The C Word

One could say that banal every day snapshots represent reality more accurately than staged portraits.  But photography is not only a re-presentation of reality, but a better, less complex version of reality; photographed reality can be manipulated.  The roots of why the camera is so prolifically used lie in consumerism; the successful marketing of the ‘Kodak Moment’ has made us think that photography is needed to not only capture memorable moments, but to make our life memorable.  With its creative power photography can replace the reality of the experience itself with a fantasy. 

Images are coveted substitutes for firsthand experience, which explains the modern obsession with capturing every experience on camera. It’s as if making something appear attractive in a photograph is enough to recreate reality and the past as something better than it really was.  Looked at from the future, when the proof of memories have faded, a picture will stand as evidence to a life richly lived, even if in reality the particular experience was less than exciting.  The context and the before and after can be ignored when looking at a photograph.  Photographs play on the psychological longing to substitute the picture for the real thing not only when it comes to experiences, but also when it comes to identities.

Victorian photographers used to assign stereotypical aspired qualities to the photographed subjects.  The conventions of photographs on online social networks such as My Space and Facebook operate on similar principles.  The typical qualities portrayed on these snapshots include quirky, unique and spontaneous, although the staged snapshots of hyped banal moments and social posing only confirm that images represent Freud’s “wishful allegiance to alternative cultures”.  The photographs are promiscuously taken and generously posted, as if every moment and aspect of life must not only be recorded, but also displayed – the people are not only made real by photographs, they are made better, and reality is redefined and exhibited, serving as a mirror, as confirmation of their existence, and of membership in the elite of youth culture, the cool. 

The appeal of creating photo albums is that you can choose the most flattering photos and edit out the rest, renovating your past and present in a more preferable way and that way reconstructing your identity; all those embarrassing phases when you were spotty and chubby with puppy fat can be, to use an Orwellian term, “vaporised”.  Imperfections can be omitted with Photoshop, anyone can appear to be a model and therefore indirectly feel like one in a virtual community.  This strive to achieve ideal beauty instead of accurate likeness was already practiced by nineteenth century portrait photographers who continued conventions of painting by idealizing the subject, concealing and highlighting attributes according to the tastes of the time. 

The kind of snapshots people choose to display as representative of their identity on social networks are very revealing as to how they wish to be perceived, or how they wish their life was, in a way creating an aspirational virtual reality that is really just an expression of their fantasy, taking part in and contributing to a shared ideology in Western middle-class youth culture.  

Today, in the same way as props were used to make families look as if they were members of a higher class in portraits in nineteenth century photography, so called ‘chavs’ can purchase designer fashion items despite having a very low income and through the act of consumption express their aspirations for upward social mobility.  The white wedding for example that used to be an upper middle class tradition has been adopted by even the working classes, who feel the social pressure to spend more than they can afford in order to act out their aspirational fantasies.  Guy Debord predicted that capitalism would turn life itself into a spectacle to be bought, burying the realities of power relations by concentrating only on observing the surface of things.  And indeed, the appearance of things has become more important than the things themselves.  Like Feuerbach observed: “Our era prefers appearance to being”.    

By the use of images, people can create online alter-egos; they can be anyone they want in self-portraits. Through alternative identities, people can be a super-version of themselves on the internet; the ugly duckling can become a swan through photo manipulation, and the nerd can be cool through "spontaneous" posing. 

Where does this narcissistic self-surveillance come from?  Most young people who have grown up during late capitalism have grown up extremely conscious of their image, photographed by their parents every step of the way as well as being bombarded by images in the media.  In a capitalist society identities are constructed through images in family albums and desires expressed through commodified images, such as the posters on teenagers' walls. 

Advertising has also a very powerful part in creating identities for young consumers.  The implicit social myth in advertising directed at youth is that in order for young individuals to be truly themselves, they need to stand out and not blend in, not to be “like everyone else”, a copy of the masses; they must be unique.  The fact that someone striving to be different just for the sake of being different is not being their true self is hidden.  Also, ironically, the advertising that determines what products are the youth must-haves convinces young consumers that they are not following a trend, even though they must prove their uniqueness by purchasing brands that are mass produced. 

