Shooting The Past

So, I'm watching this old Stephen Poliakoff  thing called 'Shooting the Past'. A story about a photo archive that's getting shut down or whatever, and the story is narrated by Timothy Spall's somewhat batty character on cassette and by taking pictures.

Then he talks, I think (i'm doing stuff on computer too, paying it 75% of my attention) about suicide. And he holds up pictures of people who did it - Marilyn Monroe (don't get me started on the death theories, that's a story for another day), Virginia Woolf and Tony Hancock. Then he talks about looking at these pictures looking for the clues, looking for sadness and the rest.

That's exactly what it is. That's what has me sticking up picture after picture after photo after photo of people. I don't like landscapes half so much as I love portraits. I like studio portraiture and I like candid pictures. The people in them don't necessarily have to be famous, although the ones I like best seem to be of the famous.

I'm known, in fact, for my love of photos. Not of taking them, though I like doing it more than I'm skilled at it. I've been known to spend hours staring at pictures of people. Every so often, I grab the box of photos here and just look at the people. I hate that my aunt hasn't given me the other photos back yet, because I need them, because the sight of them gives me something. History, I guess. From where I sit right now, there are twenty pictures of my family and friends. Even of myself and who I was before I am what I became.

I love these pictures because somehow, as long as they exist, the people captured never really leave me. The experiences portrayed therein are not lost, even with the increasing passage of time. My grandfather has always been a handsome young man, even if it was decades ago. My granddad still smiles at me, as he did on an evening in January, even though he isn't here to do it now. Long-forgotten Irish people, cockneys and Italians are still here, although I don't know all their names or their stories.

Of course, when Tim Spall held up Marilyn and Tony and said 'look for the clues' I didn't immediately think of my Granddad, nor of half-known cockneys.

No, you all know who I thought of. When he spoke of sadness and clues and photos, I thought of a select group of individuals whose names have become tiresomely familiar to anyone who's spent much time near me.

I thought of Jim, and the hours - literally fucking hours - spent poring over pictures of him. The available videos never held quite such a spell. I remember reading The Lizard King on the familial trip up the coast of California. I say reading, what I mean is 'reading the words once, then spending the rest of my hours staring.' I stared and stared and stared at that face. I stared and I gazed and I looked and I searched. I even contemplated.

I thought also of Errol, whose still photographs earned almost as much attention as his films. I remember being disappointed that My Wicked Wicked Ways didn't have pictures. I thought of gazing upon his face, that beautiful face and the photographs I sought out as decoration. The smile, I thought of the smile. Whether broad and silly or cheeky or just rather tired, I always loved that smile.

I thought of Philip, and searching for him online, searching for any photographs I could find, anything at all. They were pretty few and far between - or at least good ones were. The ones I found that I liked were saved, cherished. Loved.

During my Zeppelin days, I sought out pictures of them too, trying to find the young men they had once been, the men who time had wearied and aged by the time I knew them.

I also thought of that same Marilyn who once held my attention, and the books of her that I would gaze at, trying to work out why she was more beautiful than pretty much anyone else. Same goes for Ava, but without the sense of... wonderment? Ava Gardner was the most beautiful woman who ever lived as far as I can see, and I don't question it, but with Little Miss Mortensen, I felt like I was looking for it.

I was always searching for clues, as Stephen Poliakoff put it. Not necessarily looking for clues of suicide, but often of self-destruction. Searching always for the reason why... why did you die, you arsehole? Why aren't you here now? Why were you so weak?

Why do I love you when you don't really deserve it? I'd say that's the universal question I asked. Always looking for the clue to the reason why I should've chosen them, or if you prefer, why they chose me.

Then again, with Valentino I didn't understand with only still photographs. It took seeing The Sheik to understand, but then the photographs gained their meanings, and so I gazed then a little too.

Photographs have such power. I almost had a crush on Orlando Bloom because of one photograph in Vanity Fair. I hadn't really seen the fuss before that and I didn't afterwards, but that one photo for some reason gave me pause.

Photographs have such power, the power to give a kind of immortality.... but they don't have all the answers. For all the questions I have asked of their subjects, I have never received an answer in reply. Why?

They're just pictures, and so the looking for clues has no end.

