Okay, it’s lame. I really am feeling under the weather, though. Yesterday I didn’t pay much attention to my body, mostly because my husband stumbled in around noon with a migraine and went to bed with a cup of tea. I was more concerned about him. By the evening, though, I had horrible stomach pain, and thank all the gods that my co-professor agreed to take our Monday night class, because I, too, began developing a migraine. By the time I arrived in the classroom all I could think about were the evil twin stabs of pain in abdomen and eyes. I went home to a bath and bed and was asleep by eight. Bless you, Scarlet. You are a goddess.

I’m still unhappy this morning, but at least the headache is gone. Bed is my friend. So is laptop. Good bed. Good laptop.

I finally developed some film that had been sitting in our camera for an unknown amount of time, and discovered about fourteen photos from last Hallowe’en. If it had been Hallowe’en costumes it would have been more interesting, but it’s all store decor: bales of hay, gourds, corn stalks and so forth. They’re terrific, but not what I was expecting. I had no idea what I was expecting, but hay was definitely not it. Ironically, the remaining four or five photos from the roll are of this year’s Hallowe’en costume, that precious record I absolutely had to have should the next step fail, in order to prove to future generations that yes, it was lovely before I tempted fate by taking it apart again.

The very last photo is of me, playing my cello. As far as I know, a single photo exists of me playing my cello, taken at my only public recital at McGill about five years ago. There are three other cellists with me, playing an ensemble piece as the finale. Yes, there have been orchestra photos taken from our last two concerts in which my head is visible, but you can’t see me playing the instrument. There does exist a sketch, done by my ex-fiance as I played Handel for hours in an empty church with a flutist, and I love it, but it isn’t a full-length sketch; just the upper third. I’ve always wanted to see what I really look like with my cello, from the floor all the way up. This photograph does just that, and I love it too. I’m going to slip it behind all my music on my music stand so I can peek at it when I get discouraged.

The fact that it’s taken a year to finish a twenty-four exposure roll says to me that we’ve moved beyond the need to capture certain visual moments on film. We knew we were losing interest in photographing things when we realised that we were taking our camera on all our trips, but leaving it in the suitcase when we went out. Taking it along simply didn’t occur to us. Then, of course, the battery died, and it’s taken about six months to replace it – more proof we don’t think of the camera that often. I believe that we’ve reached a point where if we see something beautiful, we’ll pause to appreciate it, and then carry the memory of it in our hearts. Photos are a pale, pale reproduction of something that had colour and life, and I’ve been so disappointed by pictures I’ve taken that don’t look at all like the beauty I beheld with my own eyes. In addition to the disappointment, I find that if I carry a camera around, I look at my environment in a very different fashion. With a camera in your hands, you instinctively look for pictures and evaluate what you see in terms of a snap, and end up not enjoying where you are or what you’re doing as much as you could without it. Now, if you’re a photojournalist, that’s fine, or if you go somewhere with the express intention to photograph, then sure, that’s different too. I also understand the anonymity granted by a camera, as something to occupy your mind and hands.

However, for me, cameras have a time and a place. As a record of some sort, of what people were in attendance at an event, or what people were wearing (I’m a costume junkie, remember?), or the layout of a objects or a building… all those I can understand. Pictures jog the memory. There are excellent photographers, too, who have mastered the art of using eyes and camera simultaneously, who I’m sure don’t feel any loss to the experience for seeing it through a lens. I, on the other hand, can’t do it. I also understand photography as an artistic act. The camera can be used with the intent of creating art, being a tool like a pencil or a paintbrush. Again, though, it’s not for me, although I dearly love looking at the artistic photography produced by friends like Rob and Hobbes.

For me, a camera gets in the way of the experience. Glass and metal and light-sensitive film serving as the communication device between my heart and life? I’ll pass.