Tuesday, 16 December 2008
Facebook, for instance. It's a veritable stalker paradise. Especially if you're in the habit of adding people you don't know. I have often been pulled into a mad session of perusing through a friend's entire album simply because my right index finger attained a mind of its own and started clicking precisely every seven and a half seconds (the time it takes for a photo to load on my slow-ass computer). This one time i happened to turn my head to the right (to stretch out a kink) and caught my expression in one of the four mirrors in my room. (another time, another story). It was a mixture of vacuousness and extreme concentration. I reached up to touch the corner of my mouth actually, very seriously expecting drool to be there. After this horrendous revelatory moment in my young adult life I decided that I would keep my photo watching to a maximum of 5 per album and one album per day. And trust me, it helped.
When you photo watch you tend to commit wholly to the most fatal flaw of humankind. You COMPARE.
Drawing comparisons is like trying to run underwater. You're always up against a wall you can't climb over and its doubly tiring. There's always a better trip, a better idea, a better angle, a better party, a better set of friends or just a gosh darned better camera.
You end up feeling lousy most of the time and extend the validity on your period of feeling "sucky" (aren't i just the chirpiest bird in the bunch?!)
Though it does have its benefits, who're we kidding!? They're all bloody superficial!
And on that cheery note...I'm off to face...er study! ;)
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
Photos are everything. They’re proof, they’re nostalgia, they’re pride, they’re shame, they’re weapons, they’re embarrassment, they’re blackmail and more often than not they’re worth a thousand words.
I must say that up until a few years ago (a.k.a in Sharu’s world as two years. Max.) I would always end up making myself look like a total buffoon in any photographs that I accidentally happened to get caught in (sometimes voluntarily but mostly involuntarily). I have since learned a few tricks that have helped me become less conscious but sometimes I revert back to old Shar and I am once again nervous and sweaty and end up looking either constipated or murderous (surprisingly how similar these two emotions look on my face).
It makes me nostalgic to think of all those times that I would run and assault anybody who had a camera and literally snatch it from them. Then I’d refuse to relinquish control while regretting every minute I spent behind my little pseudo-purdah. I didn’t realize until much later that “GOD it doesn’t matter”! Who gives a flying fuck how you look in a photograph as long as you’re there and it reminds you of something special. And trust me; people who take pleasure in pointing out your ‘retard’ moments caught on film are probably crumbling from the inside out owing to a string of insecurities. One point where I do draw the line is putting up ghastly photos on social networking sites. I mean, there’s a difference between not really caring and really bloody asking for it!
Nowadays I’d still prefer to be the one behind my camera but for totally different reasons. It’s because I have a certain affinity for candid shots of my subjects so that the instant I see it in the future it becomes a story of sorts within one single photograph. (“oh look, I’m angry here because you refused to smile just so” and “she’s running past because she’d just stolen his favourite undies” and “doesn’t he look like he wants to kill her?!” etc, etc.)
But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to be in a fair share of the photos either. Cheers to being a braver me than old me!! \m/