that there was already a roll of film in it, a decades old one I bought at a camera shop scratch patch. The roll was still blank; when I had originally tried to use the film, I was convinced I had loaded it incorrectly. Everything seemed to be in order, though, when I inspected the film and winding mechanism. Something in my gut told me not to bin the film. That same something lead me out the front door, whispering in my ear about a picture worth taking. So yesterday, around noon, I walked through my neighbourhood with my film camera. I haven’t really taken a lot of film photos at home. In my home, sure, but not of the church parking lot where I first learnt to drive, or the view from the hill where I subsequently stalled my mom’s car. There are houses on my street that I’ve walked past, run past, driven past for the last two or so decades, but I never really see them. In my routine I often fail to see my neighbour’s garden that is so clearly his pride and joy, or hear the lively conversations of the dozen or so birds that also call my home, theirs. It’s strange how carrying a camera convinced me to observe the things that I most regularly overlook.
I am fortunate enough (or perhaps spoilt enough) that my catalogue of film photographs includes some recognisable sights. You will find, among the faces of the people I love, the Eiffel Tower, Golden Gate Bridge, Table Mountain and maybe one or two other sights that have been photographed thousands of times, and certainly by better photographers than I. The occasions at which I consider taking photos, especially film photos, are usually particularly special. Someone who lives far away must come to town, or there must be a birthday, or perhaps an award to justify taking photographs. Or indeed, traveling to see a very red bridge, despite its name. It was strange to me, then, that my heart was so insistent that I spend time taking photographs of the comparably mundane scenery found in my neighbourhood. I have the less than charming flaw of turning to pessimism in the face of spontaneous, hope filled plans; my mind told me that my home held nothing worth my time or film. What would I find? A house cat, how groundbreaking. But as I discussed in the last journal, some of the voices in my mind should probably be ignored. In direct opposition to the cynical voice echoing in my head, I stepped into the sun-warmed winter air, determined to follow my heart (or gut—maybe they’re different words for the same thing).
I take photos of anything with my phone—trees, lunch, my dog. I don’t feel the need to justify taking a photo, maybe because it’s so easy. However, I often end up convincing myself to leave my camera in the cupboard; I reserve that level of effort for something special enough to take a photo of, like a bridge or tower. I think that instinct makes my pictures more boring; imagine all the practically identical pictures of the Eiffel Tower. There must be millions. Everyone has that photo, whether they took it with a film camera, phone camera or from Google images. I’ve slipped and fallen into this idea that only famous things are worth taking photos of; I wonder which photos I never take because I think the subject isn’t recognisable enough. What if the dull things in our lives can become special because of the way we choose to see them? The first photo I took while on my walk through the neighbourhood was from the top of a Jungle Jim. I’ve climbed up, swinged on and slid down this playground my whole life; I’ve seen the view from the top more times than I can count. A couple dozen other kids who grew up in my home have seen it, too. Practically everyone in the world has seen a photograph of the Eiffel Tower, but almost no one has seen the view from the top of my Jungle Jim. This photo is a sort of invitation: partially welcoming you into my world and the way I see it; partially inviting me to recognise my home as worthy of the same attention and effort I’ve given to bridges and towers.
I was sitting in my little white hatchback earlier this week, rain bucketing against the windshield and spitting through the tiny gap I left in my window so that it wouldn’t fog up. I was parked in an overcrowded school lot, waiting to collect the youngest of the two children I babysit. The parking lot becomes so densely packed with moms, dads and grandparents double parking one another that I usually get there about thirty minutes early and use the opportunity to catch up on some reading. I’ve stolen a book off my dad, it calls my glovebox home for the moment. Bird by Bird is a hilariously candid, half-cynical, half-hopeful book about the craft of writing. Just about everything in Anne Lamott’s book is brilliant, but one line I read this week yelled my name. “All you can give us is what life is about from your point of view.” Hell, that’s good. Read it again. Were it my copy I held in my hands, I would have underlined that sentence twice. I’m sure this is important advice specific to budding young writers, but it certainly seems like solid gold for just about everyone.
It’s tough to know what life is about from my point of view. Maybe life is about learning what my point of view is, and who I am; what an utterly terrifying, difficult and worthwhile journey. The vulnerability of giving away ‘life as I see it’, or I suppose making it available for others to see, is even tougher to swallow. For a moment, though, I’d like to step away from the big, ideological implications of that quote and interpret it literally. All I can give is how I see the world, and since I can’t lend you my eyes, a photograph will have to do. Maybe the view from my Jungle Jim is the perfect thing to share because it’s my view from my Jungle Jim. Perhaps my photos, words, ideas don’t have to echo recognisable ones. I wonder what beauty you see that I simply can’t access. I wonder if I would gasp in disbelief and awe at things you don’t give a second look. I wonder what the love you have for your people and your places looks like, sounds like. All you can give us is what life is about from your point of view. My point of view from my Jungle Jim is no Parisian wonder, but I think it’s pretty cool, and I’m glad to give it to you.
I wonder what pictures will fill the rest of that film roll… If this journal resonated with you, please share it with someone you love.