I felt something was off but I never expected that.
I really believed that this time, it was right. That it was serious. That this love was meant to last. I refused the thought of it being a summer fling or just a volatile affair. I really fell in love. Not in a mad fashion, not in any destructive way. I just felt like colours were brighter, life felt just a little bit lighter. I felt empowered by this love.
But then something felt a bit weird. I felt something had changed. At first I didn't ask him because I kept on thinking that I was probably just imagining things, just trying to find the bad in this good situation. Until two days ago, when, lying in his bed, I ended up asking him to tell me what had changed on his part.
Turns out that gut feeling was spot on. Something was indeed off. "I'm afraid of commitment," he said. "I'm scared of not being free anymore". Something about the balance of love tipping more on one side than the other.
It was 2 am then. I was supposed to leave only the day after, but considering this, taking the soonest bus back was the best idea. Next bus was at 5:30. I could have stayed there, watching him avoiding looking at me, barely saying anything. But I just couldn't. So at 2:30, I left his place to go roam the streets of a city I barely know, until the passing of the bus.
The hardest thing to say and do?
Saying "Salut, François", opening the door and walking out.
20050824
Some Thinking About Aesthetics
Summer is my worst season. I usually can't produce work in the summer. At least, nothing substantial. Years prior, I would be unable to write, unable to think about things at all during summertime. I would be able to produce work in the fall, in the winter and in sprintime, but come summer, dry season hits.
This year, I felt determined to go past that. To go past the lethargy, the lack of creativity or inspiration. My way of doing it: working more. Force myself to produce more work, to try and think differently, to take more pictures, to carry my camera with me even more than I did before. In that effect, I started taking pictures of little daily things towards the beginning of the summer. I created a set on Flickr with that work that I called "Slices: The Ongoing Project". It was about cataloguing daily happenings, but daily happenings that were outside of my normal, regular context.
Then, I went on to make a series of diptychs with pictures I had taken. Just to try new ideas, to try and force meanings, try out new aesthetics. Always in order to work around the lethargy and lack of creativity that hits every single time summer comes.
This research culminated in three photos, a series titled Crude Imaging. Three pictures of me, half-naked, taken with a slightly overexposing flash burst, then processed to make them unpleasant to view. Why? To try and force myself out of the realm of the beautiful.
In doing that, I started understanding things about my need for photography. About why it has become so primordial to me to take pictures. About why it is that I want photography to be my career, my life. Not the only thing in my life, but my main creative outlet.
I will write more on that topic later, because I'm currently sitting in an internet cafe, somewhere in Old Quebec and I am not totally sure when my (computer) time will run out.
What's important for me to specify though is this: No matter what happens, I'm in the right place. I have something to produce in the photographic realm. I am beginning school in less than a week and then will begin a three year journey that will help me comprehend all that it means. But I know it's right.
This year, I felt determined to go past that. To go past the lethargy, the lack of creativity or inspiration. My way of doing it: working more. Force myself to produce more work, to try and think differently, to take more pictures, to carry my camera with me even more than I did before. In that effect, I started taking pictures of little daily things towards the beginning of the summer. I created a set on Flickr with that work that I called "Slices: The Ongoing Project". It was about cataloguing daily happenings, but daily happenings that were outside of my normal, regular context.
Then, I went on to make a series of diptychs with pictures I had taken. Just to try new ideas, to try and force meanings, try out new aesthetics. Always in order to work around the lethargy and lack of creativity that hits every single time summer comes.
This research culminated in three photos, a series titled Crude Imaging. Three pictures of me, half-naked, taken with a slightly overexposing flash burst, then processed to make them unpleasant to view. Why? To try and force myself out of the realm of the beautiful.
In doing that, I started understanding things about my need for photography. About why it has become so primordial to me to take pictures. About why it is that I want photography to be my career, my life. Not the only thing in my life, but my main creative outlet.
I will write more on that topic later, because I'm currently sitting in an internet cafe, somewhere in Old Quebec and I am not totally sure when my (computer) time will run out.
What's important for me to specify though is this: No matter what happens, I'm in the right place. I have something to produce in the photographic realm. I am beginning school in less than a week and then will begin a three year journey that will help me comprehend all that it means. But I know it's right.
20050816
Refusal Letter/Eternal Underdog
I submitted a poetry manuscript to a publishing house (that publishes poetry only) about a year ago. It was a book that took me two years to write and correct and rework. A book that I love because it's a mark of a very intense two years. At the same time, when submitting the book, I was aware of it's limitations, namely the lack of cohesion. It was written without any defined theme or directive. Just poems, together.
My mother called me today, saying that a letter arrived for me, from the publishing house. I asked her to open it. The letter said that my manuscript had been thoroughly evaluated by the reading committee but did not win the majority of the committee over. It ends in wishing me to keep writing.
I had felt this refusal coming. In the past few weeks, I often had random thoughts stating that my manuscript had been turned down. So it didn't come as a surprise in any form. Still, I find myself a bit disappointed by the news.
I could always submit it to other poetry publishers, but I will not. When I first sent it, I told myself that if it were to be published, then all the better, but that if it were to be turned down I would just work harder on the second one and see it as a nice act of courage, that is, to have sent it in in the first place.
I have already begun work on my second poetry book. I began writing it last summer. I have a theme this time around, a directive. Just yesterday, I was rewriting and compiling, I found out that about 75% of the writing is done for the book. All I have is to work harder now.
This makes me feel like a bit of an eternal underdog. They didn't turn down the book because it was crap but because it didn't receive a majority of votes. That basically means that some of the readers liked it and others hated it. It's a middle point situation. Which is the incarnation of a long-standing fear of mine, the fear of being the constant and eternal underdog. The person who neither excels nor fails. The person whose writing is good but never stellar, the photographer who takes okay photos but never astonishes or captures attention of people.
