In my first post I explained why I now identify as an “artist-writer” rather than as a photographer. On one hand, it’s because it no longer suits my practice – perhaps it never did, and that’s okay! And on the other hand, it’s because I’ve been traumatized by the medium. Or at the very least, I’ve had an unhealthy relationship with it.
You abandoned photography because you’re too weak for it. Your work narcissistically deals with yourself and you can’t stand the ugly fat self staring back at you captured by the lens. You’re weak because you can’t handle the truth you crave to capture with your lens. You’re weak and you’re a coward.
There’s nothing inherently bad about photography. And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to distance yourself from a medium that no longer best suits you and your work. But I needed and still need emotional distance. Because I was creating from and with so many negative emotions.
You abandoned photography because you’re too impatient for it. Your work isn’t immediately celebrated and so you’ve cast it all aside hoping to achieve greatness elsewhere. You’re weak and you’re arrogant to think that your work will ever be as good as the portfolios of your peers. You’re weak and you’re arrogant and you’re fake.
It’s hard to write this. It’s hard to capture what I feel because I’m ashamed of what I feel. Because I’m ashamed that I no longer feel the same way about a medium I was so captivated by. And I’m ashamed of the trauma that I’ve faced trying to chase a dream I had when I didn’t know any better. I’m ashamed of my feelings. I’m ashamed that I’m ashamed.
You abandoned photography and you should be ashamed of yourself. You get in the way of your own work. You’re too weak to let those projects reach their conclusions. You abandon and you abandon and you abandon. You’re weak and you’re a fraud and you’re a failure. You should have never been a photographer if you were just going to abandon it years later. You’re weak and you should be ashamed of yourself.
What did photography mean to you then?
In the past, there weren’t expectations and guilt placed upon me. In the past, I had confidence in my limited skillset and amateur vision. Ignorance is bliss – I didn’t know any better. I could dive into the medium with childlike wonder because… I was one.
I didn’t need a “real” camera. Back then, I was more than satisfied with a point-and-click. Back then, I was more than satisfied with primitive camera phones. I couldn’t tell a f-stop from a megapixel from a shutter speed. Back then, I embraced the snapshot aesthetic before I even knew what it was.
I would photograph everything I saw as I accompanied my mother shopping. Or wandering through my neighborhood. Or the mundane happenings in our house. Everything was worthy of being captured, infinite holy moments.
So what did photography mean to you then?
Photography wasn’t just exciting – it was a companion. One that didn’t judge or demand of me. Something similar to the imaginary friends I had when I was even younger. Something closer to a daydream.
Now in one word: what did photography mean to you then?
Wonder. Joy.
Picasso was a shit, but like it takes a lifetime to learn how to paint like a child, it takes a lifetime to learn how to see like a child. To return to what I used to see and feel. To experience that same joy and wonder that seems so far away.
I dreamed I could be a photojournalist. I dreamed I could see the world. I dreamed a dream my life would be… so different from this…
So what changed?
The degree wasn’t what I thought it would be, and I had to change accordingly. A dream deferred and changed.
How did it change?
Do I blame the school? Do I blame the bad actors? Do I blame myself? Is there even blame to be had? Or is the blame shared equally? I don’t know.
I’ve recently looked back at the images I took while I was in DC during a high school trip. It was 2011 and I was a senior in high school.
In so many ways, the images are “poor.” There’s motion blur and copious amounts of noise. It’s all auto focus and auto ISO and auto white balance. But I can still see the shots my younger self was going for. The content is there, in spite of the image quality. And I can feel the joy and wonder she felt behind the camera. Looking through her noise brings a smile to my face.
I’m proud of them and of her.
But what changed?
In many ways, I don’t know. I’m still always accompanied by my phone, or a disposable, or my instant camera. I still take shots everywhere I go. I still look for things as I walk, no matter where I go.
But it wasn’t and isn’t the same. And even returning to my same old point-and-shoot isn’t the same. I fear the joy will never return. I fear the joy is gone forever.
Why?
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. There’s something missing no matter how hard I try to retrace my steps, reshoot the shots, peer through the looking glass.
Where did the joy go? What hurt you? Who hurt you? And how?
Before critiques I would dry-heave in my mouth as I walked to class. Or vomit right before I left my dorm. I dreaded how my work would be dissected before others. I dreaded that my work wouldn’t be good enough. And that I wasn’t good enough in return.
I was told to my face that my words didn’t belong with my photos. That I was discrediting my own work by being myself.
I didn’t want to make work that adhered to formulas and Photoshop so foreign to me. I didn’t want to stop writing alongside my work. I didn’t want to stop submitting things I knew would be rejected back in my face. But it still hurt and it still hurts. And it’s hard for me to let things that have hurt me go.
I was told by a mentor I had trusted that I was arrogant and impatient. That I was too smart to be this stupid. And that the silly struggles I and the rest of my colleagues had could fill a book that he could sell.
My mentor once asked what I wanted most in my life, and I said I just wanted to be happy. I wanted to feel that same joy I once had in and for everything. He laughed on the other side of the phone. He never had to lose his joy. He didn’t understand. It felt like he had spit in my face.
Oh… I’m sorry.
And I am too.
And for the record, I don’t see any of what you’ve said as failings. And I don’t think that you’re too impatient. And I think your reasons are great reasons to move away from a particular medium.
And if you’re not receiving the recognition you’d hoped for, you can always try something new. I would love for you to re-capture and re-experience that same joy you once had.
Am I getting through to you?
I can only accept the trauma for what it was, and hopefully eventually move on.
Maybe I’ll reach a place where I’ll view photography like I used to, or maybe I’ll never feel that same affection again. Maybe I’ll find that same joy, or maybe it’s lost forever.
What does photography mean to you now?
I don’t know. It will always be a part of me, but I don’t know.
I don’t want to think about it anymore.