I have owned a digital camera of some kind since 2001. My first digital camera was a Kodak of some model that I can’t even remember. I think it was 1 megapixel of clarity. It was the size of a disposable camera, but 100 times the weight. I carried it everywhere. From there I transitioned to Sony, then to my first digital DSLR — a Canon 30D. Somewhere in between all of that I kept photographing with an early set of three Polaroid cameras I bought for $7 at a swap meet in the San Fernando Valley. They followed me on most of my travels, adventures, and weekend escapades from the time I was 17 to around 28. (There was one casualty in the summer in 2007 when people in a moshpit at Coachella trampled the polaroid camera I carried that weekend) I once gloated to a friend that they were the best investment I’d ever made because, in the years that followed, they maximized returns in every way: they captured my youth.
I might have somewhere between 1500 and 2000 instant photographs. Some are Polaroids, but most are now Fuji. Some of them our wonderfully composed and developed, with rich tones and colors, and could be enshrined individually in their own frame above my mantel. But most of them (like 95% of them) are totally imperfect. There are people blinking, unflattering light refractions, cropped heads, blurry faces, underdeveloped photos, overdeveloped photos, half developed photos, and some that didn’t reveal their secrets at all.
A few weeks ago I took a photo of my son rolling out dough with his mom. Half of the photo is a burst of flash bouncing off of the wall I failed to recognize to the right of my camera. My son, closer to the middle of the frame, is completely overexposed. My wife’s reaction is blurry. It looks like our house might be haunted. But this photo, containing an endless string of imperfections within such a small space, is as beautiful as any image I’ve ever taken. Within it there is a burst of emotions. I hold it and it beats. I see it and it lives. I feel it.
I’ve been taking photographs, with digital or film cameras, for a very long time. The truth is, most of the time I think my digital shots are just another contribution in the digital ether — a spec of dust on an everlasting negative. My skills don’t seem to progress in any measurable way. Dreams of becoming the next Bill Cunningham or Alfred Eisenstaedt are less realized every year. Yet, instant film offers me a more intimate relationship with images. Lately I’ve been feeling something powerful again. I see these photos develop, revealing their essence, masking nothing, and giving me their best. They are flawed. They are destructible. They say, “Hey. I’m just like you.”
As a devout student of photography, I find myself engaging more openly about my flaws as a creative person through this medium. It’s probably the most honest thing I do on a regular basis. When I took the photo of my son and wife, rolling out the dough that would become a delicious batch of Christmas cookies, I didn’t have high hopes that I’d captured the perfect photo. I knew something would be off. I anticipated that I had missed the shot entirely. As the image emerged I felt my excitement begin to soar. I began to fantasize about my son holding this image later in his life. I thought about the ensuing conversation we would have and the possibilities of where that conversation would lead. I thought of the cookies they were still making in the kitchen and how I’d probably eat 10 of them. I thought of the traditions my wife was creating for him. I thought about his favorite shirt getting dirty and how it didn’t matter. I thought about the toddler laughter that is constantly fleeting from his voice. And I felt a rush of giddiness — the kind my son gets when it’s time to read his favorite books before bedtime.
I’m not exaggerating when I say this feeling happens every single time — and it never gets old.