* pag naaiinip ka na, tumingala ka nalang. 09/08/2007
11.26.2007
11.20.2007
take a free sip
Take a SIP, it's free!
_sm.jpg)
I never planned to take photography seriously. But I guess the Supreme Being has a way of setting up a hint of direction for my wayward life.
_sm.jpg)
I never planned to take photography seriously. But I guess the Supreme Being has a way of setting up a hint of direction for my wayward life.
Introducing: SIP, the first ever cafe lifestyle magazine in the
11.13.2007
major lightworks
light leaks galore
Something is bound to go wrong when a novice like me tries to fix melted light seals by herself, although with advice from the experts. These have been shot with my Electro gsn 35 using Kodak Max 400 expired film while Melai and I were catching up on work last Sunday. I think I need to redo the process of stuffing mousepad foam into the grooves around the camera door and pasting some into the latches all over again. Would you look at that! Sigh. Anybody knows what I must've done wrong? Help!
11.08.2007
Susan Sontag: On Photography
These are excerpts from Susan Sontag's book On Photography. 3di's Ranulfo sent me the link and I find it very insightful and thought-provoking. I'd like to read the whole book. Okay people, it's official. I'm starting my 2007 Christmas wish list with this at number 1.
"Humankind lingers unregenerately in Plato's cave, still reveling, its age-old habit, in mere images of the truth. But being educated by photographs is not like being educated by older, more artisanal images. For one thing, there are a great many more images around, claiming our attention. The inventory started in 1839 and since then just about everything has been photographed, or so it seems. This very insatiability of the photographing eye changes the terms of confinement in the cave, our world. In teaching us a new visual code, photographs alter and enlarge our notions of what is worth looking at and what we have a right to observe. They are a grammar and, even more importantly, an ethics of seeing. Finally, the most grandiose result of the photographic enterprise is to give us the sense that we can hold the whole world in our heads -- as an anthology of images.
To collect photographs is to collect the world. Movies and television programs light up walls, flicker, and go out; but with still photographs the image is also an object, lightweight, cheap to produce, easy to carry about, accumulate, store. In Godard's Les Carabiniers (1963), two sluggish lumpen-peasants are lured into joining the King's Army by the promise that they will be able to loot, rape, kill, or do whatever else they please to the enemy, and get rich. But the suitcase of booty that Michel-Ange and Ulysse triumphantly bring home, years later, to their wives turns out to contain only picture postcards, hundreds of them, of Monuments, Department Stores, Mammals, Wonders of Nature, Methods of Transport, Works of Art, and other classified treasures from around the globe. Godard's gag vividly parodies the equivocal magic of the photographic image., Photographs are perhaps the most mysterious of all the objects that make up, and thicken, the environment we recognize as modern. Photographs really are experience captured, and the camera is the ideal arm of consciousness in its acquisitive mood.
To photograph is to appropriate the thing photographed. It means putting oneself into a certain relation to the world that feels like knowledge -- and, therefore, like power. A now notorious first fall into alienation, habituating people to abstract the world into printed words, is supposed to have engendered that surplus of Faustian energy and psychic damage needed to build modern, inorganic societies. But print seems a less treacherous form of leaching out the world, of turning it into a mental object, than photographic images, which now provide most of the knowledge people have about the look of the past and the reach of the present. What is written about a person or an event is frankly an interpretation, as are handmade visual statements, like paintings and drawings. Photographed images do not seem to be statements about the world so much as pieces of it, miniatures of reality that anyone can make or acquire.
Photographs, which fiddle with the scale of the world, themselves get reduced, blown up, cropped, retouched, doctored, tricked out. They age, plagued by the usual ills of paper objects; they disappear; they become valuable, and get bought and sold; they are reproduced. Photographs, which package the world, seem to invite packaging. They are stuck in albums, framed and set on tables, tacked on walls, projected as slides. Newspapers and magazines feature them; cops alphabetize them; museums exhibit them; publishers compile them.
