On friendship, bad hair days, and the photographs we forget to take. Well, I’m here to tell you, just take the damn picture!
This morning I thought about Barbara.
I was lying in bed somewhere in the land of awake and no-not-yet. That fuzzy state of consciousness where thoughts just pop out of nowhere.
And it came to me. I don’t have any photographs of her.
Twenty years of friendship. Ten years of being next-door neighbors. Of walking our dogs together, borrowing sugar or coffee or whatever else was needed with no intention and no expectation of ever paying it back. Sharing baked goods and soup.
Ten years of having the keys to each other’s homes, of laughing and crying and bitching about life. Families. Politics. Each other. Of using vulgarities as terms of endearment.
And in my half-awake state this morning, I realized I don’t have a single photo of Barb. Not even a selfie of us being silly together. Not a single visual acknowledgment of all those years of friendship.
And I never will.
Because Barbara died last week. Passed over the human version of the rainbow bridge to whatever lies beyond this earthly existence. In my heart, I know something does.
And Barbara’s angels all have four legs.
Thousands of Photos. But Where Are the People?
There are thousands and thousands of photos in my camera roll. Family. Dogs. Horses. But most are what I call noticing photos.
Things that grab my eye. The way the light hits at a certain time of day. The water. The sky. Critters. Winter-dead grasses all in a tangle. Clouds.
It’s a laundry list of inspiration.
Oh, there are family photos too, but not nearly as many as arty pics. Because rocks don’t have bad hair days or care if they look fat. And mud puddles don’t give a rat’s ass about how they look.
But people do.
“Don’t take my picture!”
My son started saying that when he was three years old.
As you can see from the featured photograph up above, his attitude toward family photography didn’t improve over the years, eventually catching on with other family members. I’m so proud.
Even the dog has taken camera avoidance to an art form. The minute Maggie sees me point my phone in her direction, she’s gone. I have more photographs of her backside disappearing through doorways than I care to admit.
And I get it. Because I’m not particularly fond of having my picture taken either.
Oh, I’ll take a selfie now and then. But I want to control the lighting. The angle. The expression. And preferably have the opportunity to take seventeen more until I find one that doesn’t make me wonder who that old woman is staring back at me.
The Beauty of Imperfection (Except Mine)
I’m an artist. I spend an enormous amount of time looking for beauty in things that are crooked, weathered, worn, battered, and generally imperfect.
Give me a gnarly old tree, a rusty piece of machinery, or a rock with a bad case of moss and I’m delighted.
But point a camera at my face and suddenly I’m a lot less enthusiastic about the beauty of imperfection.
There’s a lesson in there somewhere.
Barbara and I weren’t the sort of friends who needed to document everything. We were just living our lives. Walking dogs. Drinking coffee. Laughing at things that probably weren’t all that funny to anyone else.
It never occurred to me that someday I’d want a photograph of one of those perfectly ordinary afternoons.
Not a flattering photograph. Not a special occasion. Just Barbara being Barbara.
Take the Picture. And Be in It.
I can’t tell you how many photographs I’ve avoided because my hair looked awful or I’d acquired another chin.
But maybe the people who love me aren’t looking at my chins. well, except a certain sister…
But aside from that, maybe everyone else is just looking at me.
I’m going to try to remember that the next time someone points a camera in my direction. And I’m going to make an effort to photograph more of those perfectly ordinary moments with the people I love.
I wrote last week about noticing people, but those were strangers. Now I’m thinking about the people closest to me. The ones whose presence is so familiar that I forget to take the picture.
Not just the birthdays and holidays. The everyday stuff. The laughter, the silliness, the sitting around doing absolutely nothing remarkable.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll stop insisting on seventeen retakes.
No promises.
This Week’s Noticing Prompt
Take the damn picture.
Photograph someone you love this week. Not a posed portrait or a special occasion. Just an ordinary moment.
And let someone take a picture of you, too. No fussing about the lighting, the wrinkles, or your hair.
You don’t have to love the photograph.
Someone else might.
P.S. For further evidence that family photography is a risky business, visit Awkward Family Photos. You’re welcome.
Thanks for noticing with me. Leave a comment and tell me—are you the one taking the pictures, the one hiding from the camera, or a little of both?
Back next week–
