Give me a blurry thumb. Give me a horizon that leans like a sailor after a week on the rum.
There are people, solemn people with velvet waistcoats and cameras that cost more than a family car, who spend forty-three days waiting for a cloud to look like elaborate hat just to photograph a pebble. They call it "Art." I call it a cry for help.
The "Snap" is the thing. A sudden click-whoosh-bang that captures Auntie Doris halfway through a sneeze, or a dog that has become, through pure mechanical incompetence, a streak of brown lightning.
An overworked photograph is a lie told by a machine. But a snapshot? That is a holy accident. It says: "I was there, I was wobbly, the sun was in my eyes, and the sandwich was magnificent."
Art is for people with too much time and not enough tea. Give me the blurred, the bonkers, and the decapitated heads of loved ones. That is where the life is. Now, move your finger, I can’t see the sky.
