Walk, don't run

Still struggling with getting the 35mm film scanned properly. It is not as easy as I had imagined. This one is from the Saigawa, the river most closet not only to my home, but to my heart. My wife has promised me that if I pass away before she does, that she will dump my ashes in the river some dark night during a heavy rain. Night time, since it is probably illegal, and hopefully the rain will scatter my dust properly. Not that I am planning on taking that ride anytime soon, mind you. 

This workday is drawing towards an end. I am permitted to be flexible with the hours I keep, and since I love the morning, I like getting here about 6:30 and heading home about 4:00. I used to be most productive during my first few hours, but recently I seem to need the morning to loaf and have been kicking into gear after lunch.

Nothing to pontificate on today. My mind has strolled through the day and not tried to sprint around getting stuff accomplished. I wish most days could be as slow. Slow is good. I do have some ideas brewing for a deeper post, but y'all just have to wait. Until then, may your flame burn bright.

Ages hence

The above is the real deal:1950 or so Mercury. The name is not really important. The machine needs no name. Seeing this car, in this century, still cruising, is just a wonderfully authentic thing. They don't make em like this no more. It transcends the evolution of automobile design and still stuns. Like the great shark that she be.

Authentic is what we all try to be, right? Nobody wants to be a poser. I love the look of the car, but if I drove this around town, I would certainly feel like a phony, as I know nothing about cars or how much work it must have taken to keep this one alive. I am not worthy of the  title of ownership. Apart from that, it is just not my look. I love and respect the design of this beast, but it would certainly not fit my somewhat preppy upper-main-line Philadelphia aesthetic sense.

So, on the subject of worthiness, I have been wondering about my own. As the blog's subtitle says, this space is about the beginning of the the end of the middle of life, or in other words, I will soon no longer to be able to claim rights to a mid-life crisis. As I get old and crusty, there are times when I wonder if I was sold a bill of goods in junior high English when presented with Frost's The Road Not Taken. Now that I am somewhere ages and ages hence, has my journey made all the difference? And...do I really care?

Leaving it behind

 

I touched on the idea of letting go of dreams before, but now that I have a few days off, I'll revisit it to see if it still bugs me. It has been on my mind as I continue, sometimes, to go through the boxes of 35mm negatives that I have amassed. The image above came from one of those boxes, which I scanned and fiddled around with the exposure, playing with some of the numerous tools in photoshop and just eyeballing it. I guess it looks ok, but I have noticed that sometimes what I post here looks like crap on a different monitor, often too grey or washed out.

Anyway, back to old dreams. For a long time I had hoped that I would be able to design a life that would somehow include enough resources to invest in taking photos that would be worthy of publication or exhibition. I wanted to be Henri Cartier-Bresson and travel the world and wait for my decisive moments to occur. When I was single, it was easy to actually attempt this.  I had few responsibilities and had enough money to do what I wanted and had up to 4 months a year vacation (unpaid, mind you) if I wanted to follow this dream on my own terms. 

I think in those days, printed photography books were the golden standard. And by looking at some of them, often in bookstores, I started to feel that I was just as good as some of the stuff that was being published. I won a few contests, had some exhibitions, got published occasionally, and then self-published a small book, more like a high-end zine. I did manage to make a profit, but overall it was not worth the leg work. Collecting money from the owners of little shops here and there was a pain in the ass.  But, I was never really focused on money. I wanted to be ...a bonafide creative person, I guess. I was never comfortable with calling myself a photographer or, god forbid, an artist, but I also cringed when people asked me if taking pictures was my hobby. It seemed to be something more than that. 

At the time, I was teaching English part-time at an art college and was around creative people, which I think in a sense rubbed off on me and I started to feel that there could be a path for me to be accepted as part of the community. The idea of a full time  position, teaching English and maybe a little bit of photography, became my dream. And for a few years it seemed that it was in reach...until suddenly, and painfully, it wasn't. I prefer to avoid the details, but I was overlooked when the time came. It hurt and took a good long time to really understand why, but I eventually did. I also made a good recovery and managed somehow to fall up, not down, and land perhaps a better position at good university. Better in terms of employment, but lacking the connection to the creative atmosphere of being around art school kids. I missed that terribly for a while, but now I am over it...I guess.

So, without much of a conclusion, that is what I have been trying to let go of for a long time. I am no longer looking back at the disappointment. The scar has healed nicely and the bitterness is not really there anymore. The current challenge, which will be saved for a later rambling post, is what is my dream now? Or could it be that part of growing old and (maybe) wise is that you realize that you do not really need to have a perfectly defined dream? I have been feeling that just getting through some small projects feels good enough. Sometimes just having a good day is enough of a dream for me.