Introspective Photography: Self-awareness through photography.

For the next few weeks I will be posting exercises on photography and personal understanding. I would call this introspective photography. Just like journal writing, I believe that photography and the photos we choose to take can tell us a great deal about who we are. Being conscious of our photographic approach, our gaze, our ways of editing and how we feel about others' photographs is a great place to begin exploring the inner workings of our emotional state. I have always believed that contemplative photography can be a therapeutic tool to better self-awareness. Therefore, I am embarking on my own journey of self-exploration through introspective photography to see where this path leads me.

First exercise: Portrait of Absence

The house in which I live today was built by my grandparents in 1969, two years before I was born. It is a house that holds lifetimes of memories for myself and for those who have passed through it. But through the years, furniture has been moved around, some minor renovations have been done and the smell I used to associate with it is slowly being replaced by pets, teenagers and the 21st century.

Only last year did the house fully become mine. A generational passing that has left an imprint. In the journey to photograph my absence, my presence is needed first. To truly find myself in this house, I need to look outside the walls to those things that have not changed.

As a child I spent countless hours in the garden around the house. My grandfather, an enthusiastic gardener, planted a variety of fruit trees that provided us flavorful desserts. As a child, it was often me they sent with a bowl to hold whatever fruit they asked me to harvest. They could have sent me towards the plum trees, the peach tree, the grape vines, the fig tree, the apricot tree or the almond tree depending on the season. Of all the trees my grandfather planted, the only one left in the garden today is the almond tree. Barely there, it is fragile, aging, on the cusp. I recently had to cut off a dead side of it to allow the other half to live as the dying side was draining life from the entire tree. It was painful to do so, but it was necessary to keep it alive. I am not sure yet if it will live much longer. But at least it survived one more summer.

It seems to me that the only true representation of my absence in this house is the almond tree. It represents the child inside of me that was and still remains and the woman I became and am no longer. Both are present, but not quite there as they were before. The trajectory of life feels like a never-ending path of interconnected lines, weaving past and present together; a helix of intertwining memories and events, where this child and this woman can connect and speak and share secrets along the way.

Within the branches of the almond tree are the sensory echoes of my bare feet climbing upon it, reaching into the sky to grasp the farthest fruit. Beneath it lies the soft earth, holding its place and providing sustenance and security, enabling it to spread its branches and grow the leaves that sheltered me with their shade during the hot summer months. If I look at it long enough, I can see my grandmother shuffling around it to reach the clothesline where she dried her sheets. I envision my grandfather on the ladder trimming the branches, watering it during a dry spell. I can even see my mother tossing the ball back and forth with my son, laughing and running around the garden, seemingly unaffected by the 70-year age difference.

Its existence embraces my whole life. It knew me as a child, as a girl, as a woman and as a mother. And I have known it as a vibrant, lush, fruit bearing perennial.

The tree is about my age, exceeding the average almond tree's lifespan by more than 20 years. I watched it grow every year as we flew back and forth from the United States to France for summer vacation. Each year, a little taller, a little rounder, a little more fruitful until now. Today it is like me, older, vulnerable, shrinking, tired but determined to keep on enjoying what time is left. It is steady and strong and surviving. It remains for now but it knows time is limited. The end becomes more visible over a horizon that once felt infinitely distant.

I will hopefully outlive this almond tree. But we will have traveled a long path together and to photograph it as it is today, is to photograph my absence. When it retreats back into the earth, our paths will have diverged. And when I die there will be no almond tree to remember me.

Second Exercise: The Contemplative Gaze

This, to me, is the most natural exercise as I feel as though I am always contemplating my surroundings. The contemplative gaze is a reflective consideration of our surroundings and my  gaze gravitates towards anything that stands out…anything out of the ordinary. My iPhone is packed with photographs of little instants in the day like treasures to remember. I would like to think we all do this, but I have learned over time that not everyone is as visually aware of their surroundings.   

Maybe we communicate with the world in different ways.  My visual senses seem to be on high alert to any variation in color, form, placement, light or shadows. I find myself intrigued by these small details, focusing on them in a sort of meditative state. Little bubbles of pure presence. They are sustenance for the soul and even the most mundane objects can turn beautiful in the right light or under certain unexpected conditions.

Situational or environmental awareness are terms I wasn’t familiar with until more recently, but as I spend more time photographing the details that attract my attention I am  beginning to understand how much of a visual thinker I am and how this heightened sense of my surroundings has played a significant role in my life. I find the beauty in the simplest elements captivating.

An object as mundane as a bell sitting on a plastic chair will call my gaze towards it when the light falls in such a way to bring it to life. I can get lost in the exchange between the heavy metal and the plastic and how these two materials compose a visual symphony of shadows. To many people this probably sounds absurd as they’re unlikely to dwell on how that bell, perched on the seat's curve, creates a canvas of flowing lines. They may not even notice the bell at all. But, to me, it grabs me visually and I need to acknowledge it with a photograph as if to say, “this light and these shadows and this chair and this bell all existed in this moment in a beautiful mesmerizing dance on this earth.”

Taking a moment to notice what draws us in visually is an important step in self-awareness. What truly matters is not just contemplating the object of our visual interest, but reflecting on the act of gazing itself and what it reveals about us.  I recognize that my gaze was formed in my walks through the forest around my house during my childhood. Being hyper-vigilant about my surroundings and attuned to any inconsistencies proved to be a life-saving quality. I believe I’ve carried this alertness with me throughout my life and when it is not busy saving me, it is reminding me to be present and notice the details.