When my then-eighteen-month-old son took an interest in a visiting friend's old digital camera, she gave it to him, and he's been snapping pictures with it ever since. (He's now almost three.) He's so often focused on pushing the button that where the camera is pointed or where his tiny digits are located is of little consequence. We have lots of pictures of eyes and boogery nostrils. The other spaces he ends up capturing—objects on the desk, the carpet, his own face—are surprisingly fascinating. I'm not going to argue that they're formally inventive, but there's something to be said for leaving out the first half of "point and shoot." For instance, he'll take a series of photos of the corner of the ceiling; seen successively, it's like stop-motion animation.
They remind me of the maybe half dozen photos that always arrived in my packet of vacation pictures. Often of the dashboard of the car, a blurry, rain-dappled window, a close-up of my leg on the car seat, these accidental images were frequently more interesting than the intended ones. They were atmospheric, evocative of single moments rather than larger experiences. The mottled colors, dampened light, and odd angles seemed rich in their abstraction.
Our digital camera has really destroyed that randomness, the amateur's thrill of not really knowing what you're getting.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment