It Was The Fourth of July (In Black and White)
I'm becoming less interested in quality lately. By which I mean that I don't care so much if a picture is perfectly framed. If it's perfectly exposed and lit. If everyone is posed and on their toes and smiling and happy and free. Lately, I just care about having the pictures. Of being able to look back on a time and see real moments that I lived and loved and enjoyed. I can look at memories and it looks like the one in my head. A little fuzzy, a little shaky around the edges. The focus is on the people, on the movement, the camera pans, but all you remember when a dream ends is the feeling of what you went through. That's how I feel.
I'm trying to take more pictures and stop worrying so much about how they look. Yes, I want to grow in my art. I want to make pictures that look good as well as feel good. Without emotion though, what do you have? Pretty people and pretty surroundings and no recollection on why you made those pictures in the first place.
I'm going to remember why I took these pictures. I'm going to remember the asphalt heat, the smell of gasoline and raw sweat and freshly washed hair. I'll remember the kids sitting on the roof of the minivan yelling, "Bigger! Louder! More fire!" I'll remember sitting on the hood of the car, the heat from the engine heating my hands and legs, clinging to Noble's arm because I couldn't stop slipping off. I'll remember the laughter and the good food we had together. I'll remember all the time I spent being present, and not waiting for the perfect shot behind the camera.
Having said all that, here's my fourth of July. Spent with my very favorite people, in my very tiny town, all in black and white.