I must preface this by saying that I have no particular attachment to seagulls.
Or rather, it's a contradictory relationship—somewhat like Catullus’ odi et amo, somewhat like Jekyll and Hyde. On one hand, I am emotionally conditioned, and as a lover of the sea, I get a thrill when, approaching the coast, I hear their cry announcing my proximity to the object of my passion. But my rational mind forces me to consider seagulls as little more than rats with wings—to quote the Pixar masterpiece that my infant daughter forced me to watch more than 400 times.
But apart from this, nothing ties me to that infernal bird that devours entire squirrels and pillages the garbage of coastal cities—the spawn of the devil, soaring over public parks, hunting poodles and chihuahuas.
And yet… something triggers inside me when I have a camera in my hands and a seagull enters my field of vision… a spasm in my hand, like Dr. Strangelove, an uncontrollable instinct, an aesthetic deviance… I must lift the camera and shoot.
I know… I know… damn me—I know that the shot I'm about to take is just another shitty picture of a shitty seagull… and yet…
I recall the professor from the photography course I took in university; he used to say that, every now and then, among the dozens or hundreds of photos, there’s one—one that, as you’re taking it, even before pressing the shutter, you just know it’s the right one. And as you click, the corner of your mouth curls into a little smirk of self-satisfaction. But for me, the opposite happens: I spot the diabolical bird, and instinct takes over. And already, as I bring the viewfinder to my eye, I know I’m about to take yet another pointless, terrible shot, and I can already picture myself, later, downloading the files into Lightroom—staring at it with disdain, incredulity, contempt, and resignation. I can see myself in the moment, as if trapped in a nightmare, trying to stop, screaming, but the words don’t leave my mouth. But I can’t help it.
Like when I promise myself I’ll stick to a diet, but then I see refined carbohydrates in front of me and I know I shouldn’t, I know I’m only hurting myself, but weakness prevails. Like a lemming at the edge of a cliff. Like a cat facing an inanimate object on a table. Like a tiger shark eyeing a swimmer from below in the Red Sea. It’s an impulse beyond my control.
And so my Ego turns to my Id and judges it harshly: “You took another shitty photo. You shoot at random, hoping that by sheer luck, one will eventually turn out decent. There is no mastery in you, no knowledge, no application, no dedication.” And my Id lowers its head in shame, vowing that it won’t happen again—until the next time.
Meanwhile, the photos keep piling up on my hard drive.The photos of the shitty seagull, my nemesis, roaming the world, like Amélie Poulain’s traveling gnome.
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