What Photos Teach

My relationship with photos is now the most clinical it's ever been. I rarely say 'regular' stuff now like, "where was this taken?," "Who's this in it?," "Where were you when this was taken?" I've lost interest in asking information-finding questions of this nature. And it's fine. I reckon we all graduate to that next level, at some point. I learn a lot of the business of photography on a daily basis. I've come to appreciate how difficult a medium it is and how hard its practitioners have to work for their work to reach as a final point as it needs to before showing.

I tend to say more and more things like, "the chiaro/scurro conflict is strong in this one" or "I'm not sure about the sepia tones in this one," and so forth.

Last night I apparently was in a mood. In my usual way I contradicted the statement by resorting to an oldie but goodie, "No, I'm not! What?!"
"You look like you're in a mood. Like here. He-he-he."

And then I smiled. Because I was shown a photograph of mine that was taken when I was three. I don't know which box it was taken out of but I reckon it was a box.

Apparently, I was mad at something that day. I was playing outside but my parents summoned me for family photos which, of course, I resented. Who wants to experience an interrupted game? Not me, that's for sure. When my play time is messed with, I throw fits. I threw a fit. For family photos, one does one thing as a rule of thumb: One smiles.
Yes, ok, consider this picture.
The quality is not good as it was not scanned right but I wanted to highlight the facial features. One can't hide emotion from the camera.
"Smile, sweetie, smile for the camera," Say the parents.
Apparently, I said, "No! Don't feel like it."
"Smile just for a second."
"No."
"Smile and you'll get gelato."
"No!!"
Ok, insert something akin to, "just take the friggin' picture." And it was taken. The face I picked for the picture corresponded with the emotion I was feeling: I was ticked off that I was taken away from the playground.

And I wasn't in a mood anymore. All because of being shown a picture of me when I was three, being in a mood over being removed from the playground against my will. Funny how a photograph can contain so much.

On Memory and “Moonwalking With Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything”

If you're into taking pictures as a way of documenting your life, you're not alone. Others do just that. If you're lucky to have people in your life who are photo-philes and who particularly like to take images of you, be thankful to them. They're helping document your own history.

Peculiarity is a basic to remembrance. This is the premise of Joshua Foer's new book Moonwalking With Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything which, by the way, is worthy of all the praise it's getting from the literati.

As the author points out: "Once upon a time people invested in their memories, they cultivated them. They studiously furnished their minds. They remembered. Today, of course, we've got books, and computers and smart phones to hold our memories for us. We've outsourced our memories to external devices. The result is that we no longer trust our memories."

I need time to remember stuff, the stuff that happens daily. I suppose I've said the following more than a few times as it's quoted back to me in a way that mirrors my usual syntax.
"How was your day?"
"Haven't had time to stare at the ceiling to remember it yet."

I tend to do that, stare at the ceiling. I got to thinking this morning when the habit started and it was back in childhood when I'd wake up at the crack of dawn and the only thing I could do was stare at my ceiling and wait till it was semi-okay for me to leave the room and go bug someone like a sibling who loved to sleep in.

As an adult, I find ceiling-staring time most helpful when it comes to filing my to-do lists, interpret the experiences I'm having in the week, make sense of what I'm reading, and so forth. Ceiling-staring time is also quiet time. I like the quiet of early mornings as it primarily helps me file my current memories and make sense of existence.

Foer's book channels that which most people are, de naturae, programmed to get: sexuality. One of the main points of the book is quite simple: that which helps improve one's mnemonic skills is our basic sensual drive. Few things are better to use when it comes to maximizing one's memory than resorting to erotic memories.

I get this. I often write about the deep effect music has on me and how I use it to journal my life experience. Some use pictures, others music, a few more words. The point is, regardless of which medium one employs, creativity serves primarily a memory-recording function. And if you'd like to read more on the topic while being thoroughly entertained as well as revisit your own sensual history, do give this book a chance. Man, is it ever well written!