Which photos he sent in an envelope

Sixteen years ago I drove around South Iceland and photographed. Made a few prints in a darkroom somewhere in downtown Reykjavík. Among others, one of this waterfall. Put them in envelopes and applied at art schools.

Still think about who he was and which photos he sent in an envelope the guy I met on the stairs on my way to the interview, he who sat and held his head in his hands and I never saw again while getting accepted myself, increasingly more to my surprise as time goes by and I think back on those photographs. Ohwell, #life.

(Initially written in my native language. Not my best translation.)

Seeing

Looking at old negatives, since so long ago that I can hardly remember a single frame. Or was it that I don’t remember anything anymore?

Seeing:

  • Ignorance. So embarrassing that it hurts. Not only ignorance but incapability, if that’s a word. Smallness. Helplessness.
  • Perspective, tons of perspective. How things connect with one another, things and connections I had no idea about the time, stuff only time can teach. How it all began. It. Not sure if seeing it is a good thing.

Wondering:

  • What square camera I had back then, with a separate back, running the film vertically past the frame. After much pondering I remembered the Bronica but not what it was called, the one with the focal plane shutter that went kathummmmp when fired. The one I ended up selling because I needed something better. See, ignorant.

It is, no it has some value, looking back at oneself like this. I think. That’s how I see these negs basically, as some sort of a mirror image of a former self, which has to be—to a considerable degree—what makes up the current self. Ohdear. This is beginning to sound like a country pop tune, a pretty bad one.

Anyway here’s a square photograph not taken with any of the square cameras I’ve had because I haven’t yet scanned any of them. No, it’s because the ones that I have scanned are totally uninteresting just now.

thorir_160501_0274 copy
And the interestingness of this particular photograph might be debated although there isn’t any reason to

This was supposed to be the post where I went Ok, time to snap out of it. That’ll be the next one. If nothing unexpected shows up to spoil the plan.

Twelve

Twelve years ago I stood here, about to pack my bags and go home. Still here.

Twelve years, 144 months. Bunch of days. A lot can happen in twelve years, a lot has. And a lot hasn’t.

It all looks real good though, on the surface. Wait, no. It doesn’t.

#midlifecrisis

Man, soup, sack, keys

Just after I got the soup a man came into the café. He had a small rucksack and an instrument, hadn’t shaved for some days. Carried himself humbly.

He didn’t order anything but went straight downstairs, that’s where the restrooms are. Shortly afterwards, on his way out, every step an effort not to be noticed. As the door closed behind him he stopped for just a moment on the steps outside, as if he had nowhere to go and needed to make an impromptu decision if he should take a left or a right. I was just about to finish my soup, and I noticed how the keys felt a little uncomfortable in my pocket, the housekeys in my pocket.