For many decades the book has been the most influential way of arranging (and usually miniaturizing) photographs, thereby guaranteeing them longevity, if not immortality -- photographs are fragile objects, easily torn or mislaid -- and a wider public. The photograph in a book is, obviously, the image of an image. But since it is, to begin with, a printed, smooth object, a photograph loses much less of its essential quality when reproduced in a book than a painting does. Still, the book is not a wholly satisfactory scheme for putting groups of photographs into general circulation. The sequence in which the photographs are to be looked at is proposed by the order of pages, but nothing holds readers to the recommended order or indicates the amount of time to be spent on each photograph. Chris Marker's film, Si j'avais quatre dromadaires (1966), a brilliantly orchestrated meditation on photographs of all sorts and themes, suggests a subtler and more rigorous way of packaging (and enlarging) still photographs. Both the order and the exact time for looking at each photograph are imposed; and there is a gain in visual legibility and emotional impact. But photographs transcribed in a film cease to be collectable objects, as they still are when served up in books.
Photographs furnish evidence. Something we hear about, but doubt, seems proven when we're shown a photograph of it. In one version of its utility, the camera record incriminates. Starting with their use by the Paris police in the murderous roundup of Communards in June 1871, photographs became a useful tool of modern states in the surveillance and control of their increasingly mobile populations. In another version of its utility, the camera record justifies. A photograph passes for incontrovertible proof that a given thing happened. The picture may distort; but there is always a presumption that something exists, or did exist, which is like what's in the picture. Whatever the limitations (through amateurism) or pretensions (through artistry) of the individual photographer, a photograph -- any photograph -- seems to have a more innocent, and therefore more accurate, relation to visible reality than do other mimetic objects. Virtuosi of the noble image like Alfred Stieglitz and Paul Strand, composing mighty, unforgettable photographs decade after decade, still want, first of all, to show something "out there," just like the Polaroid owner for whom photographs are a handy, fast form of note-taking, or the shutterbug with a Brownie who takes snapshots as souvenirs of daily life.
While a painting or a prose description can never be other than a narrowly selective interpretation, a photograph can be treated as a narrowly selective transparency. But despite the presumption of veracity that gives all photographs authority, interest, seductiveness, the work that photographers do is no generic exception to the usually shady commerce between art and truth. Even when photographers are most concerned with mirroring reality, they are still haunted by tacit imperatives of taste and conscience. The immensely gifted members of the Farm Security Administration photographic project of the late 1930s (among them Walker Evans, Dorothea Lange, Ben Shahn, Russell Lee) would take dozens of frontal pictures of one of their sharecropper subjects until satisfied that they had gotten just the right look on film -- the precise expression on the subject's face that supported their own notions about poverty, light, dignity, texture, exploitation, and geometry. In deciding how a picture should look, in preferring one exposure to another, photographers are always imposing standards on their subjects. Although there is a sense in which the camera does indeed capture reality, not just interpret it, photographs are as much an interpretation of the world as paintings and drawings are. Those occasions when the taking of photographs is relatively undiscriminating, promiscuous, or self-effacing do not lessen the didacticism of the whole enterprise. This very passivity -- and ubiquity -- of the photographic record is photography's "message," its aggression.
Images which idealize (like most fashion and animal photography) are no less aggressive than work which makes a virtue of plainness (like class pictures, still lifes of the bleaker sort, and mug shots). There is an aggression implicit in every use of the camera. This is as evident in the 1840s and 1850s, photography's glorious first two decades, as in all the succeeding decades, during which technology made possible an ever increasing spread of that mentality which looks at the world as a set of potential photographs. Even for such early masters as David Octavius Hill and Julia Margaret Cameron who used the camera as a means of getting painterly images, the point of taking photographs was a vast departure from the aims of painters. From its start, photography implied the capture of the largest possible number of subjects. Painting never had so imperial a scope. The subsequent industrialization of camera technology only carried out a promise inherent in photography from its very beginning: to democratize all experiences by translating them into images.
