Alan Marcheselli

Call me polaroider

Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — having little or no pixel in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on CCD o CMOS sensors, I thought I would dedicate myself to the integral films and see the instantaneous part of the world.

It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to photograph as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword ; I quietly start to shoot instant photos.

There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the photography with me.