There is this phenomenon in the various echelons of art and the person, a burgeoning quest for aesthetic perfection, a clear want for the prettier, if not the majestic. This visual romanticisation isn’t unwarranted nor unprecedented though, the yearning to make wonderful the numerous demons and insecurities of the self and the mother within which it is contained has accompanied us for millennia. Increasingly however, I seem to notice a very alarming lack of sincerity. Reality blends so seamlessly with the supernatural and on screens, and yet we are left in a very real state trying desperately to keep up with this created digital frontier and its many axioms. I worry my skin is misrepresented, I fear my skies are saturated beyond recognition, I worry our children shall begin to feel nostalgia for a world I don’t recognise, for the supernatural, and not for home or the familiar. I loath myself for contributing to this misshaped reality. But there is no blame to be diffused here, as humans it is our M.O. to make bearable the burdens of existence, but where is the “heroism of everyday life?”, as Wordsworth would call it. It is hard, seldom is reality wanted for its painstakingly neutralising lack of flavour. But slowly, I’m beginning to learn to accept this unsaturated, unfiltered, and unexciting realm. Don’t get me wrong, I still indulge in escapism from time to time, I am only human. But, I weirdly feel responsible now, I feel responsible for what I create and what I leave behind. I feel a duty to ensure every photograph I take tells the truth, or at least as much truth as possible, while still weaving my own narrative. To make the regular fantastical is a joy, to make fantastical out of the regular however, that is a journey.
Comrades, I appeal to you. Let us be more wary in our aesthetic progress, let us be more aware of the nostalgia we leave behind in our ashes. Let us make living easier, and make it easier for the living.