what we miss when we’re taking pictures
Another unexpected, unexplained memory: When I was a kid, I spent a few summers at one of those cabins, hiking trips, swimming in a lake kinds of summer camps. Only this camp was run by sort-of-hippies, and what I mean by that is we didn’t celebrate the 4th of July because of the oppression of Native Americans, and instead we “observed” Hiroshima Remembrance Day. I’ll let that sink in.
We spent most of the day learning about what happened (I must have been 9 or 10 at the time), doing some regular fun activities, and then making 1,000 little white origami cranes. At night we took all these little cranes and floated them, as well as tea-light candles, in the lake, then sat and watched these flickering lights and tiny birds float out and away.
I really couldn’t tell you why I thought about this while walking down the Via del Corso one chilly night here. But I thought to myself that it would be nice to have a picture of that — it was beautiful and touching, meaningful, even as kids. But then I thought that it’s better not to, because it meant that that night we were just there, looking at it. Not distracted by anything, or trying to “capture it” correctly. We just sat there with our friends, watching and talking and probably laughing and singing. No screens separating any of us from each other, or us from experience.
Now, I take a lot of pictures, my iPhoto is filled with too many to even organize. Yet, while they’re nice to look at, it’s only really for a few seconds before clicking to the next — they don’t really mean anything.
