La Petite Pamplemousse: Sunset Soon Forgotten

The more pictures I share, the more I realize that the beauty I'm trying to prove to you is already fading. It's not what it was in that exact moment when I saw what was in front of me. Unfortunately, that's the struggle artists run into every time they try to recreate what they find so incredible. The first encounter, the first glimpse, the first rush of ideas are all so precious that what follows cannot even be thought of in the same light.

I'm suddenly thinking back to when we studied the Native Americans in Third Grade; I was so confused as to why they thought that if they had their picture taken, their soul would be taken away. I didn't get it; I grew up in a community that celebrates cameras. We take pictures to commemorate every important event, every special occasion, every "first". We use them to look back and see how we've grown and remember what we might have forgotten about ourselves. After last weekend's trip to the Alps, I have come to understand the Native American's viewpoint on this. Granted, I will still continue to click away during my time here to share with others, but I have realized that it's not ever going to be the same as in person. The life of the picture is frozen in time and hence, it's essentially dead. I cannot replay the moment; I can only stare and try to remember what I thought back then. In comparison, I have the picture taken by my memory. Last Saturday night we all went out onto the balcony to get some air after eating a ton of raclette. The stars were so vivid that you really could see them twinkling. I started finding the constellations I learnt back in the 6th grade. I tried to explain to everyone what the names are in English as they puffed on their cigarettes. It was so quiet. It was nice to get out of the city and be able to look at the same stars that other people see around the world. Yet there was no inclination to take a picture of the five of us standing there at night to preserve the moment. It was a wonderful, special weekend, but I think I might like the moments I leave for my brain to preserve more than the ones on a 10 GB USB disk. There's something that lives on; you are able to still smell the wood burning, you are able to still hear the wind, you are able to feel the wooden ledge, and you can still taste the bitterness of the aperitif on your tongue if you just close your eyes and think back. There's more than just the sight of the stars in that memory.

Or furthermore, when I finally was able to stop myself in my skis. The sun was shining, the mountains were smiling, and my favorite all time happy song came blasting on the loudspeakers as I pushed myself down the mini practice hill. I was laughing, smiling, happy. I didn't care that the only snow pants that fit me were for a 12 year old. I didn't care that I had to rent Junior skis because my feet and body haven't grown since I was 13. I didn't care if I fell on my ass (which I didn't) in front of the cafe. I felt on top of the world even though I was at the bottom of the mountain. I felt at home in a very foreign place.