A Huge, Old Lincoln. Revere, Ma.
Photographing has always been an escape from my day-to-day life. I have considerable trouble making photographs in my every day observance of the world because, I suppose, photography is about escapism for me. I find the act of making a photograph is about seeking and exploration; I rarely let them wonder into my life unexpectedly. It’s not as if every single photograph I make is premeditated or I knew exactly what I wanted. It’s more like I set my sights on a place or an idea or even at the suggestion of history and then those pictures can come to me.
A Virgin, Condemned. Somerville, Ma.
I often ponder over missed photographs that are worthy images but don’t find their way into my camera because I’m not paying attention with my photo-brain or I hadn’t gone out that on particular instance to make photographs. I’ve tried to do that romantic “always have a camera with you” notion in the past to find myself lugging around a camera that I am not paying attention to.
I have an on-going list of specific places that I want to go out and make pictures of. They aren’t limited to one particular thing or place or state or town. That list extends in all different directions, from mere ideas to specific places that are linked my personal history, to fleeting objects and places that I see in my day-to-day life. The list is vaguely organized by place and also happens to be a 2 paged double columned Word document.
All the Radiators One Could Ever Want. Somerville, Ma.
I always think about pictures when I am moving about the world. The act of photography, for me, is a deliberate and focused action that requires some traveling, serious concentration and dedicated time. I can’t just hold up a camera to my eye during my life and make the pictures. It seems that the act of making photographs is less immediate and more about meditation, slipping into a place of intense observation of the world where I am mostly watching and only sort of participating.
