Introduction

I'm still trying to figure out the best way to introduce myself, even to people that know me. Not as a friend, but as an artist. Yes, I'm going to call myself an artist.

I guess I'll start by showing you the first roll of film I ever got developed; the photos aren't particularly good, but they help me tell a story. Maybe it'll resonate.

Turn back the clock one year and a couple of days. I want to paint you a picture.

It's a rainy, rainy Friday. My dearest friend Amelia and I randomly decide to drive for 25 minutes in her faded yellow Volvo to get to the very tippy top of Portland, to a neighborhood called St. John's. They say that Portland is stuck in a time capsule, and this nook is no exception. The streets are littered with store awnings that haven't been changed since my mother was born. Everyone walks just a little bit slower, with soft smiles on their faces. Maybe they're just stoned, but something about the scene is welcoming, comforting. Despite the peacefulness of my surroundings, my heart is pounding harder than I thought possible. Am I dying? No, Victoria... You're anxious.

Why?

You're about to buy your first camera.

Oh.

Yeah. That hobby you've always wanted to pursue? Photography? Guess what? It's perfectly in your reach to try it out. You just got a paycheck! You have a little pocket money to spend on a starter camera. It's spring. The sun is starting to come out. You can take pictures of all of your friends, like you've always wanted to do!

Why is that so scary?

...

Silence. My inner voice isn't usually silent, but now it is, because I don't really have an answer. Why the paralysis over something as innocent as wanting to capture a sweet moment or two on camera? The guy working at Blue Moon is showing you everything you need to know. The hard part should be over.

Well, it wasn't.

There's probably something else you should know, that requires me to go back a couple more years. I've been looking at art and photography ever since my eyes first started consciously observing light. I grew up with my father constantly in the other room, pouring his soul onto paper, creating these mind-blowing works of art that I could barely look at because they were so beautiful and so terrifying. My mother documented every moment of our family life she could. There are photos of me sipping Coca Cola out of a baby bottle, my father looking at me approvingly. There are photos of my parents and I at the Brooklyn Bridge park with the debris of the Twin Towers fluttering over the East River like birds, like the lightest corpses you've ever seen. There are photos of my grandmother rolling out phyllo dough for a meat pie, her wrinkled hands soft in the early morning light. Now that I'm back home, I can creep into the wooden vanity in my living room any time I wish, take out a couple of envelopes, and hold so much life in my hands.

Though my mother's constant picture taking stopped, my library of images kept growing, infinitely. Tumblr became one of my closest friends (unique, I know). Getting home from school, flopping onto my bed, and scrolling through endless art became my favorite pastime. I reblogged everything: Francesca Woodman self portraits, oil paintings, London street style from years past, archives from vintage porn magazines and fetish wear catalogs. It didn't matter what it was; I probably found it beautiful or intriguing in one way or another.

I remember many nights spent lying in my bed, thinking about all of the art I've consumed, thinking about how it made my brain tingle and zap with ideas. To my dismay, I had no idea how I wanted to get them out. I couldn't draw masterpieces at the drop of a hat like my father, or sing effortlessly like some of my friends could. I dropped guitar after a few months of forcing myself to take lessons. I crumpled up more sketchbooks than I ever finished. None of my attempts felt quite right. Except when I would go for long walks around the city, sometimes for hours, with my phone in hand. My heart in my throat, my breath shaky, taking that photo that would make me smile so hard and go "yes." That's what I wanted more of. I wanted it with a camera, where I could take every part of it into my hands: wind the reel, pop the film out of the back of the camera, develop with chemicals, make prints. I wanted to try it more than anything in the world, but I was hesitant to admit that with full force.

That's what made that day in St. John's feel like the beginning of a long, long journey, where I would be made to carry five thousand pebbles in each of my shoes. It was me facing that desire head-on. Nowadays, the number of pebbles hover at around two thousand. Maybe with this introduction I can shake a couple more out.

Those four pictures were taken in the building I lived in last year. My roommate wasn't home. I thought this would make taking pictures easier, but instead I felt pathetic, and trapped. I didn't want total isolation; I wanted to be surrounded by people, to capture life. This felt like closing the door on a coffin with my eyes wide open. So I went outside.

I walked a few blocks to a greasy spoon nearby, thinking that I could catch some lively scenes of people eating scrambled eggs and buttered wheat toast. It was closed. To my dismay, I felt relief, and snapped this picture. It wasn't quite what I wanted, but it was a step.

That's the thing about photography; for me, you just have to accept the steps, whether they're forward or backward. The mental image is going to line up with the output so rarely. Ultimately, it's easier on your soul to appreciate the surprises than to be disappointed by the gap between what you wanted and what came out.

Over time, I've become more comfortable with taking out my camera. I won't lie and say that I have a whole bunch of memories to share with you, but since experiencing the firsthand joy of sharing photos I've taken with others, it's given me some of the motivation I need to keep making little steps out the door and into the crowd. Now is a very strange time to be talking about this, as I'm sure you know. I have the privilege to stay indoors, and will be exercising that privilege very seriously. This time of forced solitude might give me the time I need to sort through my film strips, put some up for my little community to see. Comments and discussion are welcome, criticism or otherwise. As for the immediate future, I'm gonna look into setting up a little darkroom somewhere in this New York apartment.

I truly hope that we can all stretch our legs safely someday soon with a smile. Maybe I'll be there with my lens ready.

:-) xo

Victoria

(New York, NY)