Portlaoise town in peculiar time of plague
Every town has its story to tell, and what stimulates our imagination better than photography? Captivating narration is a daunting task, but it’s even trickier to transfer it on to paper with an attempt of containing all its complicity in a limited number of pages. Often in such dilemmas, people reach for technology, and there is nothing wrong with that. On the contrary camera and words are the best companion, and should be brought together more often.
Sometimes, a photographer, like a writer, is forced to exceed certain limits of intimacy. On some occasions, it even may seem intrusive, but whether you agree or not, creator has to carry a stalker within. Art is nosy, crosses boundaries and tries to touch the very fabric of other people’s lives. It can only be compared to an obscene attempt of licking someone’s face while he is asleep. We live in strange times, our habits are changing radically, we had to give up many things we thought would last forever. Some had to be learned anew, others won. Patience has become not only a virtue but also a kind of currency, especially if it comes to adult-child relation.
The world seems to have slowed down and it happened against our will. To the person observing these events and new phenomena from an inward position, everything appears as too much, too strong, too heavy, overwhelming and depressing. But all you have to do is step outside the brace, separate yourself for a tiny moment, just enough to have a peek or to shoot a photo.
Even gloomy black and white world looks plainly from the right perspective. A man running through the city does not flee but exercises, a masked person with a backpack set off onto the journey of his life, a woman in a narrow corridor simply goes to the store although one would think she is stepping down to Telemachus’ labyrinth. Suddenly we see smiles, cordiality, peace. Town lives and breathes, people spin and swirl like bees in the hive, we work, we rest — life goes its usual way, maybe at a different pace and on other conditions, but we are here, as always concerned, always trying to turn the tide, as human as yesterday and maybe even more. Small towns like Portlaoise are the perfect matrix for today. One can easily get around in one day, it can be repeated as many time as needed, it’s not as time and energy-consuming as with the large metropolises. People are more approachable, nature enters the town uninvited and is literally at the back of your hand. Every corner is familiar, every person known. Over time, you realize that you’re not so much photographing the town you live in, but making a reportage of your life, although you are not in the pictures, the life you photograph is more yours than it may seem at first glance.
History happens every day before our eyes. The only thing we should do is to look. We don’t need to strive, ask for it, win castings. Participation in this greatest human enterprise is our birthright. We come to this world, live and die as its building blocks, so if we have the means and possibilities, why not give something more of ourselves by recording the fractions of our life in the picture and word so that future generations can understand us better and feel even stronger bond.
The memory of generations is us, here and now, we are the living book that is written day by day, hours per hour, minutes per minute. Today’s world, even though we have sworn it on many occasions while repeating an old Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times, deserves the memory and reflection of those who will replace us. So we owe it, and it’s only up to us how we fulfil this debt.
