Without the photograph, was I even there?
A short intermission from a Minnesotan garage.
Today's letter is a little different.
I've been on vacation for the last two weeks and this short piece poured out of me the moment I got back to my desk. I hope you enjoy it.
Thank you for reading Wax Walls, your subscription means the world to me.
Boxing gloves punctured the air around me, slamming into the worn edges of a dark punching bag suspended precariously from the ceiling of Eric's garage. Each swing conjured deep grunts as four fists fired into the lifeless column.
David and Eric were lost in a trance of their own making.
A sun-chasing German and born n' raised Minnesotan coming together to unwind after a day of editing podcasts and agency business.
Hips pivoting, fists flying, pupils dilating.
The kind of explosive repetitive metronome only my Grandma's ancient grandfather clock could mimic with any precision.
And I couldn't look away.
Not long ago, I was printing t-shirts in a warehouse under a stuffy, damp bridge. Scraping by on minimum wage for a so-called "apprenticeship".
Before that, I was writing melodies for my band's new song in math class whilst intentionally ignoring my teacher's pressure to "work harder".
Now I'm ducking around a punching bag, trying to get film photos of my friends between Zoom meetings, thousands of miles from where I was born.
Where had that time gone? How did I end up here?
It all went by so fast. Tick tock.
Around the edges of the garage, Eric's collection of DIY tools blended with scattered toys for his Frozen-obsessed daughter. You could have worn a pink tutu and a yellow hard hat simultaneously without being out of place.
His reality was far beyond my comprehension, even with only a handful of years between us.
Retreating to the doorway between the house and the garage to get a clearer picture, the icy concrete below my feet anchored me in place. The winter air bit my finger harshly when I hovered over the shutter button as panting erupted (in two languages) around me.
I was frozen, waiting for the perfect frame.
But let's be frank, without a camera in my hand, I would not remember this so clearly. If at all.
My spirit is so often tangled between layers of ethereal abstraction and derealisation that I can't fathom a grounded reality. Let alone make memories from it.
For the majority of my life, I've had an impossible time recalling information. Most of my childhood is a blur, for a multitude of reasons (looking at you, teenage trauma and maybe the weird "Gifted and Talented" experimental school program too).
Even my most fond memories are only available through consistent and intentional practice.
OR, as luck would have it, a single photograph.
Through one photograph the space around me changes, pulling me through a portal into a snapshot of time I intentionally locked in chemicals forever.
Connecting directly to the emotion of the scene, the weight of the punching bag, the harshness of the breeze, the focused intensity on David's face, and the way a single sun beam warmed the concrete underneath my bare feet. I can feel it all as if I were there.
Every millisecond was recorded. I just couldn't access it without the photograph.
Which is precisely why I carry a camera with me everywhere I go (and why Wax Walls exists).
Because if I capture my memories on film, I know I can return to that moment whenever I please.
All of the stories I thought I would lose are now mine forever.
Until next time.
Connor x
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