I have talked about it a lot. I have thought about it non-stop. The inner monologue never stops. I can hardly believe that this is me. At this point in time. All creative urge has been washed away by a massive riptide of disinterestedness. A barren state of inactivity. A sensation of utter helplessness in the face of disconnectedness. And nothing that you can actually fight with your mind’s own rationality. Like depression really.
Nausea sweeps over me even when I just *contemplate* taking marky Mark from his coffin. Apart from holiday snapping, I do not see myself handling a camera in the near future.
It’s not even that I do not like photography anymore. I still love looking at images and enjoy critiqueing them. In fact I am critiqueing more than ever before – but strictly incognito and in an altogether different context which has got little to with photography.

Don’t try to argue with me that the above constitutes photography. These days I merely fingertip release the shutter of my iPhone and choose a digital gimmick filter from Instagram. It could be the drop that tides me over, though, as could be the three photo books I picked up in a second-hand bookstore today. At € 2.00 each I give this a shot for inspiration. Blumenfeld for his wide range of early photographiy experimentation. Seymore for powerful documentary. McCartney for sun printing recipes. Now where do you buy silver nitrate these days?
Posted on Tour, using BlogPress from my iPhone

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