Collecting Polaroids

As a photographer, I’ve always found the term “capture” to be quite off-putting. People often use it to commend a photograph, implying that the image was merely a fortuitous moment rather than the result of skill and effort. This notion is deeply insulting, akin to suggesting that a professional merely stumbled upon a remarkable photo, much like how amateurs take snapshots, hoping for a stroke of luck.

The distinction between a crafted photograph and a mere capture is significant. Amateurs may take quick shots, but there’s an authenticity and emotion in an unposed moment that a seasoned photographer might not replicate.

In my youth, photography felt like a blend of artistry and science—an intricate process that transformed images into tangible forms, usually retrieved after several weeks from a photo booth. We also had a more immediate, albeit less refined, option: the Polaroid camera.

Polaroid cameras utilized unique film that processed images instantly. You’d take a picture, extract the film, and peel it away, revealing an image within a minute—almost magical. While the quality was often subpar, these pictures offered an immediacy that traditional photography lacked.

Two cultural references spring to mind: Cameron Crowe’s 2005 film Elizabethtown and a wedding episode from the American version of The Office, where female characters mime taking mental Polaroids to preserve moments.

In Elizabethtown, Drew observes, “I have recently become a secret connoisseur of last looks. You know the way people look at you when they believe it’s for the last time…?” This idea resonates deeply with my current life approach.

I’m not typically this pessimistic, and I certainly don’t intend to surrender just yet. We must persist in our efforts to protect the planet, democracy, and the American Dream, yet I find myself seeking a side pursuit that brings me solace.

I yearn for that silver lining.

Last Looks

I have a theory regarding photographs, particularly those of individuals who have passed. Once someone dies, their image undergoes a transformation. Initially, it’s merely a snapshot of a friend or a recently departed loved one—an instant frozen in pixels. But after their death, that moment becomes all you have left, encased in time like a relic.

Joni Mitchell’s 1970 song “Big Yellow Taxi” encapsulates this sentiment. She laments, “They paved paradise, put up a parking lot,” expressing the idea that we often fail to appreciate what we have until it's lost.

At first glance, her song seems a warning about environmental fragility, but it soon becomes personal, highlighting loss in a way that resonates deeply with listeners.

“It’s true. We don’t know how good we have it until what we have is gone, as we watch the taxi’s taillights fade into the night.”

Recognizing significant moments is challenging; we rarely understand what will leave a lasting impression until it’s too late. In hindsight, we might identify pivotal moments, but they often slip by unnoticed.

Given our inability to foresee the future, we must express gratitude for the beauty that surrounds us today. How long until our world undergoes irrevocable changes, where we no longer relish the things we once took for granted? The clean air, abundant water, sunlit days, thriving forests, and diverse marine life—how long before they become mere memories, akin to a tree museum we visit with our grandchildren?

I’ve largely stepped back from photography as a personal outlet. While I still capture moments of my grandchildren or culinary creations with my phone, the effort of using professional gear feels increasingly futile. What I now propose are mental snapshots—deliberate acknowledgments of life’s fleeting beauty that we tend to overlook.

With the Canadian wildfires this summer, there were days when masks became necessary outdoors due to poor air quality. It made me ponder how long it would be before this becomes a routine necessity. How long before we can’t enjoy the outdoors without protection?

We’re already experiencing a significant decline in biodiversity. Just recently, the water temperature off Key West hit 98º. The planet is unraveling at an alarming rate.

How will we memorialize these experiences? Who will preserve our collective memories?

Playing Us Out

Recently, I wrote about the imagery of Nero playing the violin as Rome burned in 64 AD. Although the violin didn’t exist then, it serves as a poignant metaphor—just like the musicians aboard the Titanic who played as it sank. Someone must accompany us as we exit the stage.

Art offers a remedy—writing, painting, photography, music, theater, film, and storytelling allow us to document our existence. It captures not just our actions or thoughts but also our emotions, making the ephemeral tangible through narratives.

My contribution lies in storytelling, aiming to encapsulate the experiences of a man living in early 21st-century North America. What was life like? What did it sound, feel, and smell like? I don’t need to pen “History of the World, Part III.” I simply wish to share my affection for sweet corn, dolphins, blue skies, and the beauty of nature.

We can no longer take for granted that tomorrow will mirror today. It’s imperative to begin documenting our experiences for future generations.

Click. Scribble, scribble. Save.

As Michael, the character portrayed by John Travolta in the 1996 comedy, once said, “I’m going to miss everything so much.”

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