I am going through old photographs with a mix of emotions. I guess that's just the nature of it. Frozen memories. Fortunately not so many survived. I have only recently got into photography more seriously, so there is not as much to sort out. Enough to keep my Friday nights busy for a while, for sure.
Some of my pictures are worse than I thought at the time which is both concerning - I can't trust my judgement at the time being, and relieving - I made progress despite the lack of consistency. Most of them are quite catastrophic which is a good thing. I can see the end of it. Forget about the quality. Shooting in low light, with a broken phone that now seems "old", but shooting regardless. Not caring about the technical knowledge, driven by the need of capturing the moment. The moment that dies as soon as it unveils itself. There is some desperation in the act of photography, a cry for immortality. I'm not saying technique is not important. I think that the memory shared is the memory that lives. With time inevitably I will develop skills and ability to translate how I see the world into an image. The frames I saw with my untrained eye remain nevertheless part of the experience. I can only hope that by sharing them I'm sharing a faded reflection of who I was at the time. Maybe somewhere along the way you will see a reflection of yourself.