I found myself caught up in a world to which I do not really belong over the past few days.
It took writing this story to shake me out of it.
I am glad it did. Part of my problem (if indeed it is a problem) with photography, my own and others, is that I never really look at it as a stand alone art. Although I have taken a fair share of photographs that could be displayed on a wall, complete to themselves, they really don’t satisfy me.
No, it’s the photographs that can be woven into a story that appeal to me. Be the story narrative, descriptive or indeed poetry. Photographs that illustrate, accent or counterpoint.
That’s the real reason I find so much popular photography uninvolving. I cannot form a narrative around these images, or if I can, I find it to be trite and clichéd.
It’s a shame in a way. I am always likely to feel that I operate on the margins of the broad mainstream of photographic endeavor even as part of me craves to embrace it. But that’s where I am. I’m not going to change. After all, roaming the edges of many aspects of life describes much of my personal history. I will never really be an insider.