I have always kept a diary, very soon after I have learned to read and write. My written diary is always with me, even if I write a long entry full of emotions or I just jot down a few words about my day. It’s my way of remembering, thinking, managing, enjoying my life and feelings. And it is only for me, my alone space where I can be just as sloppy or uninteresting or boring or unhappy or naive or hopeful as I want.
Taking a photo a day is also a form of journaling, even if it is a bit more public. I show these photos to friends, many of them have in them shared jokes and moments of being silly together. But I wouldn’t post these journals online for example, or I wouldn’t show them to my coworkers. I like the freedom of having “bad” photos among them, ones that are grainy and dark, that have awkward compositions, in which me or my friends don’t look nice or whose subject is understandable only to us. But photos that reflect our life in this certain point.
I organized my 2014 photos in a simple digitally printed book.
In 2013, I took an instax photo a week. Those photos are organized in a vintage photo album I picked up in a flea market in Berlin.