Sitting in photography class tonight, I nervously wrung my hands over the assignment due. I absolutely was not pleased with what I had turned out and I knew the photo teacher wouldn't be all that excited, either. I had tried to fake it. I limped along this week, uninspired by the whole idea of it. We were to take one photo every single day at 11:11 (either am or pm) to document our lives. How boring is that in my case?
As a homeschooling parent, I have a lot of freedom and flexibility with the schedule, however, 11:11 am most days finds me sitting at the kitchen table pouring over decimals with a squirrelly fifth grader or teaching Ancient Inca Civilization to a reluctant third grader. How exciting can a photo of text books and erase shavings really be? 11:11 pm was really not an option, considering my days begin at 3:30 am. I am rarely awake in the 11:00 pm hour to read the clock, much less cognizant enough to think about taking a photo of any real value.
In a panic, I emailed the teacher early last week, seeking guidance over (read: exemption from) such a rigid time constraint. He graciously yielded and suggested I document my life as related to training for a triathlon, regardless of the time. His profoundly simple statement, "Be one with your life" has rung in my head ever since. And so I took pictures of my bike, pictures of my cleats, pictures of the pull buoy, goggles, and kick board, pictures of running shoes, and pictures of compression socks. I took photos of weights in the gym and jump ropes and planks and aero bars. I photographed gears and helmets and the mountain of dirty laundry churned out by said workouts.
I guess I didn't get the assignment. I hated my photos. They all sucked.
As passionate as I am about working out and training for these endurance events, the photos absolutely did not convey that message. They spoke something else entirely, but I couldn't put my finger on it....wasn't able to decipher it. One dimensional in theme, my photos had some original composition, but absolutely no "wow" factor. I threw in a few other randoms that photo teacher spoke about more compassionately; those were photos of burned out, weathered, tattered buildings I consistently pass on my afternoon runs.
As is the case in many stories in life, there was another parallel story going on in my photos. From my workout photo journal came a story of abandoned structures. (Stay with me.) All this week while photographing various workouts around town, the assignment evolved into one of abandoned groves with rotting buildings and barely-there thatched roofs. I absolutely adore the numerous old skeletal structures around this podunk town. Why? I really couldn't say until tonight, and maybe I still cannot articulate it, but I am going to try here.
The framework of what is left of old houses, barns, and sheds, useful in a past life, evoke in me a feeling of such utter sadness and despair that only rotting beams and tattered roofing can. Something about the juxtaposition of an ancient dilapidated barn in an abandoned dead grove of black, brittle trees is enough to drop me to my knees and cause me to succumb to the emptiness in my stomach until it swallows me whole. It turns my belly inside out and eats me alive. I love the feeling of it.
I want to tell the story of the weather-worn shed that suffers year after year under the unforgiving sun and humidity, struggling to keep its frame intact in seasons of relentless rain and wind. I want to document the broken sheds long forgotten in the tall grasses of groves that no longer bear fruit. I want to photograph the community of trees that after planting and nurturing, someone gave up on--left them alone to die in the scorching heat...walked away from. Those hollow structures, transparent walls, and lifeless branches take on a whole new life and meaning all their own to me.
Photo teacher was quick to point out that my images from last week had a similar flavor of abandonment. He referred to the shattered eclectic bottles and dismissed broken pottery abandoned in the middle of a trail to nowhere that I had photographed. Those shards of glass and China had called to me. I found them quite by accident while out scouting scrub jays, but they screamed to be photographed, so much so, I had to make a second trip back to their burial ground and unearth more of it for photo ops. I couldn't get enough of it. Something in me needed to tell the story of the unwanted glass and pottery. Where had they come from and why did someone deliberately dump what was left of them out in the middle of exactly nowhere?
I absolutely adore a teacher who can surmise so much of the big picture with so little before him. It took a mostly perfect stranger to look at just two weeks of my photos and help direct a creative vision. I love his suggestion of getting "out in the field" because this project is "calling" me.
However, I am never going to be an avid photographer of these moments. I am mediocre at best at capturing these slices of life because I am just not as passionate about them as I am of the broken and neglected. I want to be an advocate for the care and proper treatment of abandoned churches and graveyards. I want to document the dismal groves and their original outhouses before they blow away and disappear forever. I want to tell the various stories of the abandoned and unwanted without voices.
I love that photo teacher called me out on it. My heart aches for the abandoned. Why? What story does that tell of me?
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