Zigzag

The first time I used a pair of Fiskars I was four years old. It was an orange handled set of pinking shears and when I held those blades in my hands, it felt pretty magical. The urge to cut and create was overwhelming, where should I start? Haircuts for Barbie and me, of course. I dragged the full-length mirror from the bathroom into my closet and snipped away discreetly. After each chunk of blonde fell to the carpet I whispered “Perfect”. The excitement quickly transitioned into disappointment when I did my big reveal; to say my mother wasn’t pleased would be an understatement. It may have been the first time I saw her cry, actually. From that point on the pair of zigzag scissors became contraband, and she made sure to hide them from us children in every apartment we lived in. Or so she thought, because I was continuously sneaking into their drawers and pulling them out when I felt inspired or a bit naughty.

My hair eventually grew back, and after another move (and hiding spot) my father started working at a shop that sold and repaired Polaroid cameras. For my eighth birthday I was given my first camera and subsequently, an introduction to photography. This was now my most prized possession, taking precedence over my lavender boombox and Ouija board. One of the perks of his job was free film and I couldn’t wait for each pack to come home. I took pictures of practically everything, from our pet iguana to my younger brother practicing karate in the living room. Not all ten pictures of the film cartridge always developed into masterpieces (or at all sometimes), but I created a makeshift scrapbook to display all of my Polaroids that were worth saving. I even cut out construction paper frames for each one… using the forbidden scissors. I was totally busted, but my parents didn’t give me too much grief. They were probably relieved that unlike the other neighborhood youths who were stealing from the corner store, cutting locks off of bikes, and spray-painting dumpsters, I was at least doing something productive (and legal). This hobby would turn into a passion later in life and continue to keep me out of trouble.

The Polaroid 600 collected dust throughout high school since film was harder to find (and no longer free). I migrated to a simple point-and-shoot camera with a panoramic function, and then bravely tried to finagle my grandfather’s old Zenit 35mm. The advanced settings were just as frustrating as the Ukrainian instruction manual to understand, and I wouldn’t pick up another manual camera until college. The subject matter of my photographs matured as I did and I took a liking to shooting portraits, abstract still life, and concerts. While this new medium was fun and having twenty-four exposures was way more convenient than ten, it did not give me the instant gratification that Polaroid film did. The quickest I could see these images was an hour after dropping the roll off. I frequented the store enough to make friends with the photo lab technician and eventually could bribe him with a few of my mother’s cigarettes and some babysitting money to develop a handful of rolls at a time and drop them in my locker the next day. I would learn patience and discipline later on; black and white film took even longer.

The only thing more exciting than going to a community college with a great visual art program that allowed me to pursue photography was getting a voucher to the campus store through financial aid. I had never bought my own crafting supplies before; everything in my tackle box was secondhand, gifts that I asked for, or items borrowed from school that I “forgot” to bring back. I threw my textbooks into the cart and made a beeline towards the back wall where I could see various brushes and types of paint on display. My eyes browsed every inch of the wall while my hands kept grabbing. I stopped and focused on something familiar hanging next to packages of blue and black pens. It was a shiny new pair of Fiskars, but these had straight titanium blades instead of zigzag. I thought of my botched childhood haircut and had to have them. They actually became invaluable in the dark room - cutting film from canisters, severing rolls to make contact sheets, and assisting in making templates and matting images. I even used one of the blades as a flathead screwdriver to do occasional camera repairs. Each semester I spent hours in the darkroom with these scissors in my camera bag, waiting for their next task. Off campus they would follow me on academic adventures while I visually documented my final. I decided this last project would involve finding eerie, decayed, and broken objects that were typically thought of as visually unattractive and photographing/editing them in a way that made them look interesting and beautiful. It was a way to tell other people about myself and where I came from without actually telling them; as much as I wanted to make new friends who also liked photography, I was shy and often suffered panic attacks in social settings. My method was definitely a bit unconventional - I trudged through barren swamps, rummaged through dumpsters, and climbed into windows to see the inside of abandoned buildings. I did a lot of wandering and photographed grim things like bones, broken glass, and dead trees. If you use the right lighting and soften these up or zoom and focus on just their shape and texture, they’ll surprise you and transform into art worthy of hanging on a wall.

Along with collecting cameras and photographs over the years, I added more hobbies to my repertoire – acrylic and watercolor painting, jewelry making, and stitching profanity onto embroidery fabric. These were pleasurable and kept my hands and mind busy, but nothing compares to my ongoing love for photography. It’s both nostalgic and exciting for me, and I enjoy the process and main components just as much as the miniscule. The smell of the different developing chemicals was aromatherapy, and the dark room was a distraction and safe place where I could hide as an anxious teenager who didn’t quite fit in anywhere outside of it. In a bold and rebellious move, I even had my favorite cameras tattooed on my dominant arm for all to see. I have a permanent reminder of my favorite thing, and it’s become a conversation starter for anyone who stops to ask or admire the artwork on my skin. I think my mother was even more disappointed with the tattoos than she was with my zigzag haircut.