I got glasses in the 4th grade…lavender ones, in a cream-colored, soft leather case with a panda bear on it. I hated them. Not because they were ugly (which they were), not because they magnified my eyeballs (which they did), and not even because I was now one of only 2 kids in my class who had to always sit up front AND put on glasses for the board (which I was). I hated them because I needed them. I hated them because it was a very tangible signal to me that I couldn’t see well, that I couldn’t focus, that nothing was clear or sharp or precise. On a deeper level, I hated them because they meant I wasn’t normal. That something was wrong with me.
As I grew through my elementary years and into adolescence, so did my visual struggles. I strained to see everything, all the time. Even with glasses I was constantly squinting through the lenses, trying to make everything sharper, trying to get something in focus. I had appointments every 3 months with my eye doctor, only to be told that, yes, indeed, I needed another new prescription. I was terrified it was just going to keep getting worse; terrified that eventually there would be no tangible help. I was destined to live in a blurred, muddled daze squinting my way through life just to get something in focus.
That fear wasn’t too far off. In terms of my actual vision, well, the decline flattened out my sophomore year in college at 20/300…which, in layman’s terms, is damn near blind. In regards to the struggle for focus, well, that is faced daily. I have focusing issues.
It’s 2013, I’m in sitting in the dimly lit backroom of a cafe in Antigua Guatemala, the table in front of me littered with Gallo beer bottle caps and empty shot glasses and the melted remains of anything ‘on the rocks’. Strewn between those remnants are thousands upon thousands of dollars of tech gear. Cameras and lenses and computers and voice recorders and mobile phones and external hard drives. At 11:42pm, we are still in full critique mode. We’ve been at it since 7pm. And no sooner do I pull up my edit for the evening then we start in on my focusing issue. ‘Zoom in. Is she sharp? No? Toss it.’ ‘Give me a detail. Where’s your focus? Is there any? It’s all soft. No good.’ ‘Would’ve been something if even just his eyes were clear. But, nah. Get rid of it.’ Not only did this point out the fact that technically, I was totally sucking, but also, that here I was at my first ever photography workshop and I was reduced to the insecure 9yr old sitting in the eye doctors office, frustrated that I couldn’t focus, that I was squinting to make sense of things, that I wasn’t measuring up. That even through long hot sweaty days of pushing through immense crowds in dirty streets and working for hours to make images, I just couldn’t figure out how to make anything clear. I may or may not have cried at that table. And I may or may not have cried many more times on that trip. And I may or may not have made the best, most trusted and respected photography colleagues and friends of my lifetime (and in all fairness to them, they don’t pick me apart so much anymore). But, needless to say, on one level, I went home with a little voice in my ear saying you need to figure out how to focus properly or it’s no good. Toss it.
It’s 2015, I’m 5 weeks post partum and standing in the cereal aisle of the grocery store alone. My teens are at home with the newborn and my husband is out of the country. I have a cart. It’s empty, even though I have been here for 15 minutes already and have been in every aisle…twice. No, I didn’t come here just to get away from my children (which is something I have done…lie that you need to make a quick grocery run just so you can walk around in a public place looking normal for 15 minutes without any children attached to you). No. I came here because we desperately needed groceries. And, like nearly every other grocery trip I’ve been on for the past 5 weeks and will be on for the next 47, I can’t seem to figure out what I’m actually doing here, in this aisle, in this store. My eyes are scanning the countless cereal boxes in front of me, but my brain is a complete pinball machine. I’m bouncing rapidly from ‘did I see milk in the fridge’ to ‘when did my mom say she was coming over’ to ‘why is my hair still in a ponytail’ to ‘what size nails am I supposed to buy for the new wood flooring’ to ‘damnit, did I even ask my father-in-law for the air compressor’ to ‘is my hair actually in a ponytail’ to ‘when is that birthday party again’ to ‘if he fails 7th grade math what are his options’ to ‘is my hair even long enough for a ponytail’ until I’m literally startled by the text vibration of my phone in my back pocket. ‘Mom. She’s screaming. Hurry up.’ Which is the same thing as saying, ‘Snap out of it. Get it together right now and focus. You’re failing. People need you.’ Groceries are haphazardly flung into the cart. I check out, drive home, throw bags on the kitchen counter and haul the baby upstairs for her 5 millionth feeding of the day. Less than 2 minutes pass and footsteps follow me up the wooden stairs and into my bedroom. ‘Mom. What are we actually having for dinner? I’m kinda hungry and I don’t see anything in those bags that makes sense to eat for a meal.’ And, I’m no longer the grown 36 year old mom in a comfy chair nursing my infant. I’m back in that eye doctor chair, looking through that oversized metal glasses contraption. ‘Can you see through this…option 1 or 2. 1. 2. 1. 2.’ No. Nothing. Neither. Is it broken? Are those my only options?
It’s 2020 and I’m reviewing images from a late late night of shooting.
Backstory. I’ve recently started some self portrait work. A literary and photographic mash up digging into myself far deeper than I’ve ever wanted to. It may possibly be only for myself. It may possibly be seen by others at some point. I don’t know. It’s been years in the making and may very well continue to be. I’ve been hesitant to start shooting for this because, well, you can probably see where I’m going with this. Focus. Not just literally, but intellectually, emotionally. Not sure where I want to go with it or what I want to say. Not sure exactly how to create the images. However, a spur of the moment nudge of energy, a pull, led me to my bathroom floor with a camera and a small light a few weeks ago and I’ve been inspired to keep working on images ever since.
So, it’s 2020 and I’m reviewing images from a late late night of shooting. Photographing oneself is interesting, to say the least at this point, and my focusing issue has not made it any easier. After loading images and giving them a quick once over, I slam my computer shut, repeatedly cuss and go straight to bed. Those images are trash. 30 frames of good light and good shadows and good magic…and all blurry. Every. Last. One. Damn it.
And, I’ve been kicking myself in the shins for the past two weeks because of it. Because I can’t reshoot that. It’s a wash. I fucked up. I lost it. My inability to focus just cost me something important, yet again. And, in those words, in that condescendence, I realized something far more important. Metaphorically, physically, professionally, emotionally. Every which way, I’ve struggled to focus. Over and over and over and over again in my life I have chased myself around in the fog. Thinking the only way out is for it to lift, for my focus to narrow in, for clarity, for sharpness, for a better prescription. Believing that living in a daily blur is no way to live at all. That if things don’t clear up, then toss them. Blurriness is best thrown out.
I realized the power that needs to come from that is not, in fact, the making of crystal clear and sharp portraits that are technically magnificent and masterfully curated. It is not the drive and motivation and hardwork to squint tighter to make things more clear. What needs to come from that (and what continually needs to come from this whole experience) is the ability to see myself in the absence of clarity. To exist and move and feel and accept who I am in the midst of the fog, the haze, the motion, the blur, the ‘off-ness’, the things unclear. And, whether those images make the final cut or not, or even if there is a final cut, they will not be deleted.
I will no longer extract the ‘out of focus’ parts from the larger narrative of my life. Being out of focus doesn’t mean those parts are any less potent, less beautiful, less worthy.
Being out of focus doesn’t mean I am any less potent, less beautiful, less worthy.
