Camera and The Passion Program
I've been told a girl complained about talking to me. The girl said "Every time I talk to Margaret, she only talks about her camera." I've known many people to complain about me. You'd think I'd get used to it, but I never really do. I've been passionate before. I let things overwhelm me, take over, let nothing but them occupy my tongue and eyes. I speak about the camera cause the camera has got me in and out infatuated. I think this must be what being in love is like. It's heady, it's exciting. When I picked up the camera, I turned a switch inside me. The Passion Program started up, and I've spoken about nothing else.
I've read that love never really varies from person to person. It feels new to us, but when we look at all that is written about the subject, we realize that these aren't unique experiences. Something gets switched on inside of us, and The Love Program starts going. And to a certain extent, each human being will always feel the same stages and emotions. The Passion Program is similar, but I think only in terms of how it is universal and I think it's unique. I don't think that Love and Passion are similar programs of human minds - I'm sure they're very different. What is similar is how they overwhelm me, how I think the effects of this program are completely unique and original.
Passion. I wondered why this girl grudged it to me. A smug part of me wanted her to be jealous of me. Talking about cameras beats talking about the prom, after all. Maybe she's sick of hearing it, which may be because she's jealous or simply irritated with me. I'm terrified of meaningless and time consuming conversation, like I'm terrified of mediocrity and driving when it's icy. I'd rather talk about something I'm passionate about, even if I risk unconsciously irritating the person I'm talking to.
I talk about camera's whenever I can. When I see the downpour turn the surface of the river into sandpaper, I start muttering "Where's that blasted camera - can I make it to the car without ruining it? I want the camera, what I would give for a picture of that." I don't take a picture to refresh my memory. I take a picture if I think the picture can stand on it's own.
It's funny - it takes me ten minutes to take a picture. I fuss with the focus, the aperture, and try to get things right. I realize that it's like trying to toss a stone into a well in a dark room. I could try, but it would be pretty damned hard for me to have any less of a clue. I know nothing. The camera isn't that great. I might be getting more out of my money by burying the little cash I've got in the backyard than spending it developing film. I have a terrible feeling about the roll of film sitting in my purse. I wasn't sure where exactly I should have focused - on the objects in the foreground or the background. I never knew exactly where to set the aperture. A couple times, I set off the timer by accident.
I tried explaining to a friend that I don't take pictures to preserve a moment. I have a fairly good knack for remembering the small details and the holistic picture. I can replay words said to me, I have a stock ticker of letters sent to me. I remember what the light looked like that day, I don't need a 4 by 6 print of that light.
I take pictures to create something separate entirely from the experience and the memory. I take pictures that don't resemble anything anyone's seen in real life. I try, at least. The camera forces me to examine everything that I drive past every morning. There's a different awareness. Sometime's it's painful on the neck: when I turn into a rubber-necking road hazard, brandishing the camera at red lights and stop signs. Snap! Snap! And I slam on the brakes (hopefully) before collision. The camera gets tossed in the back seat, and I'm full of thrill.
I read an awful lot about self-awareness. Beloved English Teacher often says that if you do not know yourself, you're headed straight for tragedy. I'll settle for roadside-awareness, though. I know my roads, my world, my bedroom and all the dust infested corners of my house. I know it, I passionately snap pictures of it, and I notice it. And ever since I picked up that old F series Nikon, I've noticed things in me. And I can't help but talk about them.
2000-05-09, Camera and The Passion Program
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