Photographer without a camera

January 6, 2020
Not hard to understand what it feels like to lose personal belongings. To have them ripped away from you. To look into a black void, a crumbled window, the empty back seat of a car. The nauseous, sinking feeling, the hole in your stomach. But, as with everything dear that you lose - things, people - you start distancing yourself from them, out of sheer self preservation.

They are not your cameras, it's not your bag that carried them around for the last couple of years, not your tripod that supported them when needed.

You will start eating again, and not wake up every morning looking in that black hole and the crumbled window. And you are coming to terms with this one poorly taken decision, if it’s that much. And eventually, you start replacing what you lost. If you can afford it. 

Harder to understand, perhaps, at least for myself, is what it means to lose something for good, that you never had in the first place. The photo’s on the memory card. I know they were good, some of them, and there will never be proof to the contrary, so these pictures will always be the best I've ever taken. And forgotten, eventually.

A small church of grey brick behind birches, just north of Stockholm, with a faint sunlight on its facade. A house partly covered in plastic for renovation, on a barren hill with some patches of snow in a bloody lovely light. A school's playground in the woods. An icy meadow with a mountain slope in the background that has a strange gap in it. Boats covered for winter in a small harbour. A reddish sea of dead ferns, like waves. Wetlands in the last of daylight. 

It pains me to remember them, to never see them come to life. And I wonder, how will I remember this time, this place, these landscapes, if not by them. I miss these images, if only to replace the black void, the crumbled window and the empty back seat of the car.