Years ago, before I went to University and began studying the relationship between literature and art, I started writing little stories inspired by some of the paintings I came across in galleries, postcards and reproductions my parents had on the walls at home. I made up stories about Picasso’s Blue Nude and Hopper’s Nighthawks. I wrote a few of them and then forgot all about it.
Something has really happened to my photography since I got my Polaroid camera. Shooting with instant film has made me look at the world differently. I am much more aware of composition and of light; how strong it is, the direction it’s coming from, the shadows it leaves behind. It has made me see things that I would normally have overlooked or would have seen as too ordinary to photograph. And it has made me want to learn the old school art of taking photographs with analogue film cameras.
As a former literature student, I sometimes wonder how my blog keeps ending up being very photography oriented. Not that I don’t work a lot with photography but I do many other things in my life, too. What the blog doesn’t reflect about me at the moment is my reading habits but I thought I would write a different kind of post this week, one about the books I have been taking the time to read lately.
I have felt a little lost lately. I have been getting up in the morning, heading off on my commute, going to work, coming back home, eaten late dinners and gone to bed early, and I’ve been doing it all as if I wasn’t really here. I haven’t had a lot of time or energy to write, to go exploring or to photograph. It has just felt like an endless amount of days on repeat. Trying to get through one day only to have it replaced by another that looked exactly the same.