I am making a book of photography for my mom for her upcoming birthday. While I feel somewhat arrogant thinking that my photographs are coffee table book worthy, I think that it is the type of gift that a mother would always appreciate, even if the photographs were blurry representations of a random sidewalk or a too close shot of someone's nose. Which mine are not. (Please forgive the over confident tone, but 4 years and thousands of dollars spent on dark room time has at least assured that my photos are in focus. And noses were never quite my forte.). Having just recently purchased a negative scanner, I have been thrilled to rediscover the memories that I have squished between plastic sleeves in a folder stained with developer. Distant road trips and drunken afternoons are squeezed beside reflective landscapes and forgotten friends like a timeline, my timeline. Thus, the trouble has not been finding adequate material. I have been looking for the right words to accompany the images.
In compiling my favorite images for the book, I realized that I tend to favor things that aren't necessarily "pretty". Crumbling buildings and rusted cars seem to be a theme in my work. Photos of old friends, despite smiles and perfectly descending sunlight, tend to have smoke or mud somehow incorporated into them. Images of flowers have Caravaggioed shadows and lack color. But despite what could perhaps be seen as a dismal outlook in my photos, my sunglasses aren't Nietzsche colored. I think fire escapes and decaying statues are beautiful. I love the feel of rotting wood and the stillness of an abandoned home. I thrill at the variance of color and texture that slow decay creates.
With his perfectly placed garden bridges and always in bloom flowers, my mom's favorite artist is Monet. (Side note: when my mom found out about the tattoo that I have on my back, she exclaimed, "You F**ked up MY Monet!". My response? "No I didn't, I just signed it for you"). Yet despite my mom's much more idealistic view of what constitutes "art", she has always been supportive of my photographs. Following a recent visit to my sister's steel mill, she called me to tell me that I needed to find some time to photograph the place, then described the water dripping down block walls, the broken windows set against steel girders, and the broken down machinery of years past.
In considering my mom, I realize that it isn't only in my photographic pursuits that she has been the personification of the steel girders she described to me. My entire life has been a mantra of belief in my own ability to succeed, mostly as a result of my mom's consistent encouragement and support. She has saved my writing from when I was eight, hung photographs that don't match her decor, and been in the audience of every event. She's seen me through break ups and hangovers, house buying and marriage, a real estate exam and a c-section. Much of my confidence comes not from the achievement of goals, but in the honest belief that no matter what I do, my mom will be there to cheer me to the finish line.
My mom and I aren't entirely alike, but perhaps where I have recently found a sublime appreciation for her is in the realization that she has attempted to understand every one of my phases, likes, and hobbies, despite not fully agreeing with my viewpoints or completely liking my lifestyle. When On the Road became my handbook for life, she read it. When an Ansel Adams exhibit was nearby, she took me. When Obama became my cause, she started deleting vicious emails about him or wrote to their senders to ask them to stop sending them to her. When I rant about the newest of my favorite authors, movies, or music, she listens. Perhaps that's the point. She listens. (And now she listens to Black Eyed Peas as a result).
There have been times when her "mama bearness" has embarrassed me. Most succinctly I remember having an ex-boyfriend who went away for 3 months and never wrote to me, despite my weekly letters and care packages, my breath holding before his anticipated phone calls, and my count down of the days until his return. Upon his return, my parents took us out to dinner. Midway through our meal, my mom turned to him and said, "So why didn't you ever write to her?". I was mortified. But now, with the softness of time and the onset of my own mama bearness, I am thankful. He didn't write to me because he was seeing someone else.
There are nights when Ava can't sleep and I hold her against my chest, smelling her hair, watching her breathe, and I imagine my mom doing that literally and figuratively for my entire life. There are days when Ava's laugh makes my heart feel lighter, when her request for "mama" melts it completely. I think, "This is how my mom feels about me". And all of her protectiveness, her sacrafices, and her heartache become clear. She can pick out a pair of jeans for me that will fit, even if I'm not there. She can scour the bookstore for a book that sounds like something I would like and succeed. So herein lies my trouble. How, with mere inches under each photograph, do I sum up my mom and the immeasurable impact she has has on me? How do I tell my mom that I finally understand?
