I took pictures on Tuesday: pictures of moss-covered old-growth trees backlit by the early morning sun, a lone skin track cutting through a glittering snowfield of the most dreamy fluff imaginable, slices of the 360* panorama of the coast range mountains in their intimidating glory, profiled shots of the krummholtz trees, their backsides encrusted with wind-etched snow, their frontsides dressed in the purest shade of green.
I deleted every single picture. In my mind's eye they were shots worthy of National Geographic--fit to impress my friends and neighbors with the sheer majesty, the raw beauty, the pristine serenity of the journey. Instead, each photo was a shadowy imitation, totally unrecognizable as any place I had ever traveled.
I had a crisis. What have I done? Have I converted my entire life's story into a collection of half-truths and second-rate landscape architecture? All my adventures, all my journeys, all my fondest memories of nature's most beautiful moments I have reduced to a shabby aggregate of pixels and zeroes.
I remember the Dorado--possibly the most beautiful fish I have ever seen. Sleek and powerful, the fish wears an incandescent skin: golden, now pink and red, then green and blue, sparkling in the brilliant Mexican sunshine. It is a marvel, and it is fleeting. A dead fish does not glimmer; its metallic skin shows the pallor of death.
The metaphor is fitting. The passing moment of regret from killing the fish is redeemed in the eating. The meat of a Dorado is a delicacy: firm and moist, yet flaky. Likewise, snapping a photo is redeemed months or years later. For those who found themselves in that time and place, the photos tickle dormant neurons, bringing back the sights, sounds, smells and exhilaration of the moment. Yet perhaps the image is a crutch, something to show our friends and family, to relieve us the duty of describing in full account the moment encased in that frame.
My most beautiful memories have no pictures.
I deleted every single picture. In my mind's eye they were shots worthy of National Geographic--fit to impress my friends and neighbors with the sheer majesty, the raw beauty, the pristine serenity of the journey. Instead, each photo was a shadowy imitation, totally unrecognizable as any place I had ever traveled.
I had a crisis. What have I done? Have I converted my entire life's story into a collection of half-truths and second-rate landscape architecture? All my adventures, all my journeys, all my fondest memories of nature's most beautiful moments I have reduced to a shabby aggregate of pixels and zeroes.
I remember the Dorado--possibly the most beautiful fish I have ever seen. Sleek and powerful, the fish wears an incandescent skin: golden, now pink and red, then green and blue, sparkling in the brilliant Mexican sunshine. It is a marvel, and it is fleeting. A dead fish does not glimmer; its metallic skin shows the pallor of death.
The metaphor is fitting. The passing moment of regret from killing the fish is redeemed in the eating. The meat of a Dorado is a delicacy: firm and moist, yet flaky. Likewise, snapping a photo is redeemed months or years later. For those who found themselves in that time and place, the photos tickle dormant neurons, bringing back the sights, sounds, smells and exhilaration of the moment. Yet perhaps the image is a crutch, something to show our friends and family, to relieve us the duty of describing in full account the moment encased in that frame.
My most beautiful memories have no pictures.
1 comment:
You sound like Ben Morgan. You guys really are alike.
And I like the song...it's ridiculously fitting.
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