“Hark, dumbass, the error is not to fall but to fall from no height.
Don’t fall off a curb, fall off a cliff.”
― Dean Young
i’m not gonna lie- in every way that i’m an obsessive list-and-spreadsheet-and-calendar organizer, i’m also a complete rebel against rules when it comes to certain other types of creation – for the longest time i avoided titling blog entries, and capitalizing, and being careful, and creating structure, and adjusting photos to perfect white balance just because, well, sometimes those things stunt the very art of it all. yes, i’m perfectly aware that this is why i could never be a successful professional photographer.
to be truthful, i’ve avoided technique because i’m actually terrified of imperfection. i never took tango lessons, i never took cooking lessons, i never learned photo editing, i never took proper writing classes. though i should do all of the above. i just kind of try to feel my way into doing things. yeah, i do fail. all the time. but what i do decide to do, i try practice a lot. and with a big dose of heart.
yesterday someone talked about the imperfect white balance of one of my photos and i was like, hmm. so in jovial response (retaliation?) i created a project of the unseen ones, in all their glorious off-angles and off-light and off-balances. of course, there are other reasons for these photos – my lifelong journey to notice (and celebrate) the extraordinary in the ordinary.
i mean, there’s a time and place for it all, isn’t there?
“and suddenly she’s loose fire and unapproachable.”
— The Afterlife, Dean Young
lauren, brooklyn, new york city
originally posted on tumblr, entitled by Traci:
Three mouths; two open to what’s above them. (July 2012), film
photo of me in the Texas rain by Traci, photo of Traci covered in milk by me.
notes from last weekend:
that thing about the great outdoors, the wildflowers, the light, and the humidity. that thing about bare feet propped up on the edge of rolled-down windows as the sky passes by.
that thing about my neck hurting gloriously from falling while learning handsprings in the flakey grass.
that thing about curling up in the hammocks and lazily watching the trees.
that thing about jumping in cold river water while the sunlight breaks through the clouds. that thing about the liberating scream while jumping.
that thing about stubbed fingers from throwing and catching footballs in the wet sunlight.
that thing about the nearness of majestic modes of transportation – like looking upward at low-flying airplanes and racing alongside ambling freight trains.
the dampness of the air that’s aching to rain,
the dampness of my eyes that are aching to see into (and eventually, through) you.
and that night, while drunk on music and southern heat, I grabbed your hand. I waved up to the underbelly of the plane and shouted in your ear over the thumping beat- my self-proclaimed forte, “Maybe the very best thing about me is that I remind people to look up.”
your eyes, looking skyward, agreed.