Dignity Never Been Photographed 001

Oxnard, 2021

I like to use cameras to take pictures.

That may sound redundant — all pictures are taken by a camera apparatus of some sort — but I do like to distinguish between proper cameras and cameras on phones. The former requires a degree of skill, precision, and intentionality; the latter simply requires opening the app and pressing the button. Most of the image is made not by the shooter, but by software.

I draw this distinction not to impugn or insult smartphone photography — hell, 90% of the pictures I take are on my iPhone — but to explain why I continue to shoot photos this way. The images I get out of my cameras seem to me qualitatively different than the images I get from my phone. They are hand-wrought, imperfect, emotionally charged. They are alive, moreso than any Live Photo.

I like to post my photos on Instagram, but film shots of various bays, vistas, and strip malls around California have a hard time competing with algorithmically-tuned short-form video and cross-posted promotional carousels. Hence: “Dignity Never Been Photographed,” a series in which I highlight an image I’ve made and talk a little bit about it.

I’m beginning this series today with my favorite photo I’ve ever taken.

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I took this picture in Oxnard, California sometime in May 2021.

I was on my way down to Los Angeles from San Francisco to help my friend Ori move up to the Bay Area. On my way down, I pulled off the 101 (I always take the 101 these days; the 5 fills me with dread, makes me keenly aware of my mortality) to visit the Design Within Reach outlet. I don’t remember if I bought anything.

After I finished at DWR, I noticed an adjacent vacancy that clearly used to be a Fry’s Electronics—you can tell by the shape of the sign. I grabbed my camera from the car, snapped this shot, and went on my way, not expecting anything in particular out of the image. A few weeks later, after I had developed the roll of film (Portra 160, I believe), I was rewarded with this result.

I love this image because of the way it looks. The colors are soft and low-contrast; there is a suggestion of purple beneath the whole thing, from the red cart catcher to the white stucco facade to the blue sky. I like the contrast between the shaded asphalt in the foreground and the shining Fry’s beyond, lit bright by that lucky old sun. I like the drama of the various shapes and the playful, casual way they come together: the straight line of the tiled roof, the triangular peak of the building face, the round arch above the doors.

I also love this image because of the memories and feelings it stirs within me. As a kid, I would often go to Fry’s (typically the “Alice in Wonderland” one in Woodland Hills, occasionally the Area 51 one in Burbank) and buy discount Xbox games and DVDs with my father and sister. This image reminds of those times, which persist today as simple, mildly pleasant memories. At the same time, this isn’t quite an image of the store I used to go to: it’s not a Fry’s at all, in fact, but rather an empty space awaiting a new lessee. The “death” of this Fry’s is emotionally resonant to me, particularly when counterposed against the two robust palm trees that frame its entrance.

California will outlive us all.