The Greatest Memory by The Narratographer

The Greatest Memory by The Narratographer

The greatest memory of any photograph is not what you were pointing the camera at, but who was stood besides you when you did. It is not the moment you press the button that matters, it’s the moments before and after, the reason for your being there in the first place. We all pride ourselves on the composition of the final image, but we often forget the composition of our world at the time we took the photo. It matters more what was happening just out of frame than what was happening inside. It is that , I am sure you will agree, which really turns an image into something eternal. For this image, it was 2010 and we had travelled to Carcassonne during the upheaval of the protests which followed the Sarkozy pension reforms. Millions, and I mean millions, took to the streets and demanded he revoke his decision. It is this, amongst many other things, that I love about the French. Unlike us Brits, and so many other nationalities, when the government issues policy that they do not agree with, they do not waste their time with petitions, they simply refuse to go to work. They tie themselves to train tracks, and they did. They disrupt, they derail. They do everything in their power to cause as much pain for the government as the new reforms will cause them. They are united, they are vocal. They refuse to be sheep! I will always love them for this reason. So it was due to this mass protest that Anthony and I found ourselves stuck in Carcassonne for longer than expected. People were tying themselves to train tracks and there was no other way out of the place. Well, there was an airport about 500 meters away, but we were always convinced that if we flew together, a series of events would transpire that would somehow lead to us flying and having to land the damn thing. Well, Id be flying it, he would probably be on the radio whilst getting the stewardess to bring him coffee. So, we decided to stay trapped in Carcassonne, rather than risk certain death on a winged thing. Not that we were that bothered, such was the enchanting beauty of the place. I am not lying when I say that Carcassonne is the most beautiful, most incredible place we ever visited together . Or was it Bruges, or Amsterdam, or Marseilles? Don’t know, but it was certainly up there. What makes it even more special was the fact that it turned out to be our last ever trip. We parted ways at St Pancras, having made the day long, disrupted journey back to Blighty, only to never set foot on foreign soil together again. This trip will always be my most cherished of memories. Nothing, but nothing will take that from me. Just as it took this image, a group of Japanese tourists descended upon us. They kept pointing at me and my camera, saying “how much, how much?” To this day I don’t know if they wanted to know how good my camera was, or whether they thought we were prostitutes. Anyway, they soon buggered off and I was back to my photography. The problem is, I was a shit photographer back then. I mean, really shit. My idea of photographic technique was to aim at something that looked nice, take at least 7 handheld exposures at probably ISO 1600, then throw the lot into Photomatix and crank it up to 100. What came out normally looked like Picasso’s vomit, but occasionally I had a single exposure somewhere in there which wasn’t half bad. This, is one of those images. And as it is so often, I choose my best work over my favourite work. My best images have no story and my best stories have no images. I am in the quandary we are all in. Do I post that which means the most to me, or that which will be most popular? For once, I decided to post what truly matters.

The Narratographer: Photos