That age when taking photographs required a cumbersome and expensive contraption -- the toy of the clever, the wealthy, and the obsessed -- seems remote indeed from the era of sleek pocket cameras that invite anyone to take pictures. The first cameras, made in France and England in the early 1840s, had only inventors and buffs to operate them. Since there were then no professional photographers, there could not be amateurs either, and taking photographs had no clear social use; it was a gratuitous, that is, an artistic activity, though with few pretensions to being an art. It was only with its industrialization that photography came into its own as art. As industrialization provided social uses for the operations of the photographer, so the reaction against these uses reinforced the self-consciousness of photography-as-art."
camphoning
oooooh, i completely forgot i had these in my phone isis' camera album. the anilao sunset was gorgeous and it was just so hilarious to see some twelve photographers either gawking miserably or trying desperately to capture it right using little camera phones.
it was such a pain to have left all our cameras at the resthouse save from the olympus underwater camera we were testing. apparently, rules are rules. because we were at an olympus sponsored event, only olympus cameras were allowed. good thing i had isis with me. she actually did a good job, don't you think?
*photos taken with my SE k550i
it was such a pain to have left all our cameras at the resthouse save from the olympus underwater camera we were testing. apparently, rules are rules. because we were at an olympus sponsored event, only olympus cameras were allowed. good thing i had isis with me. she actually did a good job, don't you think?
*photos taken with my SE k550i
10.30.2007
in a flux
it seems like i'm in a flux. too many things happening all at once can get very annoying. but, because my tolerance level is high, i'm still alive and sane. after the booklaunch, and shooting for projekt desap and sipmag in between preparations, after accompanying lolo jack to receive his special citation on a cmma lifetime achievement award and going through two hours of edsa traffic later, after learning that 50% of our office staff would have to be retrenched in march 2008, me included, after all that in a span of a week, i went to anilao batangas with 3di to do some test shots with the new olympus 790 sw underwater camera. my photos and my personal take of the camera are -->here<--
but if you're gonna ask me which of the photos i took in anilao explains the whole experience best, it would be this:
anilao was supposed to be an escape. but it turned out to be me being forced to face things that were long set aside by self-imposed iteneraries.
but if you're gonna ask me which of the photos i took in anilao explains the whole experience best, it would be this:
anilao was supposed to be an escape. but it turned out to be me being forced to face things that were long set aside by self-imposed iteneraries.
10.23.2007
because i'm feeling nostalgic, i'm reposting this article. can't find it anywhere in cyberspace anymore... more than a year after i wrote this, all i can say is that i'm now experiencing joys and pains, i'm convinced, that can only come from loving. :)
Waiting
(first published at the Youngblood section p. A11 of Philippine Daily Inquirer 03/11/06)
Boredom characterizes the world of young people today. “Bored” is used in everyday parlance to denote a feeling of lack of purpose. When a person is bored, it probably means that she is in a withdrawn and lethargic mood, trying to let the day pass by hoping the next will be different. I am usually very bored.
I work in a research and advocacy institute. And although the work is good, I often find myself wondering what I can do to make my life more exciting. Lately I have gotten myself into the habit of joining some friends in a nightcap after work just to fill my days. But that tends to sap away energy not to mention funds from my already sorry excuse of a savings account.
So I dabble in all sorts of fields, trying to find something that will strike a chord in me. I like music, particularly rock music, but not enough to work at a recording studio, not enough for me to learn how to play a guitar or any musical instrument, not even enough to own an iPod or even original CDs which are very expensive especially now that pirated ones abound.
I like reading but not enough to join book clubs, not even enough to read a book everyday.
I like to write but not enough to enroll in writing classes, not enough to closely observe real people for fear of getting in too deep into their psyche and be drowned by these.
Like reading, I like writing but not enough to even write everyday.
I like to cook and in fact, have been praised by family members because of nifty tricks with edible material. However, I am not driven enough to want to complete a short course in it, to cook more frequently for my housemates, not even enough to stop buying fast food.
I like tennis, badminton, kickboxing, teakwondo and judo but not enough to want to be really good at them.
My boredom puts me in a quandary and it gets me into thinking whether I am in the right job, the right set of friends, the right locale, even the right country. I admire my boss who seems to be really into his work and who seems to enjoy life even in the very ripe age of 82. I wonder how people who have become experts at their fields come to be who they are. Were they gripped by an undeniable enchantment to their particular vocations?
