So I was applying another coat of wax to the portfolio case, and really it looks quite handsome. It looks like I hoped it would - the hand-applied wax has a depth to it, a lustre that gives the thing far more visual heft than it deserves considering what I paid for it.
So I was rubbing and rubbing, and suddenly had the most unexpected and rather overwhelming feeling of "Why the hell am I doing this?"
Right now I feel like packing up my camera, and the lenses, and the filters, and the batteries, and the brushes and cloths and lens drops and the flash and putting them all in a bag. And then taking the bag downstairs, out into the street, where I will hand it to the first person I encounter on Sheridan Road, and never pick up a camera ever again.
I'm having one of those moments, one of those nasty scary moments, when all I can think is that if I were going to do something with a camera, I ought to have picked it up about, oh, 15 years ago instead of two. It feels like it's too late, the ship sailed, left the dock before I even got there.
What the hell did I do with my twenties, when I should have been living on a shoestring and polishing a craft and gaining experience? I took care of a singer who couldn't sing...and then of a drunk who abused me, used me up, and replaced me. I worked at jobs I hated because the former needed support, and the latter couldn't handle being hitched to somebody without a fancy title.
I should be entering the first phase of my artistic maturity right about now, or even the second. And instead I am still fumbling around with journeyman pieces and shots that right now seem no better to me than lucky snapshots.
I don't know what's wrong with my head. Maybe neverending winter just has me tired out, and work is certainly not helping. I can't stand the thought of facing either tomorrow morning.