Flying out West to visit family, I phound I’d phorgotten my phone. Turned out my brother forgot his, too. We laughed and guessed we did not want to be distracted during this eight-day family trip.
Fast-backward to the early eighties. Every youthful explorer of consciousness has a whopping enlightenment experience or two. Mine came in ’81 and lasted several months. During this acceleration, my artist friends, the streets of New York, domestic life—everything—was intense, colorful, deeply meaningful and I wanted to record it all.
I carried a notebook and pen for words, a clipboard and brushpen for on-the-spot sketching, a heavy-lensed camera, a hand-sized tape recorder for musical inspirations and conversations, plus fresh batteries, film and extra cassettes. In the days before cargo pants. I was a veritable communications packhorse. It was thrilling to have such capacities, albeit cumbersome.
When smartphones appeared, I recognized that all I had sought was now in a single trim item, with Dick Tracy’s two-way wrist-radio and a video camera thrown in. Plus you can read a book, answer most questions and talk with the people you love.
So, eight days with no phone. What did I miss? Other people could place and take my calls for the duration and I so rarely text that that was no inconvenience. I had another way to check email, and though I sometimes capture a floating melody, I don’t record conversations anymore, or do many al fresco drawings. And I still carry a notebook rather than typing my observations.
But I missed that camera. I know the faces of my family, and I’m continually drawn to the same behaviors of light. But life, while mellowed, is still intense, colorful and deeply meaningful. Happily, though, some images can be shared in words.