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Sometimes the Worst Photo Is the Best Art in The Entire Gallery
Who decides what is valuable art and what is not? I say it’s the viewer. In this case, it’s me.
A thirty-year-old photograph of my father rests on the windowsill by my desk. I see it every day and think of him. He died in 2018.
It’s a terrible picture, as far as photographic quality goes. It is overexposed, fuzzy and oddly brownish, but that doesn’t matter because, for a fleeting moment each day, it brings him back to life.
In the picture, he projects an image of strength. He pulls heroically at the oars of a riverboat as the two of us run the length of the Colorado River through the majesty of the Grand Canyon.
My dad looks at me from behind sunglasses, his lips pursed, and teeth gritted. He is a man of determination, gifted, superlative, and kind.
That’s how I remember him, and always will.
A picture is worth…
If I were rich, with a personal gallery of original photos from Leibovitz, Adams, and Gursky, this snapshot of my father would hang in the position of greatest artistic honor.
Because it brings thousands of memories to life.
