Whenever I look back on the previous month’s photos, my mind starts weaving. I can often easily discern a common theme that runs through, connecting the snapshots from my life. The things that occupy my thoughts, weigh me down, or free me, they are expressed through progressive shots that seem like puzzle pieces fitting together with the aid of retrospection. Sometimes I crave that particular brand of silence that accompanies a lost sojourn into some deeper attic of my person. Photographs are good chronicles of such abstract explorations. They provide visual departure into valleys of dejection, mountains of triumph, and all the other topographical metaphors for the things that we feel but struggle to say.
But this month is different. I feel disconnected. The common theme that runs through it may have a name, but it isn’t visual and it isn’t visceral. It’s not really a theme at all. It’s intermittent. And the photos are just moments.
They are discrete, particular.
Each a thing that belongs to the past tense, done, packaged, held separate. And yet pays homage to the constancy, continuity of the bigger picture. That which requires remembering in a tense that was once present. It implies a process of recollection, and then of living again, and for that discrete parcel of associations to be vaguely related to the idea of constancy.
The point of any artistic medium is to provide the vehicle through which thoughts are transported to others. And the notion I am trying to capture is simultaneously discrete, complete, constant and self sufficient.
The common thread is time, and myself.
It’s been, maybe seven, years since I’ve been to Melbourne Zoo. I remember it being too much, in the way school excursions force you to collect animals like checks on a list. But I’m glad I came back. Fresh eyes, a different experience. Fun and love and sunshine.
Details of a wall mural inside a restaurant that was asian but also a cafe but also a bar.
Captured early in the morning, before the people come.
The phenomenon of urban storefront camping extends this way every so often on my travels.
Waiting for sneakers outside the fancy sneaker store, that I don’t understand but also don’t have any strong feelings about. I am simply struck by the gulf of investment between the sneaker connoisseurs and practically everyone else, including that blurry man. But then again, isn’t that the logical reasoning behind all kinds of branding?
Melbourne is a fixed gear bicycle decorated by a milk crate and sign advertising hipster coffee and artsy vibes in a cafe that calls itself a precinct.
And despite this, I am drawn to it like a moth to flame.
Like a sneaker connoisseur to a sneaker store.
Winter sun is a long lost lover returning from war.
It’s a little bit dusty.
It’s a lot dusty, actually.
The pastel rainbow on the horizon can only exist in polluted air that forces sunlight to refract differently. I initially gave the situation the benefit of the doubt, however subsequent days have revealed to me the not so inconsistent nature of the smog, and that terrifies me a little, a lot, actually.
We leave April in a state of disconnected fear and spectacle.
(Edit: 14th June 2018) P.S. Yes, I know that according to earlier promises made, this piece was due over a month ago, but life happens sometimes, especially when you’re trying your best to graduate. I felt a bit funny adding this little edit in, since I am under no illusion that approximately 5 people actually read this, but here it is: apologies for the late post, your readership is valued. I hope life has been inspiring and that you are well. More upcoming. x