That feeling
Here's one about making work and feeling a connection that's hard to define.
Hey, I hope you’re well. Thanks for signing up. It truly means a great deal to me. 30 or so subscribers and counting. It’s giving me a bit of reassurance that this maybe wasn’t a bad idea.
I feel that now, since you are here, I should send you something. I thought I might tell you about a thing that has been lurking around my mind over the last few days.
You probably know I work with people a lot. I have always loved making portraits. Sometimes planned and laboured over; sometimes spontaneous, like this one from Thursday, of my pal Jaime Molina (an awesome photographer and a publisher of books).
It’s just what I enjoy a lot. Anyhow, two nice folks visited the studio last week: Jaime and Anna Gormezano. And it was Anna who started a conversation about what I look for when I make photographs. It’s something I have been thinking about a lot lately. I constantly feel pressured by the thought, "Everyone's work is better than mine, so I need to prove otherwise." I think one day this will be called "A Polish Kid from the 80s Syndrome." I have another feeling, too: that I create only because I'm afraid of being ignored by others. It's painful to think about, and I might write more about it someday if I find the courage. But these are not the reasons why I really make work. This is the stuff that comes first, but it’s not everything. So, Anna scratched an itch.
I gave her this answer: I am looking for a connection. The photos I have taken that I like most (and there aren’t many) are those on which I can’t see the camera between me and what’s in front of it. Instead, there is some sort of connection between me and the person, or a tree, or a dog, or a burned car tyre, or whatever it is. A thin and vibrating string of energy. It’s like being in sync with this something or someone, over a fraction of a second. It’s a bit intimate and totally beautiful. It's the feeling of wonder, like seeing a loved one naked for the first time and appreciating their beauty and the special intimacy of that moment. I understand if this sounds weird to you, but that’s the feeling. Being awestruck.
When there is no feeling like this, my work comes out just bland. That’s the default, of course. Being in that other space means I need to be open and vulnerable, forgetting about the camera aimed at what I see. I would love to be able to just close my eyes and preserve an image I could cherish forever, without having to press any buttons on a dead piece of electronics. But it can’t work like this. Maybe the camera is there to add significance to this act. To make it different from just seeing and remembering. I don’t know. Perhaps I never will.
Ping me if this made you feel or think anything. Respect.
Yours,
Wojtek
P.S. Feel free to forward this email to someone who you like. It’ll probably take me a while to find my ground in all of this. Be patient, please, and thanks.