There have been a couple of coast changes since I’ve last written.
No time or energy to write, reflect, record.
But someone was recording.
It started about a month ago.
During the chaos of the move, my grandson James would fish the camera out of my purse and amuse himself while the adults were otherwise occupied. He’d snap away until someone retrieved the camera.
It became a game. Whenever he could get his hands on the camera, he’d indulge in his new-found hobby. I had to put it up on top of a tall armoire to keep him away from it.
I started to delete the mostly out-of-focus images, until I really looked at them. There was a strange beauty in the composition, color, and angle of many of the pictures. Patterns emerged. Stories were told.
I decided James might have his own retrospective in a modern art gallery.
Just imagine these blown up and framed in a New York loft:
Do you think some idiot Art connoisseur might find them a reflection of the existential angst, confusion, and alienation of 21st century society, and buy them for millions of dollars?
Seriously, pictures tell a story.
I think the timing is interesting on this. In the last post, I contemplated why I’ve always taken too many pictures.
I wrote, “Part of it is an attempt to stop the whirling wheel of time. I’ve been trying to hold on to the moments that are pouring out into eternity like salt from an open shaker. Attempting to preserve the moments, I’ve held on to tangible reminders of them. Letters, pictures, newspapers, scrapbooks. Mementoes. Stuff.”
But in viewing James’ gallery, I notice something fresh.
He is focusing in on what he loves.
He is examining. Seeing things through a new perspective. Singling out what is most valuable to him. Intentionally turning his focus and attention to what he loves most. Drawing near. Getting close.
I learn something from my grandson:
I need to tune out the distractions and train my vision to focus on what I love most.
“Open the eyes of my heart…”
(p.s. Just to illustrate what a technological genius we have on our hands: The pictures of "Mrs. Incredible" were taken at dinner at our favorite French restaurant in LA. James snuck the camera out when I wasn't looking, and took pictures of the movie he was quietly watching on the Ipad. (I know, I know. But it's the only way we can enjoy our delicious meal with a tired 3-year old present. One can only eat so many pommes frites.))