I am a worthless photographer. Mostly I’m too impatient. Brain goes too fast. With some media I’ve learned how to work with this energy. Not photography.
For my eighth birthday my favorite babysitter gave me a camera. She was in high school and had hot pink acrylic nails with palm trees painted on them. This was still in the age of disposable flash bulbs. My gift came with one tower of ten bulbs: one flash per photo and then it was spent. The camera never worked. My mom took me to our neighborhood camera shop to see if there was any fixing it. At Orange Camera Dick and Wanda chain-smoked while their gazillion cats lounged on the counters. Can you smell it? Developer and burnt tobacco and cat fluff settled on 1980s formica and low pile carpet?
Our family was getting ready to make our first trip to Alaska. I had been so excited about taking my own photos. But no dice, this little royal blue plastic baby was garbage. Dick and Wanda felt bad and graciously loaned me a scrappy camera just for the trip. This is what happened:
I don’t know who these people are.