Fr. Pedro Arrupe, SJ, the former Superior General of the Society of Jesus wrote, “What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination, will affect everything. It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning, what you do with your evenings, how you spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you with joy and gratitude. Fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.”
I guess this is what I am waiting for, to be smitten by something that I won’t be able to say no to. Yes, I am waiting to be able to fall in love.
But then, isn’t this just a very deterministic excuse to my inaction? What happens if I never fall in love? Then that would mean that my life will be like an absurdist play. I will be waiting for my Godot, that something that will never come. Everyday will only be a pointless routine with only accidents and disasters to mar an otherwise smooth progression of time.
Maybe I only have to choose. Many people, afterall, were thrust into jobs which were not their choosing and yet they excelled in these because they chose to. Perhaps my refusal to finally make a choice only shows my cowardice. Maybe, like finding a lifelong partner, I only have to settle with something that is always there and always good to me but which I am not always good at. I only have to grit my teeth and try to be better.
Now that I get on to thinking about this, maybe falling in love with a certain vocation, or even in general, is overrated. What’s more important is to love. Both are not the same thing. To fall in love involves a very heady feeling that can taper off as time flies and certain chemicals like phenylethylamine and endorphins produced in the body wear off. Loving, on the other hand involves consistent actions. It is because of love, not falling in love, that people gain purpose in life. It is in love, not falling on love, that makes things happen. Some would point out that falling in love is a requisite for loving. But this is like a chicken or egg question. It can be the other way around too.
I am nearly 23 years old. While some of my colleagues and friends are either building careers or families, I am still waiting to fall in love. Maybe it’s time I get a move on and be of more use to this world. Maybe I should just love.
Diana Jean V. Moraleda, 22, works as a research assistant at the Institute on Church and Social Issues
Waiting
(first published at the Youngblood section p. A11 of Philippine Daily Inquirer 03/11/06)
Boredom characterizes the world of young people today. “Bored” is used in everyday parlance to denote a feeling of lack of purpose. When a person is bored, it probably means that she is in a withdrawn and lethargic mood, trying to let the day pass by hoping the next will be different. I am usually very bored.
I work in a research and advocacy institute. And although the work is good, I often find myself wondering what I can do to make my life more exciting. Lately I have gotten myself into the habit of joining some friends in a nightcap after work just to fill my days. But that tends to sap away energy not to mention funds from my already sorry excuse of a savings account.
So I dabble in all sorts of fields, trying to find something that will strike a chord in me. I like music, particularly rock music, but not enough to work at a recording studio, not enough for me to learn how to play a guitar or any musical instrument, not even enough to own an iPod or even original CDs which are very expensive especially now that pirated ones abound.
I like reading but not enough to join book clubs, not even enough to read a book everyday.
I like to write but not enough to enroll in writing classes, not enough to closely observe real people for fear of getting in too deep into their psyche and be drowned by these.
Like reading, I like writing but not enough to even write everyday.
I like to cook and in fact, have been praised by family members because of nifty tricks with edible material. However, I am not driven enough to want to complete a short course in it, to cook more frequently for my housemates, not even enough to stop buying fast food.
I like tennis, badminton, kickboxing, teakwondo and judo but not enough to want to be really good at them.
My boredom puts me in a quandary and it gets me into thinking whether I am in the right job, the right set of friends, the right locale, even the right country. I admire my boss who seems to be really into his work and who seems to enjoy life even in the very ripe age of 82. I wonder how people who have become experts at their fields come to be who they are. Were they gripped by an undeniable enchantment to their particular vocations?
Fr. Pedro Arrupe, SJ, the former Superior General of the Society of Jesus wrote, “What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination, will affect everything. It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning, what you do with your evenings, how you spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you with joy and gratitude. Fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.”
I guess this is what I am waiting for, to be smitten by something that I won’t be able to say no to. Yes, I am waiting to be able to fall in love.
But then, isn’t this just a very deterministic excuse to my inaction? What happens if I never fall in love? Then that would mean that my life will be like an absurdist play. I will be waiting for my Godot, that something that will never come. Everyday will only be a pointless routine with only accidents and disasters to mar an otherwise smooth progression of time.
