Sometimes I get so confused. I don’t know where to start and start in the place I know: the middle. I know for certain that I was trying to piece an idea from out of the tangle, I had to get hold of the thread and follow it, pull it apart from the others. I knew it involved photographing; portraits.
I want to be a theorist. I want to be a showgirl. These two desires, which I try to reconcile, are brought together in the etymology of glamour. The glamour-spell affecting the eye. The spell of the viewer cursed to interpret what s/he sees. We can never believe what we see, because we are constantly trying to peer through the haze of our own projections onto what we see. The haze can never clear, we can never see something on its own terms because we are not mechanically viewing devices; cameras. We are interpreting subjects, condemned to only ever see through our own flawed eyes.
I have to get my camera out, I have to practise with it, what if I have forgotten how to work it? What if I can’t borrow lights and a tripod? Will I have to buy my own? I don’t think I can, I blew all my money on three 1950s style wrap dresses, which are en route over the Atlantic now, they sent me an email.
What if I can’t work this idea loose, if it sticks together with all the others like cooked spaghetti left in the pan? I won’t be able to tell Jaspar about it, he will think I don’t get ideas, that I don’t work on them; he will think I don’t think.
I was in the theatrical bookshop off Charing Cross two weeks ago, there was a large book I wanted, but I was erming and ahhing about the cost: £25, I didn’t know if I could afford it; but I wanted it and I didn’t get it. On the train home, I realised how important the book was, I realised I had to take glamourous photographs, not of myself, of the other residents. They are pre-selected you see. I don’t think I knew when I was on the train that I was going; I just hoped.
The book was called “They All Had Glamour”.