By painting a prettier picture of reality, the purpose of art used to be to ennoble and inspire the viewers to morally improve themselves, and similarly snapshots today pretend to be something better than what they represent, glorifying moments of reality.  Images of perfection in this consumerist age still inspire viewers to strive for improvement, through envy and a longing to fit in you can buy new body parts and whiter teeth to make yourself look like the perfect beautiful smiling people you see in images, in the hope that you will be as happy as they look.  Sadly, it is the appearance of things that determine their value; there is a culture of empty shells with no substance.

Today he would have been 13. 

We will always remember you.

/Titä-Täti.

Rasmus with dad Jimmy, who joined him four years later.

 

of each other's arms

 

‘Reality is something you rise above,’ Liza Minelly once said. 

When I was younger, I spent my time trying to escape reality, chasing fantasies; 

a reconstructed alternative universe offered by arts.  The representation of reality always seemed more desirable and exciting than the real version of reality; even the most abject suffering glittered with enviable hip credibility.  

My reality was something that had to be endured with props, here and now was never where I wanted to be, but the world was endless with possibilities. 

One of the painful consequences of growing up is becoming more realistic. 

It’s similar to the devout losing her faith.  Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny were just thought-up childish nonsense and I'm not going to become rich and famous afterall.  Where does that leave us?  

Now that I’m grown, I find myself trying to create a reality that I’m happy to exist in.  

I guess I realised the usefulness of the practical approach, the only way to actually realize dreams.  But at times I feel the price I paid for growing up was surrendering my soul to reality and therefore neglecting my dreams, as if imagination must be stunted and the existence of fairytales denied in order to function in the real world.

Sometimes I forget to explore and indulge in those creative avenues that still give me so much pleasure and enhance my reality.  

I should follow my daughter's lead, for whom even salt and pepper sachets come to life and start having conversations with each other.   

 

 

 

 

Last year, a short and heavy elderly Asian woman knocked on my door and declared that she was diabetic and feeling alarmingly dizzy.  She said that her doctor had advised her in such an event to urgently knock on anyone's door so that she could sit down and eat something sweet or something containing carbohydrates, to raise her blood sugar levels.  She added that she came from far (and therefore couldn't go home) and that the people that she had come to visit lived on my street, but weren't home.  Her pitch therefore took care of all possible protests (like: "Why don't you just go home?" or "There's a doctor's surgery down the road") and left me unable to utter the word: "No."  So I duly let her in. 

Now I know what some of you are thinking.  You are exclaiming the age-old warning: "FOR GOD'S SAKES WOMAN, DON'T LET STRANGERS IN YOUR HOME!!" that is drummed into us from childhood, along with: "Don't talk to strangers."  But if we followed all the -often contradicting- advise that are thrown at us from all directions throughout our lifetime, we would all be a bunch of anti-social paranoid recluses with multiple personality disorders.  

May I clarify at this point that although I am streetwise, I'm definitely not the type that finds it easy to slam the door in the face of a poor Old Age Pensioner with a desperate plight, besides she seemed genuine and harmless.  Ok, it seemed a bit odd that she felt the need to show her teeth (or the lack thereof) to support her statement of having diabetes.  It could have back-fired because isn't the lack of teeth just as much an indication of drug-use, or in the case of a homeless person, the consequences of not having a toothbrush, toothpaste and facilities to use them.  Any way, in she came, along with her two plastic bags, which I for some reason explained away as being stuff for the people she had come to visit.  After eating and drinking, the lady showed no sign of leaving, so I assumed she wanted to allow time for whoever she came to visit to come back home.  But when I questioned her about who she had originally come to see, she was very vague and swiftly changed the subject.  It dawned on me that either they didn't exist, or they deliberately kept her out.  I laid more attention to what she was wearing and noticed that she was actually a bit, well, quite scruffy.  I realised that she must be homeless and that the bags contained her only belongings, and I had been a gullible sucker, I mean, she had asked to come in because it was "so cold" outside on a sunny day, but a person whose roof is the sky would probably feel chronically freezing.    

I have never before come across an elderly hustler.  Her rehearsed story to get a free meal and a warm place to rest was genius because to refuse to help a diabetic about to collapse would be plain inhumane.  I'm a firm believer of each of our social duty and am disturbed by stories of passer-bys not intervening (by at least calling the coppers) when someone is beaten up in public, in bright daylight.  That's not the kind of society I want to raise my child in. 

