Life, Undocumented

There exist thousands upon thousands of photos of me. My hipbones, my pubic hair, my clavicle, my breasts, my jawline, my eyes... all are exceedingly well-documented. Years from now, there will be no question as to what I looked like during this time in my life.

But that's about where it ends. As I mentioned a few months back, in my post about snapshots, I'm not much a picture-taker outside of an artistic context. Perhaps it's my aggressively minimalist approach to life causing a feeling that photos would be just one more thing to deal with. Or perhaps it's because I hesitate to detach myself from the moment in order to document it. Whatever the reason, I have very, very few photos of myself in day-to-day life.

This photo was taken last weekend at Tour de Fat, the world's largest bike parade. Cameras abounded at the event, but thus far, this is the clearest photo of me that I've found. It exemplifies my presence in most candid photos- fleeting and distracted.

As I make my way through life, it's my physical self, my body, which is documented. But what I do with this body? By and large, it remains undocumented.