Life of leisure

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I'm suspicious of leisure, but why? If it's too easy, if I'm enjoying myself too much, if there is too much time in the day for sitting and sipping coffee, I feel uncomfortable. What should I be doing? (There is always more to do, and perhaps my anxiety arises from the fact that often the reason I'm relaxing and sitting is because a) I've forgotten about something I'm supposed to be doing or b) am ignoring things that need doing.)

I could fight this character trait, or I could give in to it. Generally, I give in because I feel better about myself. Somehow, all of this doing gives me a sense of purpose and progress, or even just basic maintenance. Which could be utterly false, even self-deluding, and I get that. I get it, but, still, I crave the sense of purpose and progress.

Today I am thinking about photography. On the weekend I read Ian Brown's essay on being a judge for a photography contest in which no prize was awarded -- none could be, because none of the hundreds of photo essays submitted met the criteria of not just being aesthetically appealing, but also narratively significant. In other words, none of the photo essays needed to be, in the judges estimation; their beauty was superficial because it did not matter, as nothing was at stake.

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Brown wondered whether with our excessive photo-taking and recording of our lunches and pets and children's every move, we're losing the ability to recognize, tell, and maybe even to look for the deeper stories, the essential and underlying and specific stories that make us look and think and stop, rather than entertain us. I feel myself guilty of exactly this: pulling out my camera to capture "a moment." Am I looking for a story? Or have I already decided what the story is simply by pulling out my camera to snap the photo? What's the difference? In the latter scenario, I'm thinking of my photos as illustrations. X marks the spot. We were here. I was here. I'll admit that I find poignance in snapshot, but I'm kind of nostalgic, I guess. I'm hyper-aware of the passage of time, and of change.

The former scenario, is, however, more interesting and more challenging and more difficult. Looking for the story means admitting from the get-go that I don't know the story. That the story might only become apparent through work and time and effort, that it isn't immediately available, even if the technology is instant.

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When I took the pool photos on Saturday afternoon, I pulled out my camera because I noticed the way the light was hitting the water. That was what I wanted to capture, as much as the event itself, and then I saw through the zoom my daughter waiting for her race, drawn into herself, looking solitary and private even while surrounded by crowds of others. There was a story waiting to be told. The picnic photos, on the other hand, are merely decorative, illustrative: I wanted to note what we were up to. The noting was almost as important as the doing, maybe. I carried my camera out along with the dishes and food. I sense that there is a difference between motivations.

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The year that I spent taking a self-portrait every day, I began to get bored of my own face and of our house and yard. Toward the end of that year, I found myself experimenting with composition, trying to tell stories that weren't my own, that were projections (see above). The limitations forced me to become more creative. Every day, I struggled to choose just one photo. But the whole project was stronger because of it. I believe in limitations, in art and in life. Boundaries, strictures, rules, natural or artificial, make us work, make us choose, make us care. 

This week, Brown's article has me stopping myself from automatically picking up the camera. Asking, is this necessary? Or does it just add to the noise? (Hence, the recycled photos in this post ...)

Maybe I photograph the moment because I'm caught up in wanting to do, do, do. Or maybe, sometimes, if I am to be honest, to distract me from what I'm stuck doing. Maybe it makes me feel less anxious about all I don't understand. Maybe I photograph the moment because I am terminally nostalgic. Maybe because a photograph seems to make living itself more real, by committing it to images that give the illusion of permanence. And maybe, too, I'm looking for the larger narrative. I'm hopeful. I think I'll find the story here, and that it will make sense. Maybe that's what we're all doing as we snap away with our digital cameras, creating too much, not knowing what to do with what we've made, nor how to keep it once we've got it.

Maybe the story comes in the curation afterward. The cull. The work. And also the pause, the stop, the stillness. That could make all the difference. I suppose it does.

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One more thing: the photos I like best are the ones that are a bit askew, the mouth open or the eyes closed -- something is not quite right, not quite perfect, and that makes it interesting.

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