The woman fell asleep on the armchair after confusing Castaways with Baywatch (which goes to show that she hasn't been watching telly for a while) and started snoring loudly.  I thought whoever she was, I should let her rest for a while before discreetly and gently kicking her out.  After all, even though I resented having my heartstrings being pulled to con something out of me, it didn't hurt me to offer her some comfort in her probably otherwise miserable life.  I didn't get any threatening vibes from her, she just seemed like a sweet old lady, used to having to pretend to be something she wasn't in order to get a sympathetic response. 

After about four hours, she still didn't show any signs of waking up, so I decided it was time to end her short-lived Cinderella experience.  She was hard to rouse and I contemplated the possibility that she really did have diabetes, because apparently diabetics often get drowsy when their blood sugar levels drop.  So out came the kettle and sweet snacks again, but she still wasn't co-operative.  She said her hand was too limp to hold the cup and plate.  She tried to sneak back to sleep several times, until she finally accepted that she might as well down whatever was on offer before the offer was withdrawn thanks to shortening patience.  I probed her about any relatives that I could call to pick her up, but she wrote them all off with a sweep of her hand, saying they were all abroad.  She had no one, absolutely no one that wanted to know her.  Sensing that this woman wouldn't give up her temporary luxury of mod cons without a fight, I offered to give her a lift and she agreed, with an attitude alike someone doing me a favor.  Her royal highness wanted to be dropped off down the road, from where she could make her own way to a "religious event" (read between the lines: shelter). 

But first, she had to use the bathroom.  She locked herself in for almost fifteen minutes.  Frustrated and bewildered, I enquired through the door if she was ok, as it sounded like she was throwing up and splashing water all around.  When she finally opened the door, it was a sorry sight that brandished itself huffing and puffing, her sweaty hair was stuck to her face and her top wet as if she had endured a particularly strenious work-out in the rain.  She was obviously not in good health and had just tried to make the most of the sporadic opportunity to freshen up, not knowing when she would be presented with that chance again.  I could smell that she had doused her body with my perfume and to this day the scent of Tommy Hillfiger's Freedom is entrenched with the memory of that unwanted house guest. 

She was finally out of the bathroom.  Only a few steps to the front door.  But first, she grabbed some of my bananas to add to the toilet paper that she had nicked from the bathroom, and the strange request for plastic bags.  Loads of them.  In fact, she seemed to have a fetish for plastic bags, because she excitedly stocked up on her already respectable collection and started the painstaking long proceedure of folding them several times meticolously like a perfectionist - when one plastic bag was not folded up to her high standard, she started the careful folding again.  She put the neatly folded plastic bags in bigger plastic bags and by this point I was convinced that she was mentally ill.  I noticed that she had elastic bands around her wrists and remembered reading somewhere about a mentally ill woman who had to keep elastic bands on her wrists so that her soul wouldn't fall out through the arms.  While she was arranging her bags and dug in one bag after another with her back to me, I suddenly stiffened with fear as the realisation of not knowing who this stranger in my home was or what she was capable of, hit me.  My unhelpful imagination suggested that she might pull a knife out of one of her precious bags and stab me.  Maybe a moment of peace was worth taking a life for the bag lady, whose own life was probably not much to write home about any way.  Besides, prison would bring regular meals and a roof over the head.  I tried to catch a glimpse of what the bags contained, but they seemed to be just plastic bags filled with plastic bags. 

