faded photographs

I caught a snippet of an interview with Nora Ephron on NPR recently, discussing her book I Remember Nothing, in which she humorously shared the middle-aged phenomenon of a failing memory. She joked how grateful she was that we had the internet and Google to help us remember things we had forgotten. Don't laugh. I almost had to Google, "Sleepless in Seattle" to recapture Nora Ephron's name for this entry. Thankfully, some of the old synapses are still firing, so I was able to summon her name before heading for the iMac.

I can attest that Nora's experience is not isolated. Many of my friends have lapses during our conversations as they struggle to remember a name, a phrase, whatever. I, too have my lapses and an eavesdropper nearby would laugh at the stuttering silence that punctuates, no dominates many of our exchanges.

This reality was no more evident than during an encounter I had a while ago with an old girlfriend. She held memories of our past that I honestly had no memory of. Either she had fabricated them from a mixture of past events that did not involve me, or worse yet, that DID involve me but had slipped through the ever deteriorating neural net of my aging brain. Facing the choices, regardless of what the truth might be, I prefer to think the fault was hers. "Do you remember when . . . " she began many times during that encounter. I would suppress any outward manifestations of the wince that would invariably accompany this opening phrase. "Yes," I agreed much too quickly, far in advance of the memories she would relate. She would continue with her story, ignoring my ill-timed response. I would listen in horror to yet another unfamiliar story. I didn't know whether to be embarrassed for her or for me. When she completed her latest story, she looked at me expectantly, prompting me for a reassuring response of shared memories. "I remember everything that happened between us." I responded.

communion

In Austin, Texas, Amy's Ice Cream is the local favorite for enjoying a good old-fashioned ice cream cone, boasting a selection of over 100 flavors. Naturally this was a designated stop in our carefully planned itinerary when we recently visited this city for the first time.

We had arrived at dusk and began our wait in the small line, anxious for a sampling of the local culinary favorite. Behind me was a boy of about 5 or 6 years-old with his father. "Look," the boy said to me as I glanced at him. He proudly held up a twenty-dollar bill that his father had obviously given him to enable the boy to conduct the entire transaction on his own. "Do you have one of these?" He asked me. I produced a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet. "Yes, I have one too!" I exclaimed as I held it out stretched between both hands in the very same prideful way he displayed his. It matched his in its crispness and pristine condition. Two Andrew Jacksons stared warily at each other. He leaned forward to carefully assess my bill. "Hey, I have an idea," I said as I knelt down to face him Mano-a-Mano. "why don't we trade?" He looked pensive for a moment weighing whether this was a good idea or not. He evidently decided it was an acceptable proposition. "OK!" he said nodding. He slowly wrapped his fingers around my bill, allowing me to do the same so we could execute the exchange simultaneously. As we both released our original bills, the boy's father laughed aloud. The boy and I smiled at each other with delight.

As we looked at our newly-acquired bills, we both recognized that something more significant than a mere transaction had just transpired. Monetarily, we had neither lost nor gained anything, but psychologically we had both benefitted. A communion had occurred. We had made a connection, symbolically offering ourselves to each other and accepting this "gift," this token of our commonality and humanity, celebrating the shared experience we had jointly created at that particular time and place . And then, just as quickly as it had happened, the moment passed, and we waved goodbye to each other, licking our ice cream cones as we parted.

lost in translation

I recently discovered a new website www.thefancy.com. It features products ranging from automobiles to clothing, all selected for their innovative designs and unique esthetics. In short, it is the perfect vehicle to fuel my passion for conspicuous consumerism. Every day I anxiously visit the site to discover what new item I don't necessarily need but must have. I am Imelda Marcos in a shoe store. Thanks to fancy.com I came to realize that I had a long buried desire for watchmaker vials filled with tiny animal bones. And how could I know I wanted a miniature replica of the human heart cast in glass in a tiny bottle had I not seen it on thefancy website?

But, and here's the entree into the crux of this blog, my latest object of desire found on thefancy is a camera dubbed as the "Digital Holga." For those of you unfamiliar with the Holga, it is a plastic camera that replaced yet another plastic camera, famously known as the Diana. These cameras were prized for their mediocrity. Both sported plastic lenses that produced inferior images due to the poor optical quality of plastic versus glass. Both were notorious for their light leaks, often causing unwanted and unpredictable streaks of light across the final photographic images. Plastic cameras enjoyed (and still do) a cult following. The theory of shooting with a plastic camera is that any photographer can take exceptional photos with today's cameras.

