I’m developing six months worth of film this week. All I can think about is my film. I sent it out on Friday and the photo service I use said they’d develop it today, probably scan it tomorrow, so maybe I’ll get it back on Friday. Now, all I can think about is Friday.
I’ve forgotten what I’ve shot. All I can remember is the stuff I shot last week, but nothing from March or April…I don’t remember if I photographed myself at all in May. I’m finally finished my other projects and can go back to film for a while. I’m thinking of making another photo-book. Suddenly all I can think about is photography. Soon enough, it will be film again and then sound. But right now, Friday feels like a holiday.
One of the friends I’m staying with let me borrow a roll of black & white 400 speed, and I took all these grey day self-portraits and interior shots. I hope they aren’t blurry or blown out. Or if they’re wrong, they’re wrong in the right way. I’ve been pretty melancholic, lately. This summer has been a very lonely one, full of work and thoughts and cooking, but little socializing. I feel like the more I put into my work, the less I can put into relationships and the less I can reveal myself to others. I guess that’s why I’m writing this, to feel connected, even if through the internet.
I’ve been reading this book of Andy Warhol interviews and pretending that Andy and I are becoming friends. I call him Andy now and like to talk about what Andy thought, based on the interviews I’m reading. As I read about the way he made his films (or makes, in my mind, where he is still alive), I imagine being in the factory and telling him how I like to make movies out of reality, too. Mundane reality that I bestow narrative on later. Those are my favorite projects.
It’s just like undergrad, where I became friends with Camus, and Francesca Woodman, and Kafka. Sometimes, when I was sad, I would just read Kafka and imagine I was watching him write at his desk, in his lonely room. Charles Bukowski kept me company when I drank, and Edith Wharton gossiped in my ear. I minored in English, so I made a lot of friends. When I really got into art, it was paintings at the MET that kept me company. Van Gogh and Matisse totally got my weird, and Bonnard and Vuillard made me smile. Now it’s Yoko and Andy. When I’m not with Andy, I’m reading Grapefruit and writing my own little instructions in response. And somehow, this makes me feel like I have company.
When my film gets here, I’ll have myself to deal with, as well. Until then, I’ll keep daydreaming about all the photographs that I’ve yet to see, and my new studio at Penn with it’s skylights and white walls, and chatting with Andy.