Photo Life

Episode 2

Forever Ago
It was most likely made in 1945, in the Czech Republic. The Meopta Flexaret. Not exactly a notable brand as tlr's go, but this one is well preserved. It sits on a table in the Sunnyside Hillhurst community market surrounded by others; all of them beautiful specimens, but the Flex is the oldest and most magical machine on display. It calls to me, and so I shell out fifty hard-earned gelato shop dollars for this, my first real camera.
I call Brother right away. He'll remember what it was like, in the beginning, and I hope this memory gives him the patience to walk me through the beginner stuff. He does this wonderfully. He confirms what the man at the market taught me about all the functions, knows from the expired roll of film he gave me where to go for usable film, figures out how to load it, cleans the lenses, and even replaces the old eroded mirror with one he takes from one of his mother's compacts. Just like new. He sits his little brother down at their kitchen table to be my subject, and when Keir gets bored of this, sets up for me an array of objects; figurines, half a green pepper, until I've used up the first roll.

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I remember how it felt looking down at that little movie screen those first few days, as though just by framing what I saw I was creating something new. I remember trying to memorize the physical presence of it, this brick of a camera with all it's gadgetry; knobs, winder, little metal levers and buttons, even the fonts used. And the leather case, its rusty colour and worn edges, the stitching and the sound of the snap closure. Maybe it's an overly sentimental attachment, or maybe I'm just good at knowing when something is going to be important, because when I held the Flexaret, I cradled it like you would the beginning of anything.
Since then, I've acquired (and in some cases lost) nine other cameras. I no longer depend on the Flex, but I still bring it out sometimes. When I do, I silently thank it, and the man at the market, and every circumstance that brought me to this hobby that now seems to be the shape of every plan and goal I have. And I thank Brother, whose help, criticism, and rare praise have been an odd and obvious motivation, and who, like the Flexaret, is not the reason I started, but is most certainly to blame for much of where I've since been.

Photo Life

EPISODE 1

Brand-new-second-hand-tie-dye-t-shirt on. That's how you start the week. I managed to roll out of bed at a decent hour, so even though Kevin and Stefano have already left the house it doesn't feel deserted, just pleasantly quiet. After breakfast I stand in the living room for a minute or so gazing fondly at my little makeshift studio, then begin taking the sheets down from the wall. I'm not sad about packing up the equipment, folding up all the metal legs, winding wires, and zipping up padded black bags. Just handling all that gadgetry; the thrill is still fresh. I try to keep it, right up until the last second, so even with the cumbersome bags over my shoulder and my fully loaded backpack I don't feel so weighed down walking to the bus.
I get off at Granville Street, and cross it just north of 6th ave, before the bridge. There's a red sign on the side of a building just across 6th that says "Beau Photo" in block letters. It's already beginning to feel familiar, like the Vistek of yesteryear. The interior is a little crowded, makeshift even, which makes you feel wonderfully at ease. There's no trace of that spotlight, tiptoe feeling I've begun to expect of camera stores, no what-are-you-doing-here-you're-not-a-professional-you're-not-gonna-throw-down-serious-cash looks from the staff. They are far too honest, I think, to be overly concerned with appearances. I return the strobe, and now it is a little sad. It's funny, I think, how the minute I started to learn about photography, light suddenly became a precious commodity. It's like a type of paint whose available form is constantly varying, a paint that is difficult to control and impossible to touch. And I have painted, and drawn, the old-fashioned way before, and intend to keep trying. But I've never felt more like an artist than when I'm trying to teach my eyes to see only light. I've also never felt more humbled.

The rain thickens on the way to school for my midday classes, and stays that way all afternoon; there is not much to be said about this part of the day.