Shooting The Past

So, I'm watching this old Stephen Poliakoff  thing called 'Shooting the Past'. A story about a photo archive that's getting shut down or whatever, and the story is narrated by Timothy Spall's somewhat batty character on cassette and by taking pictures.

Then he talks, I think (i'm doing stuff on computer too, paying it 75% of my attention) about suicide. And he holds up pictures of people who did it - Marilyn Monroe (don't get me started on the death theories, that's a story for another day), Virginia Woolf and Tony Hancock. Then he talks about looking at these pictures looking for the clues, looking for sadness and the rest.

That's exactly what it is. That's what has me sticking up picture after picture after photo after photo of people. I don't like landscapes half so much as I love portraits. I like studio portraiture and I like candid pictures. The people in them don't necessarily have to be famous, although the ones I like best seem to be of the famous.

I'm known, in fact, for my love of photos. Not of taking them, though I like doing it more than I'm skilled at it. I've been known to spend hours staring at pictures of people. Every so often, I grab the box of photos here and just look at the people. I hate that my aunt hasn't given me the other photos back yet, because I need them, because the sight of them gives me something. History, I guess. From where I sit right now, there are twenty pictures of my family and friends. Even of myself and who I was before I am what I became.

I love these pictures because somehow, as long as they exist, the people captured never really leave me. The experiences portrayed therein are not lost, even with the increasing passage of time. My grandfather has always been a handsome young man, even if it was decades ago. My granddad still smiles at me, as he did on an evening in January, even though he isn't here to do it now. Long-forgotten Irish people, cockneys and Italians are still here, although I don't know all their names or their stories.

Of course, when Tim Spall held up Marilyn and Tony and said 'look for the clues' I didn't immediately think of my Granddad, nor of half-known cockneys.

No, you all know who I thought of. When he spoke of sadness and clues and photos, I thought of a select group of individuals whose names have become tiresomely familiar to anyone who's spent much time near me.

I thought of Jim, and the hours - literally fucking hours - spent poring over pictures of him. The available videos never held quite such a spell. I remember reading The Lizard King on the familial trip up the coast of California. I say reading, what I mean is 'reading the words once, then spending the rest of my hours staring.' I stared and stared and stared at that face. I stared and I gazed and I looked and I searched. I even contemplated.

I thought also of Errol, whose still photographs earned almost as much attention as his films. I remember being disappointed that My Wicked Wicked Ways didn't have pictures. I thought of gazing upon his face, that beautiful face and the photographs I sought out as decoration. The smile, I thought of the smile. Whether broad and silly or cheeky or just rather tired, I always loved that smile.

I thought of Philip, and searching for him online, searching for any photographs I could find, anything at all. They were pretty few and far between - or at least good ones were. The ones I found that I liked were saved, cherished. Loved.

During my Zeppelin days, I sought out pictures of them too, trying to find the young men they had once been, the men who time had wearied and aged by the time I knew them.

I also thought of that same Marilyn who once held my attention, and the books of her that I would gaze at, trying to work out why she was more beautiful than pretty much anyone else. Same goes for Ava, but without the sense of... wonderment? Ava Gardner was the most beautiful woman who ever lived as far as I can see, and I don't question it, but with Little Miss Mortensen, I felt like I was looking for it.

I was always searching for clues, as Stephen Poliakoff put it. Not necessarily looking for clues of suicide, but often of self-destruction. Searching always for the reason why... why did you die, you arsehole? Why aren't you here now? Why were you so weak?

Why do I love you when you don't really deserve it? I'd say that's the universal question I asked. Always looking for the clue to the reason why I should've chosen them, or if you prefer, why they chose me.

Then again, with Valentino I didn't understand with only still photographs. It took seeing The Sheik to understand, but then the photographs gained their meanings, and so I gazed then a little too.

Photographs have such power. I almost had a crush on Orlando Bloom because of one photograph in Vanity Fair. I hadn't really seen the fuss before that and I didn't afterwards, but that one photo for some reason gave me pause.

Photographs have such power, the power to give a kind of immortality.... but they don't have all the answers. For all the questions I have asked of their subjects, I have never received an answer in reply. Why?

They're just pictures, and so the looking for clues has no end.