Little baby me recorded eternally in grainy glory. Praise be to the awesome power of photons that allow the transportation of youthful visions of my child-self and the 1990s across time into the dark and digital depths of adulthood.
My first camera was a big blue Fisher Price camera when I was four years old, in 1995. I was given it to record my trip to Florida with my Dad and Grandma. I don’t remember the holiday very much, aside from becoming completely enamored with Froot Loops, but fortunately I have the few pictures I took to act as memories.
I vaguely remember Sea World (I got myself a nice cuddly toy killer whale), and I have an extremely fuzzy memory of the ET ride.
A month after the holiday, my dad was dead, and analogue photographs became an integral part of my memories of him, tying them together like visual threads.
In any case, cameras had been a firmly embedded part of my early life. As expected, my family recorded everything and now I can look back on the dated furniture and terrible haircuts with a wistful sort of joy.
I even had a posh baby shot done:
I present you with a progression of my growth (the last one is me now):
I always very much enjoyed snapping away with carefree abandon, and as anticipated, I have grown into quite the photography-obsessed adult, occasionally ridiculed for the sheer amount of plastic cameras bulging in my bag at any one time.