Word Thief.

“Artist, Poet , Scientist, Thief?”

In my head, once upon a time there was no question as to which of these I was: thief. I could not make my own pictures, so I stole them instead. I was never a poet – writing creatively has never been my strong point (analytically is another story altogether), but I could find things very easily that I wished to appropriate for my own. Thus, I was a thief. But in my head I was a Picture Thief. The concept that I could be anything other than never entered my mind. Through GCSE, A Level, I knew what I wanted – Art School, a pretty camera, peers who understood and a creative outlet. But now I have those things, where am I left? I’m left doubting whether I’m really a Picture Thief, or a Word Thief.

The concept has somewhat shocked me. I never really considered studying literature. Clearing was basically pot luck, and I was just lucky I had passably good grades to back it up (let’s not kid ourselves. AABC never got anyone into Oxbridge). I had a whole plan for the scenario of “What If I Don’t Get Into Uni”: CRC. Art foundation. Hate it. Do it. Come out after a year with no morale from being surrounded by art kids who can draw (I struggle with stick men) and THEN go on to university. The big ones. Camberwell. Wimbledon. Goldsmiths. They all shot me down without even an interview because I didn’t have an Art Foundation. With one I felt it was possible to conquer the world.

But this one essay for photography was opening the lid to Pandora’ Box. I missed literature. I missed reading for meaning, constructing arguments, getting my point across and writing like a pretentious dick with every cause to do so. Photography is essentially the same thing, but with pictures, not words. Maybe I was never adept enough at expressing myself visually. I’ve always been able to articulate myself orally, but now I notice, not pictorially. Or at least, not to the standard that I want, that I deem acceptable.

I’ve always set high targets for myself. I remember my whole world crushing when we got our AS grades back and I found a C in literature. God forbid I got a C in anything (except Psychology. That never counted for me anyway). Everything just stopped for me. I was happy enough with a round 88% in photography, but that C broke my heart. I thought I could do it. I worked hard. I read and analysed the novel to within an inch of its life. And then we got the letter that they misplaced our papers and we were to re-sit. Hello 100% without effort. Balance restored.

You would have thought that that would have been enough to make me realise maybe I should reconsider my choices for university, but alas, it did not. I was enjoying the creativity, the freedom, the part of me I could never express in words because it was all too personal and deep, and meant so much to me I wanted it out there, but hidden. That part of me is what enjoying photography the most. But literature? It’s still calling out. I want to learn more. I don’t want to stop learning. I want to know about those stories that not enough people are reading, to understand them and to live them. But I can’t give up photography. It wouldn’t feel right. A world without observation? No comments, just observe and steal. I couldn’t do it.