Saturday, November 1, 2008
“What kind of artist wears a beret?” I asked.
“The kind that uses a Polaroid,” she said.
And she was right. There was no process—just snap, bang. It was too easy to be art, and the beret was just a pretentious little joke we never tired of.
How the camera worked was a mystery.
She claimed the batteries were in with the film. “Just point and click.”
I should be able to make something of it, that old gift. I suppose that if I tax my brain, the meaning will come shooting out of my mouth like a developing print.
I suppose what frightens me most is the possibility there is no meaning.
Before, we used to write the date on the back of each picture and keep them in order. In a book.
Life as a clear sequence of events.
Life like pearls on a string.