When presented with the question If you could have any superpower, what would it be? I invariably answer the ability to make pictures with my eyes. The reasons why are too abundant to name. How many times have I been driving somewhere and observed the most opulent outpouring of clouds (my favorite earthly marvel) flooding the sky, yet been unable to pull over to the side of the road and set up my camera? Or what about the countless hours I’ve spent pinned to the couch with a sleeping cat on my chest and wished so much I could photograph a streak of light on the opposite wall or get a close-up of my cat’s squishy face? Not to mention all the times I’ve been too lazy or gone places without a camera or phone in tow and ended up witnessing something so spectacular—two coyotes racing through the woods, a rainbow of magnificent proportions, a white squirrel—only to let it exist solely as a memory.
In truth, most of my memories don’t exist as photographs—nor do I feel they ought to. So often, life is richer and I’m more present when I’m not futzing with a camera. Nonetheless, the ability to make pictures with my eyes would be phenomenal, especially in moments that are too tender, fleeting, or private to capture under normal circumstances. I’m talking about moments that feel almost sacred: a knowing glance from a stranger, watching someone be completely vulnerable, holding my true love’s hand in the dark. All of these moments exist in me as memories, and while I don’t need them to exist as photographs, if they did, I know they would be beautiful.
When I was a kid, long before I’d owned or even held a camera, I would make pictures with my eyes. Or at least, I’d pretend to. Most of the time this fantasy occurred while riding the school bus. I loved riding the bus. It was this liminal space where I just got to sit back, look out the window, and feel things. Occasionally I would engage with other kids in a game or quiet conversation, but more often than not, I preferred to sit alone, face tilted toward the window, and watch the fields and farmhouses whisk by, my mind and eyes free to wander. Now and then, the bus, with its red lights flashing, would slow to a halt. The STOP sign would swing out, and a child or few would either embark or alight, sit or stand, run or mosey up the driveway. Then the bus would start up again, and we’d be off—pummeling down country lanes, weaving along scraggy bluffs, darting in and out of dead-end roads. Throughout the journey, if and when I saw something that grabbed my heartstrings and felt the urge to do so, I would gaze intensely at whatever it was, constricting my eyelids ever-so-slightly as if to hold the thing in place, and then blink—a trick I learned from watching I Dream of Jeannie on Nick at Nite—fast as a bolt of lightning.
I admit I still do this. Anytime I’m sans camera, or in the presence of something I’d prefer to experience sans camera, I single-mindedly focus all my energy on the thing I want to “photograph” and then do so. Only now, instead of blinking, like in my school bus days, I simply hold the scene in my vision until it’s sealed in my memory. Depending on the situation, I might even close my eyes and feel it with the full force of my being, as if fixing the moment deep inside me.
What’s unnerving is that these mental photographs never seem to last as long as I feel they should. Such is memory. While I can sometimes conjure up details, the exact picture rarely resurfaces—if at all. It vexes me because if I’m so intent on remembering something, to the extent that I actively choose to make a mental picture of it, then why can it so readily disperse almost as soon as I’ve grasped it?
I ponder the same thing about rolls of film I’ve shot. Take the one I recently got developed: I had no idea what was on it. Well, I knew the last ten shots; the rest I’d made somewhere between September and December [2022], after which I’d promptly stashed my camera—an Olympus XA—away and, for whatever reason, neglected to finish the roll. There it sat for weeks until I finally brought it out, fittingly, in an attempt to start photographing more. While I love using my Arby (nothing compares to the detail of medium format… except maybe large format), there’s something special about cramming a 35mm rangefinder into my coat pocket and heading out for the day. Or even just documenting little moments around the house. It feels like play.
That said, despite the joy I likely felt when I shot it, my hopes were low when I dropped off my film at the lab. If I can’t even remember what I shot, I reasoned, it must not be anything worthwhile! A day or two later, I downloaded the files via WeTransfer (nothing more riveting and stomach-flipping than fresh scans popping into my inbox) and gasped. Lightning! Snow! Cats! But mainly: lightning!! I suddenly vividly recalled the flash storm that’d barreled through one warm autumn evening: how I had stood outside in the backyard and watched the sour sky quietly convulse with electricity, the air thick with the imminent threat of rain.
Staring at my computer screen, mouth agape, I held my face in my hands. I couldn’t believe that 1) the pictures had actually turned out, and 2) I had forgotten.
Someday, it’s probable that humans will have microchips implanted in our eyes or artificial eyes, allowing us to make pictures and record videos just by blinking. Smart glasses—high-tech specs that pair to Bluetooth and let you not only snap photos but listen to music and surf the web—already essentially do just that. In the not-too-distant future, whether through glasses, contacts, or other bionic technology, our daily lives could be permeated by a screen inlaid on top of our field of vision showing us the weather, directions, filters, apps, incoming messages, and so on. Smartphones will no longer be in our hands but directly in our eyes.
As terrific as this sounds, namely my superpower of choice becoming a reality, I’m chary of the implications. As someone who chafes at schlepping their phone around (part of why I prefer film) yet still has a digital camera roll chock-full of images that need to be culled, I question the purpose and utility of being able to make thousands upon thousands of pictures so freely. Primarily, I fear our inclination to cling to and preserve everything—every moment, every sunset, every breath—detracts not only from our experience of those things as they’re happening but diminishes our ability to accept death.
It's something I grapple with a lot. That is, how to live knowing that all of this—*looks around the room*—will fade. All my loves, my people, my pets, my body, my home—my whole little world will perish one day, and there’s nothing I or anyone can do to stop it. No amount of picture-making can preserve what will inevitably expire. Even the best-kept photographs, like memories, are prone to warping and corrupting over time, being deleted or misplaced. Instead of sprinting from this truth and desperately grasping for certain people, places, and feelings to remain, I must slow down and permit myself to experience them fully while they last and value their impermanence. Isn’t that what makes life so special (and endurable) anyway—the fact that it ends?
Also, let's be honest: not everything is worth holding on to. I can think of more than a few moments in my history I wish I didn’t remember. (Such is memory.) I would even argue some things are okay—nay, probably good!—to forget. Or at least not have instant access to.
All this makes me wonder about the pictures I’ve “made” with my eyes over the years. While I can never seem to recollect them, no matter how hard I try, some part of me likes to believe I’ll see them again. Like a forgotten roll of film, they exist somewhere, waiting to come back to me. Maybe there’s a place, for example, a house, where after I die (a long meandering bus ride), I’ll skip up the steps, turn the key already in the lock, and gently open the door. Inside will be all my pictures set within perfectly mismatched frames lining the walls. They’ll be displayed floor-to-ceiling because there are just so many; even the floorboards and banister will be covered with stray pictures, like moss that's been growing for years. With great care, I’ll step over the threshold. Slowly, I’ll walk through each room holding my hands to my face, mouth agape, taking in all the beautiful things I’ve forgotten but which never really left me.
Until that time comes, if it ever does, I’m here in this world that beckons me to see and be present and feel things. And, if the moment’s right, make a picture. 𓇢𓆸
Lightning! Snow! Cats!
What a wonderful journey to go on with you. I appreciate how you can take me deep into thoughts and remind me of things I think and struggle with as well. How beautiful your thoughts are. I truly enjoyed this. Ending with such fabulous black and white pictures of comfort.
This is beautiful beyond words. I love your writing. It made feel like I was sitting with you on that bus. Oh, and yes - I want that superpower. As rather being an introvert I often have moments I wish I had the courage to take a photo of a certain scene. Beautiful photos too! Btw. Yesterday, I found a roll of shot film in my fridge. I have no clue what is on there... 🤣