On the Fugitive.

The inevitable has happened. I'm surprised how long it took... but not at all surprised that it happened while on vacation(ish).

After shooting one roll of film three times through -- in the subway, in the trees, in the mirror, off the roof, etc. --
I direly overexposed each time and did all but expunge every detail from every negative.

To be fair, these were shot on a fully manual camera that I had only used two other times.
To be fairer, I did pretty well on those other two rolls.
To be fairest, I shoot on fully manual cameras that are brand new to me quite often and have never purged the information.

So, this is one hundred percent my false reading/guessing of the light and the context of light.

It's probably not a coincidence that most of what I shot on this roll is of Eli.
Eli, of whom I shot so many exquisite photos last August.
Eli who, while I was shooting this invisible roll, gave me such enormous compliments about our last time working together.

Humbling? Uh, yeah. Fuck yeah.

*

And yet, I know myself better than this. You know me better than this too.

Of all the photographs I made in New York, why am I sharing with you here
the ones that did not work, the ones that escape(d) me and confound(ed) me?

Not because I'm a masochist (though I am), not because I find value in advertising failure (though I do).
 

I don't often look back over what I've shared, but in light of recent events, I've had to go through my entire blog in search of elusive images of a specific face/name/likeness that I was forced to remove.

Apparently, what often interested me to share was what I lost. At the will and cause of my own hands.
This is no different from life: there are enough pop songs written about not knowing what you've got until it's gone.

But it is a decadent luxury to love your own mistakes, to not call them mistakes at all.
It's not one that is affordable in many situations.

Writing frankly, I find it easier to share mediocre photos here with you because I don't have to apologize for them.
I don't have to title them, tell you what size they are, offer them for sale or alternative forms of value.
I can talk over them. I can give you my voice and my dialogue in them.
A finished, polished photo that gave me what I wanted has no room for air, much less conversation.

I make work, occasionally, that I like. Sometimes that feeling lasts more than a day or two, though often not.
But the half-crappy images -- I love them forever. It is the only quality that is satisfying but not elusive.