Newsletter from Jay Wilcox - July 2024: On Blurry Photos

Good morning/afternoon/evening!

I saw a thing on Reddit where a guy took a picture of his daughter every day as she grew from newborn to adult. Books came and went on the shelves behind her. Haircuts grew out and retreated like waves on the beach, accompanied by a sentimental, almost hypnotic piano score.

I told myself I would do this if I ever had a child--yet here I am, having missed five months of such a project. How am I going to remember Ursula now? I might be doing okay as a father, but I'm failing hard as a redditor. My pictures of her come from all around the house, all angles. Sometimes she's not even looking my way. By Internet standards, my documentation of this child's existence has been wildly inconsistent.

In all seriousness, I struggle to delete blurry photos. My phone only has so much space--and even after I back photos up to my computer, the cloud, space remains finite. Anything I delete is gone forever. Ursula, you're subscribed to my newsletter. Remember that photo Daddy took of the back of your head while you were lunging for more applesauce? Remember that one where it's just your hand, reaching for the camera?

Years ago, Hannah and I backpacked through southeast Asia and lost our phones right away. With no way to take pictures, we developed a mantra: "This is ours." We didn't need to document our adventures for anyone else. All we had to do was pay attention to our moment. Eventually, we found a used hot-pink digital camera through Khmer24, the Cambodian Craigslist. However, this thing could only hold 12 photos at a time. We needed to be judicious, prioritizing certain pics over others. To quote Hannah, "But they're all good ones!"

Indeed they are.

I probably have at least one picture from every day of my daughter's life--and if I delete one for being blurry, then it's gone forever. I can't get that moment back. Adding more storage space only reminds me that life is fundamentally finite.

Ursula, you are my beautiful blur. I love the way you push yourself up from the floor, arching your back. I love the way your movements add up--how you can start in the middle of the room and somehow end up in the corner. You're not technically crawling yet, but somehow you're moving. Similarly, you're still technically a baby, but somehow you're already so big and smart and inspiring.

I hope you've been well. As always, you're welcome to write back.

Infinite Regards,

Jay