When James was six years old, he saw the state of Virginia in a pothole in the alley behind our house. Today, at 11, he noticed the water marks on the driveway resembled the western boundary of the U.S., from Washington to Texas. If I’m still posting to this blog when he sees the whole country on pavement, someone please buy me a drink. Maybe he’ll be able to.
It has now been adopted by a new generation, who despite all that digital has to offer, still want to explore film. I knew they were out there.
*This is the first in a series, “Dad’s Basement Diaries.”
One benefit of film photography, in retrospect, is that it allowed us to create more bad pictures than good. Let me explain. Today I am going through several boxes bequeathed to me by my mom when she sold her house. She is still alive and well, but we have more storage space for these things than she does in her new condo. These boxes are full of photos.
Had these photos been produced digitally, it would stand to reason that they wouldn’t have been printed unless they were not only decent, but had been photoshopped, snapseeded, or otherwise paid attention to; the ones I perused today were not, neither before nor after their creation.
Of course there are some keepers in the pile, but it’s satisfying to be able to toss the majority in a trash bag and not feel the least bit compelled to consult mom on the matter. I am thankful so many of these photos are bad. And I know mom will be thankful she didn’t have to spend any time on this particular project. My suggestion for the future: Keep them in the cloud.
A walkway to a little island appears during minus tides only 40 days per year, right across the street from our hotel. We were kayaking during the lowest point this morning, but returned in time to wade out for a quick island visit before the water was again too deep to traverse. We first observed the isthmus when we arrived yesterday, and I’ve been saying and spraying the word at every opportunity since. You try it.