Shut Up and Shoot

I was six years old when I held my first camera, a Soviet little "Shkolnik". My uncle gave it to me. He explained what exposure is, loaded the film, and said:

— With this box, you’ll never be bored.

My uncle was that guy who came once a year from the big city to the village. And he shot. He photographed our small family. Grandma's apple trees. The neighbors’ family. The neighbors’ friends. And pretty much everyone who lived in the village.

By the end of summer he would leave. A year later he would return with a thick stack of photo prints. He’d walk around the village again, handing out the photos. Sometimes drank moonshine with the neighbors. And he kept shooting.

One day he left and never came back.

So I shoot. I photograph the sea as if I want to keep it with me forever. I photograph tiny human figures in the distance. I photograph strange things. My reflection in random mirrors. And shadows. I shoot when I’m happy. When I’m down. And with this little box that turns light into pictures, it’s simply impossible to be bored. Hah!

In the darkest times, I spent my last money on a couple of rolls of film. I don’t know if I could’ve gotten through some of life’s hardest moments without that little magic box. And without the film that needs to be developed. I clung to the microscopic specks of dust on the film scans. And to the grain. Grain is good. Just like the air we breathe, my black & white stories are how I keep going.

— Shut up and shoot!

Says the voice in my head sometimes. So I shoot.
Uncle, is that you?