It’s like being a photographer. You happen upon a striking scene, a moment hovering on the precipice of time which is a charging bull with no concept of stopping, pausing, waiting. Your eyes capture this image, as it moves within the wheels, something stirs and you crouch to snap. Yet as your body lowers, your sight adjusts and the lens focuses, something appears on the peripheries. Another intersection of a moment that is so fragile you hardly dare to acknowledge it.Do you squeeze the trigger and shoot the first image into celluloid eternity, or shift slightly and grasp the fading motion before it slips into oblivion, consigned to the remnants of an imagined possibility.
Which do you attempt to capture? How? With words, images, creativity? Or perhaps, instead of describing the fantastic four that sat on the wooden floor of student accommodation sharing stories, laughs, a brief respite from the reality of work, instead of reenacting the warm voice that shared good news and encompassed you into their personalised world view, you choose to simply keep crouching.
Capturing a new image. One that is created, when the others dissipate. Maybe that is the beauty of authentic photography.