Summer Rain

This summer was made for a grayscale photographer. Rainy and cold; one morning after Memorial Day I even saw my breath.

Sometimes I look at the words I write and immediately delete them. They’re too dramatic. Too melodramatic. Too much. These very words are, also, too dramatic. But I’m keeping them and moving them beyond unpublished draft. I think most things that people write with the intention of thoughtfulness seem too dramatic or self-serious and come with a dose of perceived second=hand embarrassment. The internet rewards snark and finds relatability in shaming people for sharing themselves. Cringe culture, or whatever. No need to rehash it here, we all know the ugly thought patterns.

“She thinks this is art?”

“She thinks we care?”

“Cringe.”

Don’t lie. It makes you pause, too. No one likes being bullied, especially by your own imagination. It’s safer to say nothing and to share nothing. If everything lives in notebooks, drafts, and hard drives then you’re safe. Eggleston may not have been popular but he also never had to contend with the Internet. It’s always easier to hide—even more so when you’re insecure.

There has been a lot of rain this summer. It’s record setting. It is better than wildfires. I’m sad the sun can’t seem to find us, especially since this is coming on the heels of one of the longer winters we have had in awhile. Unrelenting. Suffocating, even. I feel claustrophobia even while outside—unable to see beyond the walls and ceiling of gray. I’m trapped and so is my creativity.

Sometimes I wonder about the drama we crave in our music and films and art; I also wonder about those who create these things. Drama is in plenty of tangible human experiences. Photographically speaking, we see it in the works of so many. There are artists who can make a stop sign meaningful. A cup of coffee. Their ten-year-old sitting in a backyard pool. Why is it that presentation of universal experiences and feelings so easily dismissed by our peers? Is it over exposure? Are we so overwhelmed by the flood of others’ updates that our only coping mechanism is to tell them (or think to ourselves) that no one cares? Is it narcissistic to want to share? Is it narcissistic to think anyone would care? Is it narcissistic to create anything or do anything or have any thoughts outside of our own protective bubbles? Maybe. It’s definitely narcissistic of me to assume my work should be in the same thoughts as any one of these aforementioned artists.

It’s already July, and up here that means summer is walking towards it’s Irish exit. 6 weeks until orange and yellow leaves. 12 weeks and there could be snow. The rain is going to get colder. The days are going to get shorter. I’ll be back to a season where my camera is rendered useless for 18 hours each day. I start dreaming of summer before it is even gone. So much work I want to make. So little time. So much anxiety about whether it is good or important or meaningful.

I need to stay out of my head. I’m wasting summer rain.