February 7, 2024
The straps of my film camera have come to feel like a second skin in this season of life.
Since my first solo journey a few years ago, I started asking myself some questions:
How can I sustainably capture a moment in a way that actually honors it? Without feeding the pervasive narrative of “did it really happen if you didn’t post it?”
How much of our collective societal addiction stems from a fear of forgetting?
Is our obsession with memories a symptom of living in the past?
What if, as we capture our environment, it is actually capturing us in return? If we look at it this way, would we be more intentional of our energetic footprint?
How much of our inherent creative energy, often born from boredom and nothingness, is stunted by the instant stimulation and constant consumption? Is it all just a distraction from confronting our inner world?
As grandmas, will we be showcasing our Instagrams rather than overstuffed photo albums and scrapbooks?
When we depart this physical dimension, will our iCloud go with us?
If you have the answers, let me know.
Ironically, the 26,000 photos that flood my phone have actually disconnected me from so many of the experiences I’ve had. Instead of recalling the captured experience in a wholistic way - with my feeling body and with all my senses. Instead, my memory squeezes itself into the two-dimensional snapshot glowing on the screen.
The urge to capture would especially hijack while traveling solo: as if my own full-body presence wasn’t enough to validate the overwhelming beauty in front of me. Actually, I wouldn’t even give myself permission to reach full-body presence until it was captured.
But that’s the thing!
The camera can’t capture the same dimensionality that our presence can (who would’ve thought!?)
I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps certain moments are allowed to be mine - meant to be mine - like a secret with self. Magnetic midnight sunsets over the Baltic sea; blue moons illuminating the Danube River; communal hot pot shared in China; smoke sauna rituals in the Estonian countryside. They don’t always need to be captured (or posted) to be real. Instead I embody these experiences like little pieces of a mosaic that compose me.
As I step into this truth, my fear of forgetting and need for validation begin to dim.
Pressing the “post” button on social media has started to feel like projecting my experience into an impersonal black hole abyss. For so long, I justified it as an “easier” method of update for my long-distance relationships around the world.
But I want to be more intentional about those I choose to exchange snippets of life with - nurturing the slow-burning relationships that are deep, rich, real, and mutual instead of perpetuating the instant but illusive gratification that social media notoriously provides. Perhaps it’s unnatural to expect ourselves to keep in touch with so many people in the first place?
I still experience anxiety re: the amount of nonsense that has accumulated on my phone, the societal expectation to respond instantly, the self-induced pressure to post. But here are some things that have helped:
I’ve started mailing dozens of hand-written love letters in recent years, detoxing my 26,000+ photos by revisiting each day exactly 1 year ago, choosing not to trade instagrams after meeting someone once, opting for voice memos over text messages, exchanging digital letters via long-form email chains with new friends and mentors, making my own postcards using the photos below, communicating cryptically via the update of a shared Spotify playlist, frequenting the “Do Not Disturb” button, and printing out copies of the best film photos for friends to choose from.
Film is organic, intentional, imperfect. I am able to remain present with my film camera in a way that I can’t with my phone. The uninhibited ability to snap 17 pictures of the same thing no longer exists. The day-dreaming of my next post isn’t so relevant. Perhaps I’ve found one answer to my many questions.
I’ll never forget the disappointment turned embrace upon receiving my very first batch of film photos. All of these perfectly captured moments I’d imagined during my winter travels were embellished with blurs and blinded by overexposures: signatures of someone who had no idea what they were doing.
Film is a practice of patience. Time that is used to relinquish expectations (and to figure out how the heck all of those buttons work). Once I started to prioritize the present moment and not the imagined result, my photos started to take dimension. I cherish each photo in all of its character. Blurs and overexposures are now welcomed!
Someday, I’ll complete the loop by having my own dark room — even though the stench of those developing agents from high school photography class continue to haunt me (still better than the formaldehyde from anatomy class). For now, I’ll continue befriending the folks at local film shops around the world and slyly collecting bits of their wisdom in the fleeting time it takes to submit a roll for developing.
To the tree stumps: nature’s tripods —
Thank you for permitting me to awkwardly balance my camera on your flesh. And then witnessing me awkwardly maximize those 10 seconds to get in ready position.
To the unwitting strangers encountered along solo travels —
You had no idea what you were signing up for when I innocently asked you to take my picture with this intimidating device. Did you know I profiled you as someone who looks cool? More often than not, the photo was just an excuse to start conversation - and it worked! Conversations which would lead to serendipitous nights exploring castle districts, ruin bars, and climbing atop green bridges at night.
To the friends and family (mostly mom):
Thank you for limiting the number of eye-rolls when I took out the camera.