I know a lot of that amounts to the work we put in what we do. But what if it never is enough? What if no matter how hard I work, I always end up back to the middle point?
My mother called me today, saying that a letter arrived for me, from the publishing house. I asked her to open it. The letter said that my manuscript had been thoroughly evaluated by the reading committee but did not win the majority of the committee over. It ends in wishing me to keep writing.
I had felt this refusal coming. In the past few weeks, I often had random thoughts stating that my manuscript had been turned down. So it didn't come as a surprise in any form. Still, I find myself a bit disappointed by the news.
I could always submit it to other poetry publishers, but I will not. When I first sent it, I told myself that if it were to be published, then all the better, but that if it were to be turned down I would just work harder on the second one and see it as a nice act of courage, that is, to have sent it in in the first place.
I have already begun work on my second poetry book. I began writing it last summer. I have a theme this time around, a directive. Just yesterday, I was rewriting and compiling, I found out that about 75% of the writing is done for the book. All I have is to work harder now.
This makes me feel like a bit of an eternal underdog. They didn't turn down the book because it was crap but because it didn't receive a majority of votes. That basically means that some of the readers liked it and others hated it. It's a middle point situation. Which is the incarnation of a long-standing fear of mine, the fear of being the constant and eternal underdog. The person who neither excels nor fails. The person whose writing is good but never stellar, the photographer who takes okay photos but never astonishes or captures attention of people.
I know a lot of that amounts to the work we put in what we do. But what if it never is enough? What if no matter how hard I work, I always end up back to the middle point?
20050815
I Hope She Made It Safely Home
I went for a beer with an acquaintance of mine. I came back home taking the last metro and then a late bus. It was about 1:30 am as I got off at the stop three blocks away from my apartment. From afar, I could see people walking in a weird fashion. I didn't pay much attention to it since there are two bars in those three blocks. But as I got closer, I noticed that it wasn't so much drunken walking as some sort of fighting going on. About a block and a half away, I just stopped and stared. It was a man and a woman. The man forcing the woman to do something. Him shaking her, throwing her to the ground, her trying to get away and him using brute force on her. I think I saw him hitting her. I was just standing there, not doing anything, just staring, with my headphones off my head. The man looked in my direction and saw me. Without thinking, I just turned around and walked back to the boulevard. I heard some form of shouting, then the sound of car doors being slammed shut and a car starting fast. I turn around to have a look and there was no one on the sidewalk, just the car driving really fast in the opposite direction.
I went to a corner store, bought something and then came out. There was a policecar parked next to the corner store. It was still there after I came out of the corner store. I didn't say anything and just walked back to my flat.
I hope what I saw wasn't what I think it was. I hope it was just a man trying to help a drunken woman in the car for her not to hurt herself. There's no way for me to be sure of that though. I feel like in the movie Blow Up, where the main character is blowing up the image of what might or might have not been a murder and, ultimately, never find out. I don't know if I could have done anything to help, to make sure the woman was safe...
I hope she made it safely home.
I went to a corner store, bought something and then came out. There was a policecar parked next to the corner store. It was still there after I came out of the corner store. I didn't say anything and just walked back to my flat.
I hope what I saw wasn't what I think it was. I hope it was just a man trying to help a drunken woman in the car for her not to hurt herself. There's no way for me to be sure of that though. I feel like in the movie Blow Up, where the main character is blowing up the image of what might or might have not been a murder and, ultimately, never find out. I don't know if I could have done anything to help, to make sure the woman was safe...
I hope she made it safely home.
20050807
Words Returning
It might be just because we are getting closer to autumn, it might be due to my life gaining some form of direction, but I've been experiencing a return. The return of the words. Not the words for daily communications, no. The words to describe a different form of reality, a reality of the imaginary. Words to be used as tools, as builders.
It had been a long time since I wrote anything of note. I would want to write something, to describe what I feel or see, I would try to. Yet, I'd always end up unable to make it satisfactory. A real, profound lack of inspiration. It's been that way for more than a year. Recently, I would feel that I lost grasp of my language.
Last week, I would get little flashes. Just little words, coming together, little strings, phrases. I found it surprising and didn't really write down those little strings. And just a couple of days ago, while I was in Quebec city, sitting on François' couch, looking out the window, a precise idea took form. An idea for a short poem. It was imperious that I'd write it down. Which I did. Then, through the couple of days there, I wrote a couple more of those little poems. On the bus ride back to Montreal, I felt rather inspired and wrote some more. The words came back. Like they did before.
So I guess my writing teacher was right after all. Words will go and leave for a while, but if they've inhabited you before, they're bound to come back.
It had been a long time since I wrote anything of note. I would want to write something, to describe what I feel or see, I would try to. Yet, I'd always end up unable to make it satisfactory. A real, profound lack of inspiration. It's been that way for more than a year. Recently, I would feel that I lost grasp of my language.
Last week, I would get little flashes. Just little words, coming together, little strings, phrases. I found it surprising and didn't really write down those little strings. And just a couple of days ago, while I was in Quebec city, sitting on François' couch, looking out the window, a precise idea took form. An idea for a short poem. It was imperious that I'd write it down. Which I did. Then, through the couple of days there, I wrote a couple more of those little poems. On the bus ride back to Montreal, I felt rather inspired and wrote some more. The words came back. Like they did before.
So I guess my writing teacher was right after all. Words will go and leave for a while, but if they've inhabited you before, they're bound to come back.
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