#nana56b
Synopsis
The world my father saw through his fogged-up lens
was nothing but a “blank space” to me.
My father died when I was in middle school. The
cause of death was overwork.My father was, in truth,
a struggling “landscape photographer.” During the
day, he worked a part-time job as a security guard;
from midnight until dawn, he’d drive to the
mountains and the sea in search of the “perfect
light.” That reckless lifestyle was what stopped
his heart.
Ever since I can remember, my father always had a
heavy-looking camera bag slung over his back. Whether
it was parent-teacher conference day or my birthday,
he’d vanish somewhere, saying, “The once-in-a-
lifetime light might come.”The scenery before his
eyes mattered more to him than his family. My mother
had had enough of a father like that and left home
just as I was starting elementary school.
“Dreams are nothing but a curse that brings people
misery.”
I was convinced of that, and I hated my father. I
detested “photography”—the very thing that had
destroyed our family and even eroded his own life.
Six years have passed since my father’s death.
Now, as I approach graduation from college, I find
myself—of all things—holding a camera. What drew me
into the world I was supposed to hate so much was an
old SD card I found while sorting through his
belongings.
There wasn’t a single shot of the kind of
magnificent scenery you’d expect from a professional
photographer.All that was saved there were old
digital photos—out of focus and riddled with noise.
Technically speaking, they weren’t good by any
stretch of the imagination. Looking at those terrible
photos, I couldn’t help but snort derisively.
But when I saw the very last one, my finger froze.
It was a side profile of my mother hanging laundry on
the narrow balcony of our apartment at dusk.Her hair
was translucent against the backlight, and she wore a
gentle smile that flashed for just a moment. The
title of that photo was written in my father’s
characteristic, rough handwriting:
“Let’s Laugh Together Again Tomorrow Morning”
The date on the photo was a few days before the
divorce papers were filed. There were a few other
photos as well—of my mother’s back, and of my face
as I slept, covered in mud. The “ultimate light”
that my father had pursued at the cost of his own
life wasn’t some distant, breathtaking view; it
lay within the everyday life of our family, which
was slipping away.
He was just too clumsy to express it.
The reason he had invited my mother to his solo
exhibitions so many times was because he wanted her
to see these photos. Through his photographs, he
was desperately reaching out, saying, “Let’s start
over.”In the end, though, that message never
reached my mother. I wanted to carry on that
unfinished sentiment my father left …
