The first family road trip, that I can remember, happened sometime around the age of eight or nine. I was handed a Kodak disposable camera and carefully tried to ration the allotted photos that could be taken on the wind-up-operating device. However, because I was only eight and had no experience with cameras and didn’t feel like using the view finder, I quickly went through the film reel by taking terrible pictures with thumbs partial blocking blurred views of ordinary trees from the inside of a moving car. (more…)
My hands hit the keyboard again and I felt as though they haven’t touched these rows of hard plastic in over twenty years. I write everyday whether the sun is shining or the cold and heavy showers of rain hurl down on top of me, but I feel as though this isn’t enough.
I slid out of the office like a bat out of a cave and left my first internship that day dragging all of my work materials behind me. I jumped into my car, slammed my seatbelt buckle into the car’s appropriate orifice and quickly sped out of the parking lot and onto the street like the building was on fire. It was definitely my time to leave since I had been cramped in a corner inside the frigid confines of the workplace and basically just felt blah all day.
I thought back to my previous weekend with one of my good friends from college, and the conditions that I endured in the office felt even more like an urban jail cell. By that time, I was not even half way home and stuck in the usual Los Angeles traffic. Always busy and never lets up, to get anywhere in this crazy city you have to double your usual traveling time due to wall-to-wall madness. I figured that then was good as a time as ever to think back to my hike. (more…)
I still remember finding an old photograph of two very small children left in the back of our kitchen drawer when my family and I moved into our house. The photo paper was crinkling at the corners and humid weather conditions seeping into the house helped damage the picture that was forgotten and left out to exposure.
The family before us had lived in this quaint little house for nearly ten years before they relocated to another town, but somehow I feel as though they have never left because of the small piece of them that they had left behind.
I noticed recently that my view on photographs has changed over the years. Before moving into this house I would have never considered the great connection those people who lived here previously to us had with that little piece of paper, but after a few years of experimenting with my camera, I now hold a new found respect for the carefully captured images.
Photos are just a snapshot of life. They freeze a moment in time within the confines of piece of paper, hidden away on rolls of film, or locked up inside a digital file. Those that have died before us live on in our thoughts and the memories captured on film. It’s as if the world of the past is just beyond the photographs that we hold so dear, and when look at the old photograph of the two very small children eerily staring back at me, I wonder what stories are attached to that little piece of photo paper.