I took a longish break around November and just wondered about a bit. Took some random pictures and wrote a random article. For time killing purposes - here goes -
Travelling Light
How beautiful is a city? I mean, how exactly do you measure it?
Conventionally, they call Paris beautiful. I’ve been to Paris, might I add, at a very impressionable age. But I had a splitting headache the whole time thanks to jet lag, and the people were largely unfriendly. What stuck to my memory was the headache, some rushed sight seeing and not much love or appreciation for its archaic, romantic beauty. It was all wrong. Paris, just didn’t happen.
I usually feel a huge surge of disappointment when I share pictures of my travels. “Oh, but why didn’t you do this? This is so trite! This is so touristy!” is not what people necessarily say, but is what I always end up feeling. In Paris, I felt as if I didn’t have the right camera. I didn’t go to the right kind of places. I didn’t do it right. I felt if A went, or B went, they would have made a better trip out of it. I’m weighed down by this tremendous sense of waste and futility when I see pictures from that entire trip. But then, I stumble upon a slightly blurry picture of my Mom and Dad laughing at some silly joke my Dad cracked. And my brother, still a student, with probably more than one girlfriend. And me. Smiling, with so little worry in life and highlights in my hair.
Screw it. I’ve changed my mind. It was fabulous. It was life changing. We had dinner at the Eiffel Tower. I had swan meat and pink champagne for the first time in my life. I lit a candle at the Notre Dame. I watched the Moulin Rouge. I went to Paris’ oldest book store and I cooked chicken in a typical Parisian apartment with my cousin. All in a span of two days. It was rushed, I had a headache, I took bad pictures, but I had fun. I just didn’t give it enough credit. Maybe, Paris was beautiful after all. Or maybe I’m indulgent now, because I see it through the distorted lens of nostalgia.
The beauty of any place, I’ve realized over my few years of travel, is only somewhat to do with its architecture or history or geography or magazine publicity. A bad breakfast or a luggage lost or one rude waiter can bring down your spirits like a house of cards. I constantly worry about not living enough in the present. About missing the beauty through layers of static and indigestion. How horrible of our minds, bodies and circumstances to let us down during the best moments of our life. Thank heavens for photographs. And now, if I may add, Photoshop. It’s a joy perhaps not all fair and honest – but a joy nonetheless to look back upon and smile.
So I’ll come right out and say it. I’m a chronic photographer. I’d hate me, if I was me – because I slow down the troop. I pause to see everything, twice – and if the exposure is wrong, thrice. I stop the car in the middle of the highway to take pictures of sunsets. I take pictures of random hotel rooms. I photograph people without permission and I bully my friends and my family to pose in a carefully careless manner – passed off as candid photography. And I hate it if anyone takes my pictures. Unless they’re doing it right. I am a photography megalomaniac.
But over the years, I’ve slowed down a bit. I’ve paused to breathe in the air and given my eyes a chance to see things unassisted. I’ve let moments pass and stored them in my mind. I’ve grown impatient with other chronic photographers. I’ve, ahem, taken pictures on the Auto Program mode. Just as a keepsake, not some exhibition piece. My addiction has mellowed. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad.
I’m on a break right now. And I’m traveling light. And I’m taking pictures, both neurotic and non-neurotic. Hop along, won’t you?
Conventionally, they call Paris beautiful. I’ve been to Paris, might I add, at a very impressionable age. But I had a splitting headache the whole time thanks to jet lag, and the people were largely unfriendly. What stuck to my memory was the headache, some rushed sight seeing and not much love or appreciation for its archaic, romantic beauty. It was all wrong. Paris, just didn’t happen.
I usually feel a huge surge of disappointment when I share pictures of my travels. “Oh, but why didn’t you do this? This is so trite! This is so touristy!” is not what people necessarily say, but is what I always end up feeling. In Paris, I felt as if I didn’t have the right camera. I didn’t go to the right kind of places. I didn’t do it right. I felt if A went, or B went, they would have made a better trip out of it. I’m weighed down by this tremendous sense of waste and futility when I see pictures from that entire trip. But then, I stumble upon a slightly blurry picture of my Mom and Dad laughing at some silly joke my Dad cracked. And my brother, still a student, with probably more than one girlfriend. And me. Smiling, with so little worry in life and highlights in my hair.
Screw it. I’ve changed my mind. It was fabulous. It was life changing. We had dinner at the Eiffel Tower. I had swan meat and pink champagne for the first time in my life. I lit a candle at the Notre Dame. I watched the Moulin Rouge. I went to Paris’ oldest book store and I cooked chicken in a typical Parisian apartment with my cousin. All in a span of two days. It was rushed, I had a headache, I took bad pictures, but I had fun. I just didn’t give it enough credit. Maybe, Paris was beautiful after all. Or maybe I’m indulgent now, because I see it through the distorted lens of nostalgia.
The beauty of any place, I’ve realized over my few years of travel, is only somewhat to do with its architecture or history or geography or magazine publicity. A bad breakfast or a luggage lost or one rude waiter can bring down your spirits like a house of cards. I constantly worry about not living enough in the present. About missing the beauty through layers of static and indigestion. How horrible of our minds, bodies and circumstances to let us down during the best moments of our life. Thank heavens for photographs. And now, if I may add, Photoshop. It’s a joy perhaps not all fair and honest – but a joy nonetheless to look back upon and smile.
So I’ll come right out and say it. I’m a chronic photographer. I’d hate me, if I was me – because I slow down the troop. I pause to see everything, twice – and if the exposure is wrong, thrice. I stop the car in the middle of the highway to take pictures of sunsets. I take pictures of random hotel rooms. I photograph people without permission and I bully my friends and my family to pose in a carefully careless manner – passed off as candid photography. And I hate it if anyone takes my pictures. Unless they’re doing it right. I am a photography megalomaniac.
But over the years, I’ve slowed down a bit. I’ve paused to breathe in the air and given my eyes a chance to see things unassisted. I’ve let moments pass and stored them in my mind. I’ve grown impatient with other chronic photographers. I’ve, ahem, taken pictures on the Auto Program mode. Just as a keepsake, not some exhibition piece. My addiction has mellowed. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad.
I’m on a break right now. And I’m traveling light. And I’m taking pictures, both neurotic and non-neurotic. Hop along, won’t you?
