Pictures

A New York Woman Remembers a Camera

In the Bath at Home

The first time I held a camera it was my Mom’s and it was 2012.

I was twelve years old and Tumblr obsessed, taking drags of URLS like RhinestoneLoverAddict whenever I found WiFi signal on my iPod Touch.

2012

We were on vacation that week and My Mom replaced my iPod with her Nikon F3.

Strict teacher, she taught me to read light meterless by eyeballing. No Allegra, that would be F11. The sun is too bright there, adjust to F5.6. Change your aperture Allegra or that movement will result in a blur.

Around the island we went making pictures. For me, young and insecure, it was the first moments of youth where I felt adventurous and curious. Through rose gardens and scattered conch my mom watched while I took pictures.

After getting the hang of it, me and her F3 were set free. I snapped what I could. My weird feet, in many changing settings. Toes long and painted robin’s egg blue with water tickling my toes. Accidental light leaks littered many of my prints. Which my mom ordered for me glossy.

Although I was young, I remember I cherished those photos. I kept them in my room for a long while, strewn about and littered next to teal Laduree boxes where I’d shoved clandestine rolling papers and neon green shot glasses. But the photos from that trip were special.

I realize now it is because it was the first time I witnessed myself and the world.

Yesterday I saw this movie with my friend Jarod. It was called I’m Not Everything I Want To Be. Pictures of youth, war, factory, sex and women in lands far from my own. But scattered throughout like familiar Morse pictures of Libuše Jarcovjáková’s feet. As she witnessed them. As her body was. Because she had them there. Because she looked down through a lens to see them. I left the theatre crying.

Libuše Jarcovjáková Photographs

Can I tell you a secret? I have not taken a picture in years.

But I am writing this now because I made a vow. I think I promised myself something at 12 that I remembered leaving the theatre. Those years ago, gangly and with two left feet. And besides, I have a strict teacher to make proud. My mother. As my life’s work will be to honor hers.

Fur (my mom left, me right)

Stairs

Today I picked up glossy prints. A woman crying. Feet on fire escape. Hand down pants.

Pictures

It is me, eager to show you what my mother taught me. That light creates an image. That God made oceans then aperture. That a camera is a witness and a friend and a gun. That women are alive. Let me show you one.