As we were finally about to step out the door, she then presented her next stunt: she said she couldn't carry all her bags - there were three of them now, and wanted to leave one bag with her "laundry" in my house and collect it on Monday.  My thoughts were that this was a trick to try to get back into my house again for a free meal and a place to rest, or to get me to do her washing, or the bag may have even contained something incriminating.  Like the saying goes: "Shame on you if you trick me once, but shame on me if you trick me twice", so as I was finally able to shut the front door behind us, I ventured to be more assertive.  I said she could leave her bag outside my house, but refused to keep it in my house, garden or car as she suggested.  She kept asking me to go inside and get a bin bag so that she could put the bag into a black bag and leave it outside my house, but I wasn't going to open the door again now that I had finally managed to get her out.  I told her I was going and if she still wanted a lift, she should come too.  She became agitated, worried that the rubbish men or a passer-by might take her bag that contained all her clothes.  I said it was not my responsibility, but if she left the bag inside the front fence, no one would see it.  When she finally came into the car, she was surprised that I let her sit next to me on the front and said heart-breakingly: "I have to cover the seat with a plastic bag now, don't I."  It's as if she knew that her disguise had fallen and her game was up.  The clock had struck twelve for Cinderella-wannabe.  My heart wept for her, because she was obviously used to being treated like a despised member of an underclass and now I was treating her the same, wanting to get her in the car quickly, feeling ashamed in case people saw me give a lift to a "tramp".  No wonder she tried to give others the impression that she was a "normal" citizen of society, that she had a family and friends somewhere, that she knew about television programmes and what types of Bombay Mix the shops sold.  She kept telling me "God Bless" and "Thank You" when I dropped her off, but I was so drained that I just wanted her out of my car and out of my life now that I had finally gotten her out of my house. 

What I disliked was the feeling of having been deceived by an impostor; it made me paranoid over who she might be and what her intentions were.  Had she just been honest and said she needed something to eat or money, at least I would have known where I stood, but I suppose she knew from experience that the success rate for that approach was minimal.  Harsh as it sounds, I certainly wouldn't have let her in had she presented herself as a homeless hungry and cold person. 

I was totally unprepared, I know how to politely fob off a sales person or a Jehovah's Witness, but someone asking for help..  In public, I would have had my streetwise, cynical guard up, but I was caught off guard in my own home, I was not prepared to judge that she was bullshitting from the outset. 

My dad said that she might spread the word that I let her in, and other homeless people might come aknocking.  It seems he was right.  That same evening, a group of noisy men knocked on my door, but this time I didn't open the door.  'Is that how they work these days?' I wondered.  Send a fragile old woman to scan the house for any valuables and then send the boys round to clean it out later. 

Months later, a scruffy black guy with a spliff in his hand knocked on my door quite late.  When I opened, he just said: "Hi, you ok?" as if he knew me and started walking towards me as if he was going to force his way in.  I quickly slammed the door in his face before he managed to get in and was left feeling very unsettled, thinking: 'I need some testosterone in this house!'

 

 

 

 

I weep not for you

 

but for the future lost

for the bubble burst

and the years you cost

He looked away with squinted eyes, visibly weighing up what answer he should give. His mind was a maze of stored files with various replies, each potentially leading to a different outcome. The question was: what did he want?

“This is not a fucking game of chess!” she shrieked.

“You don’t have to calculate your every move, just say what you feel, just.be.you, TALK FROM THE HEART.”

“But this is me,” he said.

What? A player?

Not another mind-fuck.

She stood up next to him, where he was still sitting by the table, now with a slightly concerned look. Women were volatile creatures in his experience; not to be trusted, so he kept his guard up.  NO, DROP IT! her whole being was screaming. Drop it or you’ll never have me.

She reached her hands out to him.

Oh no.  Another nutter.

He looked around; a quick head-count, plenty of witnesses.

The whole pub must be watching. What shit did I manage to get myself in this time??

 

The exit was only a few feet away, maybe it wasn’t too late for a getaway.

His infamous disappearance act; it had saved him before. Or so he thought.

Reassuring hands pulled him to his feet. She held her palms against his palms and pressed herself closer to him.

“This is what you get, if you just drop your guard.”

Intimacy.

"Razors pain you; Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give;
Gas smells awful; You might as well live"

 

- Dorothy Parker

Finally I've gotten round to honoring Barnes Matthew Johnston's interesting point of views a section of their own.

I'm not good at shallow coffee talk either, a social skill that I always found hideously dull.  So I will skip the interlude. 

Everyone feel free to join in on the debates and reflections. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like the body rejects the unfamiliar

so does the mind

A paradoxical Pandora's box

of fluctuating obsession

and ambivalent elusiveness

Wanting brings out the passion

while Having domesticates it

but when desire leads

to opposing directions

it's so much easier to continue

than start again