ache1
(explosive): FUCK!
flipping
the sheet of Polaroid wildly across the room, taking some pleasure at least in
the accompanying audio flap.
Skunk:
Uh, why don’t you
ache1
(placing him again within her frame): Just just, one second here, hold still
aaaaaaaaaaaaand lookit
as
the camera’s mechanism grinds out yet another.
Skunk:
Okay, I’m not goi-
ache1:
Sh-
watching
intently until there is image enough emergent for her to ascertain its merit.
ache1:
AAAAAAAARGH! This SHITTING
as
the still-developing photograph veers toward the window.
Skunk
(placatory): Whoah there! I think ehm, why don’t you, why don’t you try to…
Instead of firing off shot after shot, why don’t you ehm… you might want to try
and
sighing.
Skunk:
Hmmm. It sort of goes against all my theories to offer you advice, you know
what I was saying about the development of a personal language?
ache1:
But that’s the problem, Skunk. I don’t have a personal language. These
are, lookit that, that isn’t a language, that’s just some shitty
stopping
to watch him co-ordinate a gesture of palms and shoulders and second-guessing
what he’s already saying.
ache1:
Don’t! Don’t you dare.
She
lifts the camera to her eye.
Skunk:
Hold on hold on, ‘cos, how many shots have you left?
ache1
turns the boxy camera between her hands; Skunk clambers across the room to her
as she finds the relevant information..
ache1:
Some. Enough.
Skunk:
Okay. Okay. One of the first, the first thing you have to decide is what
you want, and then rather than just... shotgunning Polaroids, you might just...
sighs
Skunk:
But then, that’s not true either. Ehm...
ache1:
I want ah, what I want is to take a picture that doesn’t disappoint me,
for starters. Any time I’ve been anywhere, and I’ve got my photos
developed, they’re always a disappointment, and
Skunk:
Just... always? Or just when you get them? I mean, if you had those
photos now, would they still not...
She
follows him as he paces, her eye to the viewfinder.
Skunk:
Jesus. What am I saying here?
and
presently
Skunk:
There’s nothing inherently wrong with snapshots, and I think sometimes
they’re a lot more... a lot more honest than something more contrived,
but it comes back to what you want. Snapshots are, they’re like souvenirs of a
moment, so they don’t... If you see them straight after the moment, like these
things
bending
to retrieve one of the discarded Polaroids from off the floor
Skunk:
then, they can’t, you’re still in the moment, or near as dammit anyway, so they
can’t ehm, there’s no way for them to take you back to it, which is their
purpose. Do you know what I mean? It’s like having... It’s the difference
between having a handful of sand on a beach when you’re holidaying on some
distant shore, and then having that same handful of sand nine months later when
you’re back in the day-to-day of of, just...
Flash.
Skunk:
Are you listening to me at all?
ache1
(removing the protruding photograph): Uh-huh.
Skunk:
Well, unless you’re taking, unless you’re creating some form of visual art that
you recognise as such, you shouldn’t expect your photographs to be
anything more than than, just well, basically just souvenirs of the moment, and
they won’t work until the moment’s gone.
ache1
(controlling her temper as the image registers in her hand): Mm-hmm. You’re saying it’s
and
then this in accented tones
ache1:
it’s the vision of the artiste vs. the frantic attempt at capture by the
plebeian tourist, is that right? Did I, is that a fair summation?
Skunk:
Well, apart from the fact that summation is probably not the word you’re
after, yes
and
then ducking as the Polaroid flaps past him, into the wall.
ache1
(clearly exasperated): So, who decrees what art is? Who gets to say what’s ahm,
what’s capital A Art, and what’s just, pffft, my shitty efforts, when
Skunk
(growling): I just told you that.
You decide what satisfies your notion or, Jesus! I just said
that.
He
makes a gesture with his fingers, and ache1 unravels the strap from her
own to offer him the camera.
Skunk
(as if talking to a child): Thank you. Okay, now you come over here
leading
her to the window, where ambient daylight contrasts her henna with the
wallpaper’s blue.
Skunk:
Okay, don’t
ache1:
What?
Skunk:
Just...
with
the index finger of his left hand placed across the tiny flashbar, he sets to
watching her face through the viewfinder,
waiting for it to alter in some way that might
The
flash erupts into his skin, and the sheet of Polaroid is discharged into his
waiting palm. Without even glancing at its surface, Brother Skunk places it
atop the crayons on the bedside table, pointing to whatever is taking shape in
the emulsion
Skunk
(sarcastic): Therendeth the lesson.
Perhaps
ten minutes elapse after Brother Skunk’s departure from the room before she
says, her voice emptied of any tone as might give the lie to her mood, and still
not having seen her portrait,
ache1:
Aren’t you going to write me something on the Whitman strip?
