Imprints

I like the notion of photographs on film. The days when one would buy a roll of 24 or 36 photographs, depending upon the size of your ambition and the generosity of your pocket. There was none of the cowboy attitude to photography, none of the profligacy in taking pictures, none of the devil-may-care attitude to clicking incessantly. You had to wait for the moment; prime yourself for that exact location and the exact expression that would summarize your visit to the sunset point. You couldn’t afford to blink to the flash, couldn’t afford to let the hair fly in front of your face, couldn’t afford to let passers-by intrude the sanctity of the frame. Each photograph was a precious occasion and it had to be treated honorably. There was then the charm of how many photographs would turn out good. Maybe 21, maybe 23. The day long wait would seem interminable and the suspense would be heightened when picking up the photographs from your neighborhood studio. There was poetic justice, if you had such a bent of heart. What does it mean to have an over-exposed photo? Or a blank? Should I seek metaphors in the results of clumsy technology? There is something to holding an actual print in the hand, and poring over the minutiae on it. Something to lie down on your bed and look at the face of the one you love; which for narcissists could be themselves. There is something to insert the pictures into a big album, and sit with the tome on your lap as your friends and family gather together to reminisce the old times. Yes, the old times. Unlike Dorian Gray, you get old, and the old faithful print gets old with you, torn at the edges with the colors fading away.