I am not a documenter, per se; my photographs rarely make it into albums, and I get tired about waxing poetics about my own life. I am not diligent enough, and it frightens me that my life could be summed up through tangible memories.
I try, though. I take thousands of pictures because photography is one of my favourite languages and I write down the good things in a black Moleskine because I want to remember all of the little things that make life its own form of quiet magic.
When I travel, then, I usually take pictures. I fill memory cards and photograph everything twice and chase after light because it is the realest way I have found to give tribute to the world when I experience it.
This time, though, I haven’t. I’ve been struggling with my pictures, the camera a language I suddenly feel uncomfortable speaking. I have a handful of notes in one of my Muji composition books, but the last one is weeks old.
Strangely enough, I have been documenting differently, this time around. I take less pictures but I am more liberal with my polaroïds. I write less, I draw more; for every day I spend on the road, there is a sketch in my Trash Book, and notes on what happened that day. I never expected polaroids and messy sketches to be my main mode of documentation on this trip, but here you go.
Go with your gut, is what I am trying to say. Find what feels good and trust it.