I am.
Even though I have been reluctant to admit its merit as a form of art. I thought it is the creative past time of the lazy, the button pushers. I have met people like Dobos Tamas and therefore I have changed my mind.
Even though when I have changed my mind I also realised just how technical it was. In the past turning the lens to get a sharper image seemed a bit intimidating, let alone the mechanical alchemy of measuring light. And the post production phase. The atmosphere of a studio. That intense and out of the ordinary encounter between two people on either side of the camera.
About a year ago it really started fascinating me, I wanted to observe the process as eagerly as I wanted to watch basketball when I was 12, or theatre when I was 14 (and ever since) And I had some opportunities.
Yet at this point in my life I believe I am fully aware of the list of my sternghts and with visual arts it is much more voyeurism and critique than an active love affair.
I think I am a good second eye, even a great one, with exquisite taste, I can form and express detailed oppinion about why I like something, and my taste is stubborn and individual. So I am the right person to give feedback, challenge a concept or choose wallpaper and the likes.
But I never thought that images should be the medium of my message. Partly because this is not how my brain works, perhaps because my life has been wrapped up in words from the start, partly because I am a bit rubbish.
So the attitude is wrong: images, visual art for me is always the means and not the ends. It is there to inspire, to instantly give, to narrate, or reflect, to illustrate: it is a precious role, but only a supporting act.
And the skill set is wrong: I am slightly technophobe, and I take crap pictures.
Is life to short for detours? Should I not bother just because I know I am not predestined to be the next Brassai?
Life needs to have a rich texture.
I am flirting with photography.
31/12/2010
First and last dawn of 2010
This is soo familiar and it happened to me before.
Being wide awake at the crack of my day. When times are challenging in the nicotine department times tend to get a whole lot longer.
Effectively, when every single thing becomes the sheer act of not smoking the day expands to 48 hours on its own accord, and than the non-smoker du jour get up a good five hours before it is necessary.
But it is all well, it is a battle I will win, against my own will for the most part, which makes fighting all the bit harder.
But as I said this is nothing new, I remember a morning just like this circa 2006 in Notting Hill, showing down a phallic piece of Shwiss white chockolate, as if my life would depend on it, thinking the sun will never raise on my early-bird tits.
But it does. It is not a hypothesis. Only according to snobs.
Good by 2010, so long most exciting year of my life so far, bring it in 2011, entertain me, delight me thrill me.
I know you will.
Coffee is brewed.
Being wide awake at the crack of my day. When times are challenging in the nicotine department times tend to get a whole lot longer.
Effectively, when every single thing becomes the sheer act of not smoking the day expands to 48 hours on its own accord, and than the non-smoker du jour get up a good five hours before it is necessary.
But it is all well, it is a battle I will win, against my own will for the most part, which makes fighting all the bit harder.
But as I said this is nothing new, I remember a morning just like this circa 2006 in Notting Hill, showing down a phallic piece of Shwiss white chockolate, as if my life would depend on it, thinking the sun will never raise on my early-bird tits.
But it does. It is not a hypothesis. Only according to snobs.
Good by 2010, so long most exciting year of my life so far, bring it in 2011, entertain me, delight me thrill me.
I know you will.
Coffee is brewed.
21/12/2010
Journeis around my womb
Welcome to the countdown.
To these last words before physical matter triumphs over intellect.
Read them before I will be draged away from the keyboard by my nurturing breasts.
And behold as words like womb and breast take over my once colorful vocabulary.
The last attempts of a vessel to write a blog.
How hormonally melodramatic of me.
I buy books to give the best possible start to the growing life inside me.
I buy books in an attempt to preserve precious thought.
We read The Guardian today and some poems by Emily Dickinson.
I have you know.
To these last words before physical matter triumphs over intellect.
Read them before I will be draged away from the keyboard by my nurturing breasts.
And behold as words like womb and breast take over my once colorful vocabulary.
The last attempts of a vessel to write a blog.
How hormonally melodramatic of me.
I buy books to give the best possible start to the growing life inside me.
I buy books in an attempt to preserve precious thought.
We read The Guardian today and some poems by Emily Dickinson.
I have you know.
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