Maybe I only have to choose. Many people, afterall, were thrust into jobs which were not their choosing and yet they excelled in these because they chose to. Perhaps my refusal to finally make a choice only shows my cowardice. Maybe, like finding a lifelong partner, I only have to settle with something that is always there and always good to me but which I am not always good at. I only have to grit my teeth and try to be better.
Now that I get on to thinking about this, maybe falling in love with a certain vocation, or even in general, is overrated. What’s more important is to love. Both are not the same thing. To fall in love involves a very heady feeling that can taper off as time flies and certain chemicals like phenylethylamine and endorphins produced in the body wear off. Loving, on the other hand involves consistent actions. It is because of love, not falling in love, that people gain purpose in life. It is in love, not falling on love, that makes things happen. Some would point out that falling in love is a requisite for loving. But this is like a chicken or egg question. It can be the other way around too.
I am nearly 23 years old. While some of my colleagues and friends are either building careers or families, I am still waiting to fall in love. Maybe it’s time I get a move on and be of more use to this world. Maybe I should just love.
Diana Jean V. Moraleda, 22, works as a research assistant at the Institute on Church and Social Issues
10.15.2007
surfacing
October is a busy month for me. Aside from arranging the launch of the popdev monograph, I've recently joined a photo workshop slash project to document the lives of families of desaparecidos or those who have been victims of enforced disappearances. We're only halfway through but it's been two great weeks. I'm apprehensive but also very excited to do the actual shoot. Hope I'll be able to help by doing the job well. More posts about it in the weeks to come.
Meanwhile, here are photos of projekt desap volunteers (workshop teachers and students)goofing around during breaktime.
More workshop photos by hiraya here.
October is a busy month for me. Aside from arranging the launch of the popdev monograph, I've recently joined a photo workshop slash project to document the lives of families of desaparecidos or those who have been victims of enforced disappearances. We're only halfway through but it's been two great weeks. I'm apprehensive but also very excited to do the actual shoot. Hope I'll be able to help by doing the job well. More posts about it in the weeks to come.
Meanwhile, here are photos of projekt desap volunteers (workshop teachers and students)goofing around during breaktime.
More workshop photos by hiraya here.
10.12.2007
10.03.2007
more than passion
more than passion
My Intersect July-August issue article on sex, the youth, marriage and responsible parenthood has been chosen to be uploaded at teenfad.com. This is my second article to be re-published here. Read full article.
"In the beginning of desire one is consumed with wanting to be aflame with that desire. When one becomes inflamed however, one just becomes extinguished. The trick is to find out what desire and sex can lead you to apart from just flame and passion."
- Rica-Bolipata Santos
Love, desire, children, etc. Reflections of a Young Wife, Milflores Publishing 2005
My Intersect July-August issue article on sex, the youth, marriage and responsible parenthood has been chosen to be uploaded at teenfad.com. This is my second article to be re-published here. Read full article.
8.31.2007
the big two four
my big two four
I'm not going to post any deep birthday reflections coz i really don't have that much. Today, I turned 24 and it has been the biggest non-event of the year. When I woke up I more or less decided I was going to have a crappy day. My gameplan was to be obnoxious to anyone who wishes me well. There's just something so disconcerting about being the most broke in your whole lifetime on your 24th birthday. I used to think that 24 is such an momentous age in one's life. When I was young, I imagined myself to be hip, successful and living the life at age twenty-four. For me, this age is the best age anyone can be in. Not 18, not 25, but 24 signals the real beginning of life. But no, here I am living the estudyante lifestyle as I have been doing in the last seven years. I don't feel old at all. In fact, I feel that I'm so young it's objectively scary.
My gameplan failed. People were so enthusiastic and giddy about today it was infectious. Generally, happy people creep me out. But I think I needed happy people to lend sanity to today. And although I was in no capacity to treat those that I love and appreciate(my horoscope even said so: Diana Jean's Daily Virgo Forecast: It's not wise to share your resources today -- you don't have enough to go around.), I still found ways not to sweat it and just smile. People understood anyway and yes, they will be keeping tabs coz I promised I'll treat them with kegs of beer once I win the lotto.
