I would have been 7 or 8 years old when this picture was taken of me by my sister. We were on a family camping trip out west; a work trip for my father who was taking photographs for landscape paintings he might later paint.
If I were to talk about it to you, I would probably point out the carelessness of those shoes with some amusement. I feel that there is something deliciously and authentically childlike about them that just pleases me to no end. And maybe I even secretly feel it also says something about who I was, maybe who I am and my approach to life. These things don’t matter.
Ridiculous, of course, for I now have a thing for certain kind of shoes. But they don’t matter.
But the private thing stops me about this particular image, is the inscrutable look that, maybe, shouldn’t belong on a little girl’s face. Whether it’s a true reflection of things at the time, or just something I project on it years later, hardly matters.
By age 7 and certainly age 8, I would have had an idea of the shape of the family I was growing into and rough idea of my place around it, but I wouldn’t have, just yet, come understand or yet experience the full picture of it.
I feel a bit sad for that girl.
For I know what she’s been through.