ThinkBlog

Photographs touch (bother?) me in a way that paintings cannot. Looking through some old photos on the computer this morning just before retiring, I realize these places in my life where I suddenly am caught in the moment. I realize, in that second, why I must have forgotten so much of the past. Its uncreatability is a blessing, but it nevertheless happened. There I was, holding the camera, perhaps at arm’s length, perhaps next to someone whom I never expected to bury the dagger so deep, always looking through the lens at a time before. Or even a gallery full of pictures of a time to which I wouldn’t even return if I could (e.g., Clemson 2000), but which I miss all the more because of its sheer irrecoverability.

Anyone else ever feel this because of some pictures? [[The ThinkBlog Gallery is coming to the public soon.]]

Photographs touch (bother?) me in a way that paintings cannot. Looking through some old photos on the computer this morning just before retiring, I realize these places in my life where I suddenly am caught in the moment. I realize, in that second, why I must have forgotten so much of the past. Its uncreatability is a blessing, but it nevertheless happened. There I was, holding the camera, perhaps at arm’s length, perhaps next to someone whom I never expected to bury the dagger so deep, always looking through the lens at a time before. Or even a gallery full of pictures of a time to which I wouldn’t even return if I could (e.g., Clemson 2000), but which I miss all the more because of its sheer irrecoverability.

Anyone else ever feel this because of some pictures? [[The ThinkBlog Gallery is coming to the public soon.]]