Besides, this is another reason to smile today. Doug Savage, my favorite cartoonist, greeted me on his Savage Chickens sticky notes cartoon. Yay!!!
At first I thought it wasn't me but when I checked last year's birthday cartoon, I realized I announced it was my day that time. This year Doug remembered. It's actually very exciting. I love Savage Chickens. Can't not have my daily dose of Doug's sarcastic, cynical and absurd wit.
My only wish for this year (aside from one good set of knives, a Northface audrey jacket in mustard, a Lowepro Compu Daypack, prime lens and a good cheap Rangefinder...haha, kidding!) is that I live to be more compassionate, that I reach out sincerely to others more often, that I be braver, more optimistic and kinder, that I be more organized, productive and less of a procrastinator, that I be determined and more passionate about what I do. I heard mass today and I realize I miss my faith. I hope to be more desiring of God's love this year. How can I be passionate about everything else and not on Him? There has been something amiss this past year and I hope I can get back to knowing and loving God.
Thanks to all you people who have made living worthwhile. I truly appreciate you being in existence with me here, now.
I'm not going to post any deep birthday reflections coz i really don't have that much. Today, I turned 24 and it has been the biggest non-event of the year. When I woke up I more or less decided I was going to have a crappy day. My gameplan was to be obnoxious to anyone who wishes me well. There's just something so disconcerting about being the most broke in your whole lifetime on your 24th birthday. I used to think that 24 is such an momentous age in one's life. When I was young, I imagined myself to be hip, successful and living the life at age twenty-four. For me, this age is the best age anyone can be in. Not 18, not 25, but 24 signals the real beginning of life. But no, here I am living the estudyante lifestyle as I have been doing in the last seven years. I don't feel old at all. In fact, I feel that I'm so young it's objectively scary.
My gameplan failed. People were so enthusiastic and giddy about today it was infectious. Generally, happy people creep me out. But I think I needed happy people to lend sanity to today. And although I was in no capacity to treat those that I love and appreciate(my horoscope even said so: Diana Jean's Daily Virgo Forecast: It's not wise to share your resources today -- you don't have enough to go around.), I still found ways not to sweat it and just smile. People understood anyway and yes, they will be keeping tabs coz I promised I'll treat them with kegs of beer once I win the lotto.
Besides, this is another reason to smile today. Doug Savage, my favorite cartoonist, greeted me on his Savage Chickens sticky notes cartoon. Yay!!!
At first I thought it wasn't me but when I checked last year's birthday cartoon, I realized I announced it was my day that time. This year Doug remembered. It's actually very exciting. I love Savage Chickens. Can't not have my daily dose of Doug's sarcastic, cynical and absurd wit.
My only wish for this year (aside from one good set of knives, a Northface audrey jacket in mustard, a Lowepro Compu Daypack, prime lens and a good cheap Rangefinder...haha, kidding!) is that I live to be more compassionate, that I reach out sincerely to others more often, that I be braver, more optimistic and kinder, that I be more organized, productive and less of a procrastinator, that I be determined and more passionate about what I do. I heard mass today and I realize I miss my faith. I hope to be more desiring of God's love this year. How can I be passionate about everything else and not on Him? There has been something amiss this past year and I hope I can get back to knowing and loving God.
Thanks to all you people who have made living worthwhile. I truly appreciate you being in existence with me here, now.
8.21.2007
7.30.2007
7.16.2007
AAAAAAAARGH
This photo has been invited to partcipate in a Flickr photo contest called "Charity in Focus". The winners of this photo contest and honorable mentions will be exhibited at Icosahedron Gallerie in New York City on July 20 to 22. I should be delighted. However, stupid me browsed through the comment on my Flickr page three weeks ago, procrastinated reading more intently and replying, and went on doing other things. It is only a few nights ago that I was able to digest the significance of this invitation. Alas, the contest is closed. There were 300 plus enties. And they were to diplay some 80. My photo had a frickin’ chance to be hung on a New York wall! The sorry situation in Payatas had another frickin' chance to be made known to many. But I blew it.