Technologically, these cameras are capable of focusing and calculating the proper exposure settings (even recognizing when a person is smiling to trigger the shutter at that precise moment) for the photographer, essentially requiring him or her to simply point and shoot. Is it any wonder then, that the proliferation of images on the web on sites like Flickr continues to flourish exponentially? And, as a self-proclaimed discerning photographer, most of these images are "commonplace" lacking any artistic merit. But I digress.

The challenge and allure of plastic cameras is that only very skilled photographers can produce spectacular results with these crude and unpredictable tools. The concept is that abandoning a certain amount of control to the happenstance nature of cheap plastic cameras and concentrating on composition and the choice of subject matter is what distinguishes the true photographic artist from the rest of the pack. With today's digital technology and the gradual demise of film, many photographers have hoped for a digital alternative to the plastic cameras. As a result, a market for odd products targeted at this niche has emerged. Plastic lenses are now available to mount on digital SLRs as are specially constructed lenses like the Lensbaby, to produce out-of-focus, dream-like images that closely replicate the images of plastic cameras.

And thus my latest thefancy.com find. A camera produced under the Yashica name (an established brand-name that was abandoned when the company shut down, but was recently resurrected by another company that essentially bought the name) has recently been dubbed the "Digital Holga." The camera boasts a plastic lens and a plastic body like the Holga, while incorporating digital technology. Also, similar to the Holga, it offers a limited focus range, allowing you to set the lens to close-up or normal. But, sadly, it does not produce images akin to the Holga (which even though mediocre, was also a disappointment to me over the Diana as it produced relatively sharp photos, requiring an occasional smear of Vaseline in the lens to degrade its optical qualities).

The Yashica appears to produce better images than the Holga in spite of its plastic lens. The contrast is good (which is bad), the resolution is respectable (5 megapixels, which admittedly is small compared to the latest batch of digital point and shoots, but hey, the iPhone 4 is currently a 5 megapixel camera) and the build of the camera, though plastic appears to be relatively solid. So why my desire to possess this baby? It LOOKS like cameras produced in the 1960s and 70s (a la the Canon Canonet featured in John Water's move "Pecker," and yes, I have not one but three of these).

Specifically, it has an optical viewfinder, you know, those little windows you used to look through to take a photo versus the screens on the back. It is relatively compact and it does seem to lack a lot of the sophistication of today's cameras. At a cost of $75, with an insatiable desire to augment my already too large collection, I simply had to have it. Complicating matters however, is the fact that this camera is only available for purchase in Japan. Thanks to the power of Google though, this is an obstacle easily overcome.

I located a vendor that sells the camera, ordered it via the website and anxiously awaited my order confirmation and shipping confirmation. Interestingly, I thought all Japanese citizens had adopted English as their second language. This is not the case. Following is my e-mail correspondence with the store owner in Japan:

Thank you indeed for using our shop at this time. Because the carriage was paid, I will report the product ordered though much more rough price. Please continue your favors toward "order continuance" and reported externals when the carriage is confirmed and consented though is time. Whether sending out is possible by our shop on that will be examined and I will obtain it from the manufacturer. Please let me cancel the order when indeed I am sorry, there is no report. Until February 15.

My response:

I'm sorry. I don't understand. You must check with the manufacturer to see if it is available? Are you saying if it is not, you will cancel the order? Is the price firm or are you saying it is an estimate at this time? And what happens on February 15th? Thank you for contacting me. Is there anything I can do to make our e-mails easier for both of us to understand?

His response:

Having reported becomes the following content. Confirmation of carriage. Please contact me, saying that "Approval" when you can get to acknowledgement.

My response: OK. I will send approval when I receive the acknowledgement. I assume the acknowledgement will be via e-mail through the confirmation message.

So, I THINK I'm getting the camera sometime soon. It remains to be seen. I later discovered I could have ordered the camera through Amazon.com of Japan, which would have been much easier overall as I assume somebody with a command of the English language would have contacted me with the necessary details, etc. But, in retrospect, where is the fun in that? I figure if I DO receive the camera, I'll have earned it in way that goes beyond just charging it to my credit card. I've now had the opportunity to attempt to communicate with a man from my ancestral homeland with one of the most fundamental of interactions, the business transaction. Perhaps when I receive my camera, I can send him a thank you, encourage continued dialogue and who knows, maybe we can even become penpals?