There’s the making of a photograph, which is all about intent. Especially with composed photograph. All photographs are composed as the photographer intentionally decides to frame a scene, what to leave, what to leave out. Walking along with a camera, seeking something that catches the eye, something to document with a point of view. There’s also the photographs that are intentionally created — this is the approach to photo-making that I arrived at rather late in my photography life. Working in the makeshift Qwerky Studio, it was a revelation to decide precisely where to place objects within the frame was scary and exhilarating for someone more accustomed to the play-it-as-it-lays, documentary style.
I’ve also moved outside of the studio to make compositions in plein air. Such was the case for “On The Line,” part of my ongoing “My Life In A Dome” project — photographing the relics of my childhood, lovingly (perhaps obsessively) and assiduously packed away in my parents’ basement for decades. In one large tub, a plastic sacophagus, were my childhood, my American childhood, uniforms — baseball, football, and a pair of fringed “Indian” pants. All remarkably preserved and clearly not soiled from use. I wasn’t much of sports kid so those were new-looking. The Indian pants are still in good shape, but reveal how often I wore them.
Two things stand out for me with this photograph:
When I opened the tub after being given it by my Mother (she teared up as I loaded it and some others into my car, saying, “You have no idea how hard it is for me to give those up.”) I was astounded how — immediately — I experienced a tactile memory of how each of the uniforms felt on my skin. Like Proust’s “madeleine” I was almost overwhelmed with the way the fabric felt on my legs, my thighs especially. And in that instant — experienced almost every time I worked them them, as when setting up this photograph— the pants triggered a flood of involuntary childhood memories, illustrating the power of sensory experience to evoke the past. I was right back there, a boy trying on the expected uniforms of the day. It became clear that I was interested in romantic idea of the lone Indian, exploring the wilderness on his own, and not part of a team pursuing balls on a diamond or gridiron. I was — and perhaps still am at a certain level — the first and last of my own sort of Mohican.
I developed a box of 4x5 film that I thought had images of another project and instead had this one. I usually rush home and develop film soon after I shoot it. I like that rush. But sometimes things linger, and I should sometimes put exposed film away for a while. The experience of looking at something exposed two, or three or more years has a different aura, or feeling, about it. Such was the experience when taking the developed film out of the tank. Magic, as always. I wonder if perhaps all film should be delayed like this. I see the images so differently. Of course, the same applies to photographs I made and dismissed in the initial rush, only to “discover” them later as new-found “keepers.”
To make this photograph, one of many in the series, I knew I wanted to put them on a clothesline, the kind my Mother had when I was growing up. Air drying. I searched the internet and found a vintage clothespin holder, complete with old clothespins. I also drove around for weeks, peering into local backyards, looking for a clothesline. The yard I discovered had two types of clotheslines, and I made compositions on both. There’s even a white picket fence! I am fond of a couple of the shots, though none of them ever receive as much approval as I give them. I don’t care. They work for me.
