I procrastinate like none other, yet I’m competent. I pride myself on yielding satisfying results yet remain disgusted. I have interest in many alluring things but find it all to quite boring. I simultaneously care and give up.
I’m lost in a sort of hellish limbo, constantly questioning myself the rationale for continuing to give a fuck.
What makes me, me? The diagnosis could span a bit, but it may be more prudent to illustrate the brief moments that make me feel as honest with myself the most. Imagine this: it may be cliché, take a deep shot of vodka and turn on some Pink Floyd, something like “Mother”, “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”, or “Learning to Fly”, or just something with that vibe. The alcohol slowly enters your bloodstream and the music moves deeper, melting you into yourself, your anxieties melt away, the details of the day past blur, the music fuses perfectly with the alcohol. At that moment, you honestly relax. It may sound like smoking weed, but in my opinion, these circumstances are so much better because these remind me of my past. That's the moment I love most because it makes me feel like me, and as a matter of fact, it’s what I’m doing right now.
With that being said, I suppose I can link these particular things to specific past memories, that’s if you wanna get psychological about it, but to save you some time, it has to do with my father.
My childhood was dysfunctional (I’d guess everyone has that to some degree), but the senses I felt when I was with my father are inexplicable. That relaxing feeling of taking the edge off and listening to good tunes is the essence of my past. However, the thing that really sucks is that I didn’t get the time I wanted to have with my dad while growing up. Some might say it makes me treasure those feelings more and that may be so, but I also feel that it was cut short—it wasn't enough. (Not trying to make it sounds like my dad isn’t around anymore, but the backstory is that my parents divorced in my infancy and since the Navy, I’ve been away). But even if I returned, the past is just that—passed. I do plan on going home again some time because I need it, but for now, this explanation is relevant in my analysis.
I revealed this very intimate detail about myself, so you may wonder what it has to do with photography.
As of late, I’ve only seen the world andits inhabitants in a bleak light. Nothing has had a long-lasting impact on me—something that could resuscitate me. I’ve been frantically searching for it as I watch those around me grow into professional-grade artists and more. It feels like trying to swim for air while trapped in a metal cage. Part of me has thought to capture that feeling in my art, but it’s vague. Capturing the feeling that is the honest me would be more fulfilling. The sensation I mentioned before—that could be art that had feel.
As I venture out each day to school and see the same fucking streets and same fucking people; if I were to artistically interpret that via photography, what would I do? That’s been my new question. But luckily, I didn’t have to search far because my answer came from a fellow classmate: honest[y].
I feel something. The viewfinder comes up to my eye and most times, it's too late. It's no longer real and honest. It's hard to sense, but you just know. I've taken a couple honest photos in the past, but even that's questionable.
I suppose the biggest thing is for me is to not doubt whatever I'm producing; immerse. If I'm not into it, walk away. That could be a bit unorthodox and insulting, so then it becomes a matter of reading between the lines: consistent creation within the territory of the essence of my vision.
What the fuck does that even mean?
-Skye Kühr