Life Behind the Camera

The stories I observe and preserve are held hostage from pleasure. These tales will forever be stored, forever be told, yet never be lived. Life behind the camera is the life of a prison guard - with each shutter, a key is inserted into a man's cell and discarded. With each angle, another shackle ties him down and each light a burlap sack over his head.

Live a story, seize a story, watch a story, yearn a story, and ask yourself: have you lived? What's a story, what you live or what you see? What can be recalled or what's forgotten by sunrise? I've seen a story or two in my day. I've "lived" dozens in my life, but have a I lived one yet? I've been there, I've seen what all the crowd saw and enjoyed, yet I ask myself, was I there? I "was" there - I know I was and you know that too. The same became evident to those who enjoyed it the following day. I have, in fact, lived a story in my life and I was there. I know I was there, but no one saw, and no one would agree. The following morning there was no story to tell and no one to tell it to; the story had died from reality.

I hold the camera high in the air to capture the scene, but I don't support the camera, rather it supports me. The tripod no more than a crutch and the gimbal a wheelchair. The slider a facade and the monopod a tie. They reek of responsibility and professionalism – invisible barriers. These assets costly, in figures quantifiable and those that cannot be quantified – figures of thoughts and experiences that can be lived or that can be lived. I zoom here and pan there, molding the story that can now be told. Bound by merciless reputation and skill, my name bears no casualty or approachability, rather, respect and distant admiration.

I am the king of the unlived story and the slave of passion. Fortuned to live my tale at his leisure and ensure that morning come he will have a story to tell and someone to tell it to. One day his story will escape the sacks and shackles and break the walls and gates. And that story will be free from the constraints that tied it down. That day, the story will die from reality and the prison guard will have no job nor task to fulfill any longer. And that will be the day that the prison guard will tell a little story of his own and if you're lucky enough – morning come – there will be no story to tell and no one to listen; and all that remains will be a mutually bittersweet glance of delight.