“I try to persevere with the medium of photography rather than any one chosen subject.” Sean Davey
Pity the photographer. For he goes in search of a truth he must already suspect. He sets out on his trajectory, knowing all too well where it is he may get to. And it is possible, probable even, that place will let him down. Yet time and time again, he puts one foot in front of the other, dreading, hoping, resigned.
He knows that some part of him exists in others. He can feel it in the portrait of the young man he meets in a pub, or in the car park of a motel where he has spent the night. He gets touched by it even in the landscapes he observes as he waits to ferry onto another highway, and hears its whisper in the billboards he stops to consider, when he finally gets out to stretch his legs. Sometimes he even gets it from his own reflection bounced off the white of some wall acting as his mirror, a suspended air pump throwing back blatant suspicion.
Yet his feelings still aren’t tangible enough. He knows his faith is in the medium itself and not his intentions. He knows it’s there where others have gone wrong. He has learnt that his hopes, like those of us all, are fallible. It’s only what ends up in the frame that ever matters, the picture itself, not the idea, or the story, or even the context. So he continues, because he’s aware. It’s just that real.
Time gets away from him now and then. He mingles in new communities, studies their codes, waits for their acceptance. He lifts the lens when he wants, clicks the shutter methodically.
In time he will stare down his own images, one day he will understand them better. Or maybe he wont. But he wants to be clinical now, like a coroner noting fact only. The victim’s aspirations are no one’s concern any more. The story has come and gone, and it is only fact that he is interested in. The instant recognition that only truth and honesty can render.
Suddenly one image gives defence, defiance, to another. Another frees his suspicion from his own work. Several more begin to par up with his inner-voice, the thing that sleeps with him, laughs at him, and will make him foolishly go though it all again.
It hasn’t moved much from what he knew; just now it feels correctly boxed and between the four essential frames where it’s needed most. The photograph. It feels real, and his dumbfounded faith has been restored. If only slightly.
He has learnt some truths about photography, and so he has learnt some truths about the world entire.
And so for the moment at least, time feels easy again like time does when you go into the world not wanting or expecting anything. Even if the title Limousines & Hearses (Part One) tells us that just maybe he wants and expects everything.
Spiro Miralis 2009