I like the way the world looks from behind my camera lens. I always have. It’s what led me into studying photography in the first place. Long hours spent in the darkroom, time spent in a safe, dark cocoon. Life moves at a speed lately that I struggle to reach out and define. Days blur into weeks as I even question whether or not time is progressing in suspected linear fashion, or playing the trickster to my mind’s eye.
The world stops when I raise my camera. I am gifted with tiny pieces of infinite universes of possibility which I can only hope to capture. I’ve always been drawn to photographing flowers. When I was in photo school, I took a fine art/exploratory photography course and spent the entire year photographing flowers. From their pristine beauty to their ultimate decay, I delved into their intricacy in all formats, processes and methods.
The subtle shifts of the days marching cyclically through the changing seasons, the barren twig becoming the budding flower and thus the ultimate prize. I long to capture all of these things, and I don’t even cast bother to whether or not others will view or enjoy them. They are my moments, they are some of the only time I truly steal for myself amidst the chaos of recently cacophonous days. They are the silence encapsulated, which I long for.
During this long month of April, we are continually reminded of all the manners in which Autism detracts and weighs heavily on us. We feel gravity’s pull on our disability like the heaviest armor. Time is fleeting. Time is the only thing in life that we can never get back, the only thing that we can truly lose. Time is amorphous in it’s distillation of our fears and joys. I desire more of that joy, despite it’s ephemeral nature. I live life through an Autistic lens, with every action, every thought bent and changed, like light following the simple laws of physics.
Some days I feel elation in my difference, the difference is in the details. I smile at the infinite opportunity that appreciation of the mundane and unnoticed seems to bring. I eternally feel like I carry a secret, a devil in the details, a notion of things working on a smaller scale that other eyes simply pass over for lacking.
Flowers bear stories, and this I adore.
In Greek mythology, Hyacinth was given various parentage, providing local links, as the son of Clio and Pierus, King of Macedon, or of king Oebalus of Sparta, or of king Amyclas of Sparta, progenitor of the people of Amyclae, dwellers about Sparta. His cult at Amyclae, where his tomb was located, at the feet of Apollo’s statue, dates from the Mycenaean era.
In the literary myth, Hyacinth was a beautiful youth and lover of the god Apollo, though he was also admired by West Wind, Zephyr. Apollo and Hyacinth took turns throwing the discus. Hyacinth ran to catch it to impress Apollo, was struck by the discus as it fell to the ground, and died. A twist in the tale makes the wind god Zephyrus responsible for the death of Hyacinth. His beauty caused a feud between Zephyrus and Apollo. Jealous that Hyacinth preferred the radiant archery god Apollo, Zephyrus blew Apollo’s discus off course, so as to injure and kill Hyacinth. When he died, Apollo did not allow Hades to claim the youth; rather, he made a flower, the hyacinth, from his spilled blood. According to Ovid’s account, the tears of Apollo stained the newly formed flower’s petals with the sign of his grief. The flower of the mythological Hyacinth has been identified with a number of plants other than the true hyacinth, such as the iris.
The Death of Hyacinth, by Jean Broc: