Pictures On the Wall

I never really thought about the title of my thesis film. Pictures On the Wall. Why did I call it that? Of course it sounds better than Ouroboros, or Resolution, at least in the context of the film, I admit. On the obvious side, Thomas takes pictures and later puts them up on his wall, and taking down a picture is an expression of his father's emotional state later, among other scenes. But beyond these simple reasons, was there anything deeper?

Then, while at a good friend's place the other day, I suddenly understood. And everything became clear. Kinda like attaining Nirvana, almost.

He had pictures of himself as a little kid on the wall - smiling right at the camera with his mom, sitting with his grandma, birthday cake before him, pictures like that. He looked like a little angel. They were these tiny pictures in their little frames, and looking at them, I felt like I was voyeuristically peering into a past that I didn't know, and I felt wrong somehow. I remember feeling the same way, almost, when I looked at Matt Cozza's journal thingy he had to do for his 7th Grade class. (good God, wasn't he cute with his little lawnmower?) And above all, I felt overwhelmingly sad, for a multitude of reasons.

It was part of the past, probably a good past too, that can only be looked upon in nostalgia and longing. But then again, don't people always look back with rose-tinted glasses? No matter what though, it exists only in the minds of the people in the pictures, and even though I'd been allowed a glimpse into that world for a split second, I will never be there, I will never understand it, never really feel it. It doesn't matter how close I am to that person or whoever it is whose pictures I'm looking at. It's a part of the past that I can never hope to know. I am an outsider, looking in, and it is at that point when the distance between me and the subject of the picture seems to be a huge gulf.

The older we get, the more lost we feel. Looking back at old pictures, don't you feel as if those were the best years of your life? That you seemed to know exactly why you were put on this planet, and exactly what other people were there for (of course you were put here to be God, and everyone else to cater to your every whim). Oh sure, you had worries and cares, but through the filter of age, they seem to be nothing more than trivialities, while at the time they were Life and Death.

I don't enjoy looking at my own pictures back from when I'm a kid. Neither do I like looking at recent ones much. Which is why all my pictures are kept away in albums and I don't display them. (Only when I was in the US, and those were more of my friends than of me) For one thing, I photograph horribly. I always thought I reached my peak of attractiveness at age seven and steadily went into a decline ever since (actually my peak of unattractiveness was probably between ages 14 and 17, so go figure). Whatever piercings, tattoos, accessories, or clothes I put upon myself, are only an attempt to delay the inevitable. For another, I always feel like I was so happy then, when in actual fact that might be far from the truth. Why is it that people always smile in pictures? Are you really happy? Or do you just want to reassure your future self that you were?

Why do people put pictures up? Do they want to be constantly reminded of their past? Each picture hung on a wall is like a black hole that attracts my attention. I don't enjoy looking at them, I always feel sad, but I can't resist. The force of time/nostalgia/the past pulling me into their neat little worlds sandwiched within their frames proves irresistable every time. I enter these little worlds through a time warp of the mind, and leave shaken and somehow a little emptier inside. But I'm such a whore for it too. I mean, I often actually ask to look at someone else's pictures. I don't know why. Am I such a glutton for punishment? Or do I simply enjoy actually feeling something?

I must confess not all pictures make me feel this way. Most are just blah. But occasionally some come along that just reach out, grab me by the neck and pull me in. Those are the ones, the ones that matter. The ones that are what my title refers to, I suppose.

I do realize that retroactive analysis of your own work is pretty pretentious, and I apologize for any hint of pretension I might have given off. This was truly a new revelation for me at the moment, and I was pretty stunned when it hit.

On a similar note, I've realized that music can do it too. Since I got my iPod, I've gotten back into the habit of listening to music on the go. The other day, at the MRT station, this sappy Julian Cheung ballad, Suddenly Thinking Of You (literal translation) started playing (the beauty of Shuffle Mode), and somehow, it was a combination of the location, the time, the song and my state of mind. I was pulled back to when I was 17 or 18, hearing the song on the radio for the first time and desperately wanting to know what it was, then later feeling an incredible urge to work it into a play (which I did with my friends). The memory was so intense I had to stop walking, and I just stood there listening until the song ended, and I found myself with goosebumps all over. Now that's a beautiful feeling.

I almost got it again when I played the DVD that came with the new Jacky Cheung album last night. Looking at the music videos from when I was 13 or 14, listening to the music that ruled my life, that meant everything to me then was an amazingly powerful experience. So powerful that I felt exhausted and drained afterwards.

I meant to write better about the pictures. Perhaps I will find a better way tomorrow and edit this post again. But for now, this is it, since it's been over two hours since I started.