We long to see things clearly. We want focus, detail, clarity—anything that illuminates or validates authenticity. But all too often we employ—consciously or otherwise—all kinds of imperfect filters to sort out some semblance of cold, hard truth. Yet sometimes accidents happen and “truth” takes on a softer hue.
Like in the photograph above. I took it a few days ago in Eastport, across Spa Creek from Annapolis. It was a warm, humid evening so when I went outside from the comfort of my air-conditioned living room to capture the image, I didn’t realize that the lens of my camera would be a coated with a thin layer of condensation that filtered the available light, rendering the image with a gauzy glow more akin to a Dutch painting than an amateur photograph. When I realized what had occurred, I dried off the lens and snapped a few more photographs, but to me, none captured the feel of that serene evening in the way that first one did. Fortuitous truth.
And then I looked closer. In the viewfinder, my eye had fixed on the array of boats, the spire of St. Mary’s, and the diffused light in the evening sky. But what I failed to notice at first were the three small paddlers in the lower right foreground, aligned shadows moving out toward the light. They gave the natural composition of the scene an unforeseen human dimension, taking a static moment and giving it a dynamic undertone. Dumb luck.
All of which, in a curious way, leads me around to what transpired up on Capitol Hill last week. Two individuals, each presenting his or her own version of an event that took place more than thirty years ago. One was vulnerable, soft-spoken, and self-effacing. The other was vitriolic, defiant, and self-righteous. Both seemed equally certain that their version of the truth was just that—the truth. But this was no accidental photograph, no fortuitous rendering of a serene moment. This was—this is—an agonizing human tragedy with profound consequences for both of the individuals who testified, for their families, and for our nation.
Questions abound: questions about motive, or character, or appropriate judicial temperament, but whether you ultimately believe Dr. Ford or Judge Kavanaugh probably depends more on the filter or filters you’re using. Perhaps it’s your political persuasion, your gender, or even your gut instinct that leads you to conclude that one witness was telling the truth and the other was lying. Absent authentication of what really occurred, whether by an FBI investigation or some new and compelling fact, we may never know what exactly happened on that night, at that party. Even with perfect focus, clarity, and detail, we may still see have to draw our own conclusions about the characters of the individuals involved and why the indelible imprint left on their souls that night cuts so deep. As much as we may want a clear, detailed, and sharply focused photograph, we’re much more likely to be left with a hazy image shot through our own fogged lens.
Whatever this tragedy’s ultimate outcome, we’ve been reminded yet again how deep the divide is in our country. Vindication of one party or the other will never be enough to heal this wound; it may, in fact, only compound our present dangerous infection. Sad.
Just keep paddling toward the light as best you can.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer with homes in Chestertown and Bethesda. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy magazine. “A Place to Stand,” a book of photographs and essays about Landon School, was published by the Chester River Press in 2015. A collection of his essays titled “Musing Right Along” was published in May 2017; a second volume of Musings entitled “I’ll Be Right Back” will be released in June 2018. Jamie’s website is www.musingjamie.com.
Carla Massoni says
Thank you Jamie. I am reflecting, and paddling.
Jamie Kirkpatrick says
Aren’t we all, Carla!
Joan Berwick says
Reminiscent of Hudson Valley paintings. Articulate portrayal of the fog we are all in and the filters we use. Thank you Mr. Kirkpatrick