Back to my trip to California this past April/May. Most of my time riding the cruiser was during earlier hours when coffee was just as important of a quest as snaps. But this day I went out twice and this time, all that I cared about was the light. Magic hour light. Shadow stretching, blue deepening, golden, delicious, light.
But of course light is nothing much until it finds something to strike.
After two very long posts over the weekend, I’ll be brief. If I were assign lyrics to this picture, it’d be California Dreaming by the Mamas and the Papas.
Golden light, golden sand, blue sky, riding a bike and snapping pix. I know it’s not even close to winter yet, but when you know of California, summer just isn’t the same anywhere else.
I woke up this morning thinking about that song from the Sound of Music, “My Favorite Things.” Don’t ask. I’m pretty sure even my sub-conscience was going, “What the fu…”
But now that I’ve had my morning coffee and feel somewhat human, I look at this picture and if I were to re-write the lyrics, this is the picture that I’d start with. It’d have something to do with bike rides and sand, Holga-why-the-hell-not-snaps, the 420 session that transpired immediately prior to this shot, hanging with Dan, and absolutely no responsibility other than taking pictures and not running one over on said bike.
I know it’s not quite the twirling on a mountaintop, being chased by nazis material made for movies, but then again, I’m not a nun with second thoughts wearing drapes, so cut me some slack.
To just kind of expand on yesterday’s theme of memory…
…when a little bit of time passes between you and whatever scene you wish to recall, the details get a little fuzzy, maybe some multiple exposure gets thrown in as well as a certain color shift.
That’s Holga, pure and simple. A scene that at one time existed, but when it’s recalled, it’s not always the way we remember it. The device allows for our interpretation to be projected onto the memory, or in this case, the scene.
Photography is memory. And no, I’m not talking hard-drive type memory, though that happens to be true as well, seeing I have gigabytes of the stuff, but I digress. I’m talking travel back in time and smell the salt air and feel the bonfire warmth on your exposed limbs and taste the melted chocolate marshmallow concoction type of memory. All that echoed laughter spilling out from your family and friends, the ability to gather in the way the entire sky looked as the popping sparks climbed into the darkening blue.
When I look at pictures I’ve taken, even ones like this with no direct link to my past memories, I can’t help but recall the times, still shivering from the Pacific, covered in my towel and treated to a hot-dog, an ice-chest chilled Coke, and a s’more. Moments of my life that endure, thankfully, as they’re what I am.
