One Photo

I am trying something new with this article.

Not so much in what I am writing about, but more in how I am writing it. I got my laptop back today. It is 0255 on Sunday morning as I write this, and I am visiting a friend in Ashbourne, Co. Meath. Everyone else has gone to bed, and I am not tired, or at least, not very tired.

I do not have an Internet connection here, so it will be a day or two until I get to post this to The Laboratory of the Mind. I expect this piece to be more of a stream of consciousness than previous articles, so please forgive me if I ramble. Previous articles have had the benefit of introspection, hindsight, and polish, so I intend to publish this unmodified.

I have been accused of filtering myself to much with the audience in mind. “Bland” is a word that stung the most.

“The Mick Cooney I read in the blog is not the raw, cool, abrasive, controversial and funny Mick Cooney that I know.”

Initially, I disagreed. With hindsight, it is possible she had a point. I want to bring the raw.

I got my laptop back today. I had an idea for an article, and decided that Windows Notepad was as good a medium of expression as any, and I wanted to get my thoughts down quickly. Two computer fans drone in my ear. It helps me focus. But what should prompt such an outpouring?

A single, excellent, photo of a friend.

Last night, girls I know informed me that eating problems can and are started by the slightest things. Someone looks at you strange so you think you are fat, and stop eating properly for a while in an attempt to lose weight.

Being a guy, this is bizarre to me, but I understand the overall concept. It never ceases to amaze how a single, innocuous thing triggers profound changes or events.

Having gotten my laptop back, I discovered a friend had left some of her photos on it. Most of them are photos of the ruins of Irish churches, but a few are more standard.

I am not unaware of the voyeuristic implications here, but I doubt the Hobo would have left anything on a laptop that was intensely personal or embarrassing, so I do not sense a moral problem here.

Already I have discovered a problem with my new method. I spent about fifteen minutes crafting my description of the photo in question, only to have a keystroke accident delete everything I wrote.

Abandoning Notepad for the multiple undo feature of MS Word, perhaps I will avoid such mishaps in the future. Now how was it I described this photo?
A close-up head and shoulders shot of her friend standing before a bush on a hillside overlooking water; the photo is a thing of beauty. I am not artistic, most of what I am told is art goes over my head, but however unintentional, this photo can only be described in art.

Of course, the girl herself is beautiful, but with her eyes downcast and the wind tousling her dyed hair, this photo is not just the captivity of female beauty. Everything about it is quality. I am drawn to looking at it.

So why has this single photo had such an effect on me?

The primary reason is my relationship with this girl. One of the most fascinating people I know, nothing physical ever happened between us. I really liked the girl, but circumstance was against me. Even were it not, her feelings for me are still very uncertain.

Once I realised nothing was going to happen, I accepted it, and we remain friends. I was surprised at how quickly my feelings faded, and assumed that the whole thing was my imagination.

Paralysed by that single glance, all came flooding back. Filled with memories, I remembered a hundred trivial things from the previous six months.

There is no profound conclusion to be drawn from this. If there is any point to be made it is the strange way the trivial can affect you. Should anyone else see it, they may not understand. It is, after all, just a simple photo.

I have heard from some that art is about the appreciator taking something personal from the piece, its value being determined by the viewer’s interpretation. Should this be true, this photo is, by definition, a piece of art.

Finally, I genuinely fear that I am rambling self-indulgently as an intellectual snob desperately grasping for profundity. Should this prove unfounded, there is also possibility that the above is simply not interesting. Perhaps I am just pathetic.

I do not care.

I wear my heart on my sleeve. I always have. One of this blog’s stated requirements is for brutal honesty. Above, I wrote about how I felt, as I felt it, for the first time. It was harder than expected, not least because the act of writing is distracting. It is difficult to do. I will probably read this again before I post it and want to make changes, but I hereby promise to do no such thing, short of minor editorial changes for the sake of writing quality.

It is 0450 in the morning. Should I have failed, I have simply wasted around two hours that would otherwise have been spent watching Roger Dodger again with the director’s commentary. I can now go to sleep knowing I tried.