I’m flying to New York City this morning. !!! New York! I couldn’t be more jazzed. I love this city. I love the people, I love how busy it is, I love how bad it smells. I love it’s endlessness.
New York was the first place I ever travelled to. My first time out of the country (the province, actually) and my first time on a plane. I was nine years old. I’ve got a lot of great memories from that trip—my Mum and I came to visit my brother who was living here at the time—but the thing I remember most is my camera. My first camera. My silver Nikon AF230 film camera that my Grandad had just given to me.
He’d always loved taking photos and I guess, for whatever reason, he thought it should be part of my life, too. I loved that thing. I loved looking at the world through that little box. I liked the idea that things could be put in a box. That I could choose what I wanted to see—what I wanted to remember—and capture it. I could freeze time. A feeling, I could freeze a feeling. My very first exercise in nostalgia.
Since then, I’ve always had a camera. I haven’t known how to properly use them, that’s for damn sure, but I’ve always had one. The idea of traveling farther than about an hour from home without it gives me anxiety. Maybe that’s good, maybe that’s bad. Maybe I shouldn’t need a camera to remember. I don’t know. But it’s a part of me I wouldn’t want to change.
So thanks, Grandad. Thanks for all you’ve started.