I was depressed for a bit until Milan called. I ranted to him what happened and he said, he had a hunch why I did not reply to the invitation immediately. He adamantly stated that it's because I am not sure of my abilities and subconsciously couldn't believe and accept that I am capable and deserve to be noted (internationally) for my work. I gave a thought to that and shook my head, no, I was just so damn… scatterbrained to focus on something I am doing at any particular moment, that's all. Next time I need to pay more attention.
But then, Milan's words kept hanging above my head. I realize he may be right to some extent. See Milan, Lai and I are at the cusp of being catapulted into, possibly, a very lucrative business. It will involve me taking photos. Whereas both of them are very giddy about it, I'm the one who displays hesitation most of the time. Not that I don't believe it will succeed. I do. It’s a very nifty idea actually, and things are being done about it. People have been spoken to. MOAs were signed. In a month, this idea will come become a reality. However, I try not to be too excited about it, I think, to the dismay of my comrades (in style? Haha).
I find that, as in my other relationships, I have paced myself with my involvement with photography. I've been treading lightly lest I trip. I've been trudging along enjoying the tranquil mood lest I crash and burn. This is my way of doing things. Sometimes though, situations call for another approach. Lai tells me, jump the gun, bite the bullet. At their best times, most successful people did not know what they were doing half the time (Harry Potter too—he said so himself in Order of the Phoenix). Almost always, if you're lucky, the universe conspires to hand you opportunities on a golden platter. If you're not, there will always be people to help.
So from now on, I will try a different approach. The fast life may not suit me always but I guess this new project entails an active, unreserved, forward-looking and tenacious madness towards greatness. I will not let my creativity be stilfled by my insecurities, reservations and self-imposed naivete. I will not fear success.
This photo has been invited to partcipate in a Flickr photo contest called "Charity in Focus". The winners of this photo contest and honorable mentions will be exhibited at Icosahedron Gallerie in New York City on July 20 to 22. I should be delighted. However, stupid me browsed through the comment on my Flickr page three weeks ago, procrastinated reading more intently and replying, and went on doing other things. It is only a few nights ago that I was able to digest the significance of this invitation. Alas, the contest is closed. There were 300 plus enties. And they were to diplay some 80. My photo had a frickin’ chance to be hung on a New York wall! The sorry situation in Payatas had another frickin' chance to be made known to many. But I blew it.
I was depressed for a bit until Milan called. I ranted to him what happened and he said, he had a hunch why I did not reply to the invitation immediately. He adamantly stated that it's because I am not sure of my abilities and subconsciously couldn't believe and accept that I am capable and deserve to be noted (internationally) for my work. I gave a thought to that and shook my head, no, I was just so damn… scatterbrained to focus on something I am doing at any particular moment, that's all. Next time I need to pay more attention.
But then, Milan's words kept hanging above my head. I realize he may be right to some extent. See Milan, Lai and I are at the cusp of being catapulted into, possibly, a very lucrative business. It will involve me taking photos. Whereas both of them are very giddy about it, I'm the one who displays hesitation most of the time. Not that I don't believe it will succeed. I do. It’s a very nifty idea actually, and things are being done about it. People have been spoken to. MOAs were signed. In a month, this idea will come become a reality. However, I try not to be too excited about it, I think, to the dismay of my comrades (in style? Haha).
I find that, as in my other relationships, I have paced myself with my involvement with photography. I've been treading lightly lest I trip. I've been trudging along enjoying the tranquil mood lest I crash and burn. This is my way of doing things. Sometimes though, situations call for another approach. Lai tells me, jump the gun, bite the bullet. At their best times, most successful people did not know what they were doing half the time (Harry Potter too—he said so himself in Order of the Phoenix). Almost always, if you're lucky, the universe conspires to hand you opportunities on a golden platter. If you're not, there will always be people to help.
So from now on, I will try a different approach. The fast life may not suit me always but I guess this new project entails an active, unreserved, forward-looking and tenacious madness towards greatness. I will not let my creativity be stilfled by my insecurities, reservations and self-imposed naivete. I will not fear success.
