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Published: August 12th 2005
After shifting another pile of clothes into the washing machine, Grandma and I sat in the living room. I had three days in Kingston, Ontario, before heading on a long voyage to Vancouver by train.
As Grandma thumbed through the
photos from my trip to Halifax, she remarked, “Pictures are deceiving sometimes.” I think she was right.
Grandma and I were admiring photographs of the cool and misty landscapes of Peggy’s Cove in Nova Scotia. Against the oven-heat of Ontario, I could understand why the crashing waves and ocean breezes of the Maritimes would have seemed unreal.
At Peggy’s Cove, pools of ocean water collected on the surface of rocks, while puddles formed in the cracks and grooves of hardened sand. As visitors basked in the dim-light of overcast, the ocean vanished under blankets of fog. Behind the dry shore where tourists posed endlessly, the water would rip onto the land before it slithered back. Salted foam would swirl in loops as it chased every wave, every splash, every crash, every soft rumble and roar. The coastline would sit motionless. The shoreline would watch the sea dance back and forth.
As we fanned through the envelope of exposures, I explained how I propped my camera onto a tri-pod, set the timer, and rushed to occupy the foreground of the racing, violent landscape. As I studied one of the
photographs, I remarked that the shudder must have clicked just as the wave sent pails of water into the air.
But something was missing in my photos. Grandma was right: pictures can sometimes deceive.
I remember how the scene was much bigger. I recall how the sights and sounds were much richer than the image in my grandmother’s hand. One could sit speechless before the real landscape - the real thing. One could let silence fill the air. One could simply see, listen, and understand. Yet, my photographs always seemed to beg for a description, a story, an explanation, a reason, a justification: “Why this 1/2 second frame, and not another?” I always believed that I had to compensate for pictures that betrayed my sense of the places and spaces on the journey.
With each snap-shot of my trip to Halifax, I captured, framed, packaged and presented more than fifty “moments.” With the blink of an eye, I flattened reality with the camera. I offered Peggy’s cove as an illustration, as artwork for the wall and the album.
For some reason, the awe of having “been there” faded by the time I developed the film. True, I have fond memories and dazzling pictures to cherish. But, the wide-angle lens was always too small and too focused to capture everything. There lies the illusion -- the deception of photography. The camera documents a slice of reality, but always leaves something behind when it crops and frames the landscape.
Once the film clicked forward, Peggy’s Cove became a composition, a photo, an artefact. Once the camera slipped back into its case, something disappeared. I left part of the image behind. It vanished with the water that washed over the stones on its way back to the sea.
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Grandma
non-member comment
Peggy's cove.
I have read your poetic discription of your time in Peggy's cove. You will never forget that experience, and seeing the ocean shore, is like nothing else. From what you told me about the other days in Halifax, and my relatives that you met, I know you will never forget them nor will they forget you. Everyone has told me how much they enjoyed meeting and seeing you again. Now you have to enjoy the rest of the summer and prepare for an exciting year of study ahead. We will keep in touch. Love Grandma