Five shades of grey scale photography
Thursday, August 16, 2012
I'm a few drinks down and very curtly I shall mention three strange things that happened today.
At college, we worked in the black and white lab today. The class clown cracked a wise one, "We developed 50 shades of grey. Hahahaha". The uptight woman that I am began questioning him on literary value of the text.
"Matlab erotic hai. Achi lagi muje to."
Facepalm.
I digress. I also like to prance proudly across to everyone and show off my scratched print of grey scale photography. Developed by me, in chemicals. Dipped in alkali and other chemicals (I will fail first year, repeat after me. She will fail first year), felt pop about doing something. It's a lot like making music, from the wrong end in photography. Giving expression to a parchment. Ofcourse, music is a notch higher, there is no parchment involved. Only your instrument and the skill you exercise on it. I shall consider music as a higher form of activity in comparison to photography but then no one gives a shit and I'm not Wittgenstein that people will actually debate over this so yeah, fuck that.
My father, after looking at what his daughter produced in the lab declared that he was a proud owner of enlarger, cutter and everything they have at the damn lab, including inventing a dark-room in the spare room of their Kabul house. Fuck my life. Essentially, my father did all what I'm doing in my masters when he was 13 years old, all of which was self taught. No internet, no mentor. He repeated everything that we'd learned in today's 4 hour long session- theory+practical.
For once, just once, I felt this weird connection with dad. The kind I always associate with mum, of gene-pool, that. Never felt this way. It all explains now, my interest towards photography. Strangely enough I never took interest in anything dad had to say, today I realised the grave mistake. If only he was allowed to pursue whatever he wanted to, he'd be quite the stud-muffin. Not that he isn't now, but a stud-muffin with colourful sprinklers.
Second thing that took me by surprise was this surreal moment. I was thinking about this drummer I'd interviewed long ago. Okay, fuck that, maybe a month ago. For some reason, I was thinking about his birthday (and we don't know each other, nothing). I had a feeling he's an August baby. I turned to refresh my facebook app on iPad. Lo and behold, my boss published that same interview along with a birthday wish for the drummer boy, that went up on Facebook. Surreal, how it happened just within the span of few seconds. Needless to say, it made my day ten folds. Interview's up. I shan't link, no sir.
Finally, I began reading Charles Bukowski's Women. Weirdly enough, minutes after starting it, I found out, it's his birthday today.
In short, I need to stop thinking about people or it'll be their birthdays.
No?
Okay, I'm going.
I feel like Hank Moody. Perpetually wasted and unable to make sense.
So let's set the world on fire, we can go higher.
At college, we worked in the black and white lab today. The class clown cracked a wise one, "We developed 50 shades of grey. Hahahaha". The uptight woman that I am began questioning him on literary value of the text.
"Matlab erotic hai. Achi lagi muje to."
Facepalm.
I digress. I also like to prance proudly across to everyone and show off my scratched print of grey scale photography. Developed by me, in chemicals. Dipped in alkali and other chemicals (I will fail first year, repeat after me. She will fail first year), felt pop about doing something. It's a lot like making music, from the wrong end in photography. Giving expression to a parchment. Ofcourse, music is a notch higher, there is no parchment involved. Only your instrument and the skill you exercise on it. I shall consider music as a higher form of activity in comparison to photography but then no one gives a shit and I'm not Wittgenstein that people will actually debate over this so yeah, fuck that.
My father, after looking at what his daughter produced in the lab declared that he was a proud owner of enlarger, cutter and everything they have at the damn lab, including inventing a dark-room in the spare room of their Kabul house. Fuck my life. Essentially, my father did all what I'm doing in my masters when he was 13 years old, all of which was self taught. No internet, no mentor. He repeated everything that we'd learned in today's 4 hour long session- theory+practical.
For once, just once, I felt this weird connection with dad. The kind I always associate with mum, of gene-pool, that. Never felt this way. It all explains now, my interest towards photography. Strangely enough I never took interest in anything dad had to say, today I realised the grave mistake. If only he was allowed to pursue whatever he wanted to, he'd be quite the stud-muffin. Not that he isn't now, but a stud-muffin with colourful sprinklers.
Second thing that took me by surprise was this surreal moment. I was thinking about this drummer I'd interviewed long ago. Okay, fuck that, maybe a month ago. For some reason, I was thinking about his birthday (and we don't know each other, nothing). I had a feeling he's an August baby. I turned to refresh my facebook app on iPad. Lo and behold, my boss published that same interview along with a birthday wish for the drummer boy, that went up on Facebook. Surreal, how it happened just within the span of few seconds. Needless to say, it made my day ten folds. Interview's up. I shan't link, no sir.
Finally, I began reading Charles Bukowski's Women. Weirdly enough, minutes after starting it, I found out, it's his birthday today.
In short, I need to stop thinking about people or it'll be their birthdays.
No?
Okay, I'm going.
I feel like Hank Moody. Perpetually wasted and unable to make sense.
So let's set the world on fire, we can go higher.
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