Not Even Close to a Thousand

A photograph's power arises from the idea of a moment trapped on paper. For the photographer, and Rob, you might be able to explain this better than I can, it is a culmination of the thought of taking a picture, the knowledge of how to set up the shot and the action of taking the picture. The photographer has seen something and wished it were in stasis, as an identifier that we were here, as a marker in time to reference later on. The subject has no idea what the outcome will be, but is focused on the lens staring at him, wondering if the outcome will be useful at all. The viewer is also frozen the first time she sees it by cataloging her impressions and her curiosity about the subject. Here we have a photograph. Here we are caught living when we all thought we were dying. I was here, maybe I'm still here.

In a way, an important way for me at least, a photograph is a beautiful lie. I'm something of a liar myself, retreating from fact and rushing into fantasy every time I sit at the keyboard, but the beauty is in the re-telling. The craft of the art, the suggestion, the leading is something that a photographer has to impart not with pages of words, descriptors and mental images, but in one instance of recognition. It suits me, I suppose, to spend hours working, re-working an idea to convey a message, and in truth, I seldom know how it all will end. A photographer, maybe with no better idea than me about the outcome, has a second to work with. In that second a memory is created for the picture taker, the subject and the viewer. Never mind that none of the three will ever reconcile their differences; it is a marriage of convenience tied to a moment of happenstance. Beautiful, isn't it.

The fabulous Bee took a shot of El Jefe, Claire and myself not too long ago and I look at it every time I look at the cork board my life is fastened to. As the days stretch out its meaning is being transcended by my memories of the day, my relationship to the others and by my insistence that in the subject you have everything you need to know about us all. This photograph moves within me and changes as the seasons change from a bold pose one afternoon to a stance of camaraderie to a symbol of connectivity to an essence we're all trying to put our finger on. Rob, I think, could appreciate the simplicity and the underwhelming chemistry of the composition. The paper is unimportant, the grain an unpleasant association and the symmetry a happy accident, but the image is the cement that has the four of us not trapped in time, but free of constraints while our image moves in and out of the consciousness of anyone who sees it.

Then again, maybe I've just had too much coffee. It really is a good picture, though.