Forgetting Nostalgia

Early Spring   |  Denmark 

7 years ago, I had the privilege of studying in Copenhagen, diving headfirst into everything architecture and design that I could cram into my brain. At the time, I was terrible at documentation, wanting to feel moments as they happened, rather than experiencing something once removed, behind my lens. I managed to take photographs, however while looking at them now, I can see I was distracted. The photos have little clarity, they are rushed, lopsided, and difficult to place for anyone who was not standing next to me. 

They frustrate me. They highlight my inability to frame, understand light, shadow, and depth. They capture my novice rather than the object in front of me. Unable to pull myself back and capture the overall scene, they focus on blurred details, textures, shades of the big picture. However, at that time, it was a complete reflection of myself. I was twenty-one, I was in love, I was unaware of the opportunities that lay just out of sight from the experience, and I was consumed with the idea that I wouldn't ever forget these places. In theory, I was partially correct with my assumption- you won't ever forget a memory if you work at it, recalling it in your mind like rolling a  piece of hard candy around in your mouth. But like candy, the memory becomes soft around the edges. With patient deliberation, I call up memories from the folds of my brain, and roll them around, turning them over and over to ensure I remembered all parts of that moment. But, instead of remembering them with enhanced clarity, I've noticed the opposite. I knew the look of the narrow stairwell which brought me from Strøget to my architecture studio. Then I couldn't remember if the stairs were old or new, if that was the old side of the building, or the contemporary remodel. What did the studio door look like? How many flights did I have to climb? I've rolled that memory over and over so many times, the only thing I have left is how the railing felt against my hand as I sped down the stairs to meet friends after school. I hear my feet in the deep echo of the space, but I no longer remember what it looked like. 

It's in this moment that I am irritated with myself and my lack of physical references for the space, which is now only a feeling. I have a sense this will  happen with all those precious memories. The more times I recall them, flood my brain with those moments and bask in those daydreams, I'll use them up completely. I suppose I won't know for sure until they're gone, if they truly disappear, or just become engrained deep within my subconscious, influencing my choices without my immediate knowledge. I'll forever want to slide my hand down a worn, wooden banister as I race out the door to meet friends although I won't know it. 

Below are a series of photographs from that time in my life. They are clumsy and novice, but they are absolutely mine.