A Meta View of My Flickr Account

My Flickr page contains 16,400 photos, most of which were taken after 2006. The rise of the camera phone unleashed a rabid documentarian in me; I take thousands of photos every month, furiously attempting to capture everything I do. I’m not sure why I do that even now, and I have less of a memory of my past motives. Many (or even most) of the photos from those early days are not very good, technically speaking. Blurred, or simply without a subject at all, they linger like badly written songs: I just wanna, I just wanna, I just wanna.

Despite the lack of artistry, there are some photos that I can’t bear to throw away, not for themselves but because they represent a whole epoch. Why, for instance, did I need to document my feet in black heels with someone else’s boot-clad foot? The photo fails because I can no longer remember whose leg that was.

Whose leg?  Could be anyone.

Whose leg? Could be anyone.

I remember nothing about that photo, but I do remember that time of my life, which was actually quite happy. I remember I went with a friend to Artomatic that year. A few other photos taken around the same time have the same kind of random joie de vivre. Though that specific photo reminds me of no-one, it reminds me of how I felt. So it molters in a collection of photos, representing not a moment in time but a huge expanse of time.

An ordinary image of Roosevelt Island that taps good memories of people & other places

An ordinary image of Roosevelt Island that taps good memories of people & other places

Other pictures are very specific, even fleeting. I have few images now of Matthew, a boyfriend of several tumultuous months. The relationship ended dramatically, and with heartbreak. I hated him for a solid year after we broke up, until I googled him out of curiosity and found that he died.

I wish I hadn’t thrown away all those photos of Matthew. I would have liked to have some nice mementos of our time together; a bit of charity for the otherwise fraught experience of knowing him. More truthfully: I’d have liked to remember who I was during that time so I can avoid being that way ever again. He was full of ire, and I was full of forgiveness. I overlooked serious problems because I was so wacky about him, and I became a person so far from who I really am that it makes me ill to think about it. So yes, a photo of me with a strained smile and pleading eyes would have been unpleasant, but it would have served as a powerful reminder to be true to myself. I’d have photographic evidence of what happens when you twist yourself to fit someone else’s mould instead of simply embracing the juicy, neon-love person you are.

That whole era was bad for me. The photos I have of that time are usually taken at night, and they’re dull and boring, just like I was dull and boring. I was stressed out and feeling downtrodden, and my photos reflect that.



My photography has improved. I’ve learned to frame photos, and occasionally I’ll catch a shot that is exactly what I wanted, or even better than I expected. Looking at my Flickr page now, I see that my life has improved parallel to my photos. Images of Washington, D.C., as familiar to me as my own eyes, gave way to images of sophisticated London, sweeping vistas of the green countryside, and most importantly, my husband and his family.

September, 2012

September, 2012

September, 2013 - Tower of London

September, 2013 – Tower of London

Photos of myself today show a smiling, happy face. In the multitudes of photos of Paul and me together, we sometimes look ridiculous, but we never look bored or unhappy. We’re laughing on the settee as his parents’ house, or taking a selfie at an Indian restaurant, or taking pictures of each other in the lovely Evelyn Waugh backdrop that is England. I am sometimes startled to look back and see how free how I look.

In five years, or ten, or more, I don’t know what a certain photo will represent to me, but I like to keep my options open. If I had to take a stab at it, I’d say the many photos of my cupcakes will remind me that it took some time to settle into England. The culture shock was more intense than I’d imagined, and so I took solace in baking.

Comfort Cupcakes, for the expat's soul

Comfort Cupcakes, for the expat’s soul

Images of the flowers in the back garden will remind me how much I love my husband and family. The association is rather obvious: we have had a lot of family get-togethers, birthdays and other happy celebrations al fresco in the garden.

Flowers represent England, Family and Happiness to me

Flowers represent England, Family and Happiness to me

I have no goals for my photography; that’s why I always felt just fine splashing barely-composed images on Flickr. I never had any ego tied up with it, and I never cared if anyone else saw what I saw because I was operating on a liminal level, not an artistic one.

I suppose in each snapshot is the acknowledgement that I will forget, eventually. I suspect 9/11 also had something to do with it. After the towers fell, I wanted more images of the towers as they were. I wanted gleaming glass and sparkling mezzanines, and I hated that there were so few of those images (I hated that eventually the details would be forgotten). It made an urgent directive to document not only the beautiful things in life but the ordinary, because you never quite could be prepared for them being taken away forever. We saw Manhattan shivered to the last radio beam, evaporating like a collective dream. A voice breathed into my ear to write and document it all. Do it and save it for a place you cannot hope to arrive.


  1. jonathan birchley says:

    You have an artist’s ability to paint your life with words. A wonderful gift.

    Do you know the novel with the opening line
    “I might have been alone in a painted landscape”?

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