0740 Sunday 27 August 2023
I can smell the warm coffee vapor emanating from the mug i am clutching. I’m slouching in a lounge chair in the living room, reading an article on developing C-41 film at home. In parallel, I am asking myself, Am I really doing this? Am I really going to develop color film at home?
I make a mental inventory of the material I already have, boxed away and hidden in the basement somewhere. Which camera would I use? 35mm? Medium format? Twin reflex or SLR? Rangefinder or pinhole? The possibilities stack up. I know what I don’t want: which is something, I guess. I don’t want to use my digital SLR, nor my iPhone.
The article on C-41 development describes a process that is easier than developing b&w film. Cool. I have all the material for b&w processing — the cans, the reels, even chemistry. All i need is new chemistry, and hey look, the article includes an affiliate link to an Amazon SKU…
I slouch further back and ruminate. I work the process. What am I trying to achieve? What are the success criteria? Are there failure criteria? What am I trying to capture? a feeling, a mood, an index of reality?
I want to capture the essence of the media of photography. the interplay between light and film and chemistry, along with the deliberate augmentation of the discretely digital. It’s about the medium, rather than the message. It’s about the intentionally mediated, instead of an automatic, easy truth.
What would that even look like?
I’m not sure; and that is the most exciting thing about this whole prospect…
1750 Sunday 27 August 2023
I push the power switch on the racked Furman Power Conditioner, instantly turning off the studio. My Mac Mini has already shut down, its power LED slowly receding into the past.
I can still hear the mix of An Ocean’s Embrace in my mind. The mood is gloomy, yet fervently independent. The piano, pushed back in the mix, is almost completely gone — a spectral companion accompanying the listener across the horizon. It’s sickly. A shadow of the past; muted and distant.
I’m in a fast craft flying over an ocean. A distorted, simple bass line shapes the waves. Above me, an albatross flies overhead — a trumpet that sounds triumphant, yet lost in washy reverb.
I can feel the yearning unfold as the piano melody ramps up. Yearning for what?
The expanse?
No.
The solitude out here, on this ocean, in a craft my eyes can’t really define?
No, not that.
The key changes from Cminor to Bflat major. The ocean calls to me. So clear and blue. The ocean pulls me closer. I can see my reflection. So clear and blue. The albatross sings a little melody. So clear and blue.
The key changes back to Cminor. But something is different. The craft is shaking itself apart. The atmosphere is on fire. The craft continues its descent towards the ocean. We are on fire as we stream through the atmosphere. We are a cascade of blazing sound, disintegrating into noise on impact.
sinking
sinking
sinking
I reach the bottom and the ocean blinks out of existence. I’m in a cavern. Off in the distance, deeper still, I see faint light of a fire. A voice echoes across the walls. Is that my voice? I can hear the hum of the light pushing through the dark, down there, across the craggy rocks.
Drawn to the warmth, I start making my way down there. Across the craggy rocks, pushing through the dark, towards the hum of the light.
I can hear the echos of my footsteps flit across the cavern walls, sounding like piano notes over a blues scale in Cminor.
Down here, in the craggy rocks, pushing through the dark, towards the hum of the light.
0816 Wednesday 30 August 2023
I’m holding a plastic cup of water while Mother ingests her pills for the morning. She takes the cup and drinks. I notice some skin discoloration across her olive complected face, pointing it out to her. What is that? What happened here?
I fell.
You fell?
I fell.
When did you fall.
She holds the moment, as if gathering her strength: last night. I hit my head on the dresser.
I start inspecting her face. A mild abrasion.
Are you hurt?
no.
Really?
There’s nothing quite like seeing your own mother fall face down as if unplugged. When I saw it for the first time — in the Target parking lot, months ago, it took me a moment to really parse the situation. Time didn’t slow down; nor did the music swell dramatically. The monologuing voice in my head though: silent. As if looking at a living picture.
But there she was, in-between a car and a parking lot concrete divider. Face down and motionless. At that time, I didn’t know how bad it was. I was only in town for a wellness check, reserving the likely possibility that I might have to bring her back to Boston with me.
Sometimes things happen, and all we’re left with is the wreckage.
You try to survive. But at what expense?
How badly do you want to live?
Your eyes hold the universe in suspense.