7.02.2007
cowness
Today went smoothly well. I was productive at work. Plugging into good music helped me concentrate--oldies but goodies lent life to an artificially cool afternoon. The night ended with preparations of client folders and Cynthia Alexander. I was prepared to head back home and immediately engage in some tyding up (my apartment desk and my life). As I was ambling down the gate 2.5 overpass, I sneaked a peek at Jollibee and thought soup might do me good. Not that they serve good soup. It's just that it's the closest and fastest way to drink soup. My throat was still scratchy from the weekend's flu. I needed soup but I still gave dinner with real soup and real people a chance. I messaged lai to implicitly ask whether she'd like to have dinner. I dashed to National bookstore to wait for her reply.
Nothing really interested me much among the rows of fiction except "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand. It looked interesting especially that the protagonist is an architect (I have this long-standing fascination with architects). I rounded up the contemporary fiction section and found myself shuffling through poetry. Rio Alma's book with artwork by Ang Kiukok engrossed me for a while. My peripheral vision prompted me to shift my gaze upward. That's when I saw Lemony Snickets. I shifted my gaze back down. I wasn't sure if it was really him. He was directly accross me, too close. Just a chest-level shelf of paperbacks separated us. I stole a peek again. This time I was surer. It was him.
The short crop, the gray polo and slacks fooled me for a bit. It was a far cry from the longish hair and "estudyante" clothes I was more used to. I pretended to examine the splash of colors in front of me. I had a feeling he saw me and that he knew I saw him. But I couldn't get myself to acknowledge his presence and pretend I was surprised to see him. Not that Lemony Snickets and I have a history. For those who do not know him, here's a PREVIOUS POST ABOUT HIM. It's just that he's a nice person and is my epitome of a what-if. Anyway, I bit my lip as he moved away, hesitated for a millisecond at my row and then probably decided I was not worth the effort of a hello. Argh. Why does a woman always have to do the first move? And why do I have problems with that? It's just a stupid friendly hi. I couldn't even do it.
Lai had not yet replied, I figured she was asleep in preparation for a night of thesis-writing (or Wimbledon). I left the bookstore with a 180 degree scan of the place. Lemony Snickets was no longer in my visual range. Fifteen minutes later as I was heading home, I uttered an entire block's worth of obscenities to myself. If it weren't for the take-out food I was lugging, I would have whacked my head numerous times. I. am. such. a. cow.
Nothing really interested me much among the rows of fiction except "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand. It looked interesting especially that the protagonist is an architect (I have this long-standing fascination with architects). I rounded up the contemporary fiction section and found myself shuffling through poetry. Rio Alma's book with artwork by Ang Kiukok engrossed me for a while. My peripheral vision prompted me to shift my gaze upward. That's when I saw Lemony Snickets. I shifted my gaze back down. I wasn't sure if it was really him. He was directly accross me, too close. Just a chest-level shelf of paperbacks separated us. I stole a peek again. This time I was surer. It was him.
The short crop, the gray polo and slacks fooled me for a bit. It was a far cry from the longish hair and "estudyante" clothes I was more used to. I pretended to examine the splash of colors in front of me. I had a feeling he saw me and that he knew I saw him. But I couldn't get myself to acknowledge his presence and pretend I was surprised to see him. Not that Lemony Snickets and I have a history. For those who do not know him, here's a PREVIOUS POST ABOUT HIM. It's just that he's a nice person and is my epitome of a what-if. Anyway, I bit my lip as he moved away, hesitated for a millisecond at my row and then probably decided I was not worth the effort of a hello. Argh. Why does a woman always have to do the first move? And why do I have problems with that? It's just a stupid friendly hi. I couldn't even do it.
Lai had not yet replied, I figured she was asleep in preparation for a night of thesis-writing (or Wimbledon). I left the bookstore with a 180 degree scan of the place. Lemony Snickets was no longer in my visual range. Fifteen minutes later as I was heading home, I uttered an entire block's worth of obscenities to myself. If it weren't for the take-out food I was lugging, I would have whacked my head numerous times. I. am. such. a. cow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)