The Blink of an Eye
by Karen Krueger
More often than not I�m disappointed with the packages of photographs I have developed. It's not that they do a poor job of finishing my pictures; it�s just that it�s a rare occasion the image I hold in my hand matches the one I hold in my head.
It may take a while to use up a roll of film but once that last picture is taken I strip the film from the camera and rush to have it developed. I am picky about the size and finish and who develops my film. An hour later I stand at the counter with an envelope full of prints and a mind full of frustration. As I shuffle through the photos it is clear that I am not seeing what I saw.
Instead of a tremendous, blazing, sunset I see a tiny unrecognizable speck, a white blur that was a silver moon, closed eyes, shadowed faces, turned heads and no smiles. Colors are muted and objects I didn�t see stand as icons in the backgrounds. All the imperfections I missed now stand boldly documented before me. I am forced to admit I didn�t really see at what I saw.
Kodak paper and the mind hold images differently, the downtown developer uses a different technique to hold the image than does my brain. And the camera, well, I guess the camera and I really don't see eye to eye. When I blinked I held the image as I wanted it to be, perfect. When the camera blinked it held the image as it really was - a reality bite. So why do I keep torturing myself with these pictures?
Because those package of prints also hold things I didn�t see. And sometime it�s an image perfectly frozen in time. The picture affords me the opportunity to look at what I missed. I am able to take the time to find tiny perfections that had escaped my blinking eyes. Details I missed by the closing of my eye but the camera caught in the opening of its�. It's the promise of pictures like this, which drive me to have my film processed so quickly. You see, I�m in a hurry to see what I missed.