The funny thing is that in writing about living your life for newsletter-worthy moments you’ve probably written your best newsletter in a long time, so the cycle continues. Also, I appreciate any successful attempt to get Faith No More into a newsletter. I have been listening to Angel Dust a lot recently and our daughter says ‘A Small Victory’ is “beautiful”.
Noah, you’re perfect, yes, it’s true, but without me, you’re only you. Seriously solid take and all too real. The upshot, almost everything can be tax write off!
Wow. Just… this. That line: “I’ve come to the unfortunate realization...”
This hit me hard. I could feel the little boy in me screaming, “F---!” after reading it.
I had stopped shooting for a while. Pulled back. Told myself it didn’t matter, but then I regretted it. Eventually, I realized the difference between shooting for myself versus shooting for something—or someone—else.
Then you wrote:
“I’ve trained myself to live like a photographer... but somewhere along the way, making the photo became more important than the experience itself.”
Yes. That. That’s where it all unraveled for me.
I stopped. (shooting)
Then I remembered: "You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take." And that regret? It gnaws at me. Because if I don’t shoot, even just a little, then the moment fades and all I’m left with is a blurry memory.
But then, out of nowhere, I remember someone’s comment to me: “Nothing matters.”
Oddly enough, that little piece of advise reinvigorated me. Liberated me, even. So I’m trying again. Shooting again. (wondering who said this?)
And yet, the modern dilemma:
To share or not to share?
And if you do share and no one sees it,
Did it really happen?
So, I barely shoot anymore.
God Damnit Noah. Brillant once again. Speaking for all of us.
I still feel young at heart, but there’s this creeping awareness—like the lights are coming up at the party, and I realize I haven’t even hit the dance floor yet. There’s so much I still want to do, and I’m wondering where the time went.
I turned 39 the other day. Every year since I turned 25, I've listened to Pink Floyd's "Time" and reflected on those haunting lines: "Every year is getting shorter / never seem to find the time / Plans that either come to naught / or half a page of scribbled lines." The verse famously ends with: "The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say."
I'm not yet in my "midlife crisis" window, but I found myself doing some math yesterday after reflecting on a particularly joyful afternoon spent on the lake with my family. We were there for two hours over Memorial Day weekend, kayaking and soaking up the sun. I've been alive for roughly 342,059 hours as of this writing. In about fifteen minutes, that means our joyful lake outing will have accounted for just 1/171,030 of my entire existence. For my four-year-old son, those same two hours represent 1/18,750 of his life so far—nearly ten times more significant than they are to mine. Every hour that passes makes it a smaller fraction still for both of us, until—anti-climactically—those ratios freeze forever at the moments of our deaths. They will become part of the final equations of our lives; "all our lives will ever be."
But does the math of our existence grant our lived experience emotional weight and resonance solely as a function of joy or sorrow divided by time on earth? Does my son's lake afternoon carry ten times the impact simply because it represents a larger percentage of his brief existence? Does that resonance diminish over time as the denominator grows?
This line of thinking has consumed me for weeks now. I blame a mid-summer fever, but it could just as easily be my own mortality tapping me on the shoulder: when all the math is run and the equations simplified, what portion of my existence will I have spent in joy, warmth, love, satisfaction? Will the good outweigh the bad? Am I doing enough to tip the scales? And perhaps most importantly—am I doing it all for the right reasons?
Or perhaps the true crisis isn't the math itself, but the compulsion to maximize it, to record it. The fact that I'm calculating the fractional value of a perfect lake afternoon instead of simply letting it exist as what it was: two hours of unmediated happiness. Or further subdividing it into fractions of a second via shutter presses and keystrokes. Perhaps the observer's paradox applies to more than just art-making—the very act of examining our lives too closely transforms us from participants into performers.
At 39, I've come to suspect that the best hours of my life are the ones I'm too absorbed in living to measure. Now the trick is learning to make peace with that uncertainty, and to stop hanging on in quiet desperation.
On the flip side, these things often deliver what we crave most in life: meaning and a sense of purpose. If you took all these things away, what would you fill up your life with instead? If the answer isn't something better than all of your (superb) creative output (that others appreciate), I'm still gonna say you're doing a great job of living.
Vaguely related: I tend to play Wordle every day and take pride in keeping my win streak alive. But every once in a while, I log on and realize the streak's been broken because I forgot to play the day before. Then, for an instant, I get really upset with myself. "You schmuck." But then, I stop to recall what happened on the previous day. Invariably, it was a great day. I was on vacation, in the woods, taking shrooms, or hanging with friends. How silly to get mad at myself for actually living my best life. Sometimes you've got to remind yourself of the streaks that matter.
From one 45 year old to another I want to thank you for making it this far. Your words, photos, images and art have always resonated with me and this post is no different. You have given me a lot to marinate on Mr. Kalina. While I sit in thought pondering your words and listening to Faith No More - I would like to just thank all those who have shared their thoughts in the comment section it is so inspiring to read all the heartfelt reactions to your post/work. While getting older can sometimes be an ominous experience, it is really helpful to connect with others on the journey and I feel that’s what your work has done Noah. Thanks y’all and keep moving with or without a camera.
Yep, when you pull out that camera, you are changing what you're observing. Lately, when there are magic moments, I'll forget the documentation and lean into the moment.
Yep, when you pull out that camera, you are changing what you're observing. Lately, when there are magic moments, I'll forget the documentation and lean into the moment.
You articulated it all so perfectly. I think instant “postability” of work has a huge impact on imagemaking as well. I was recently scanning negatives from a time before social media and I realized there’s a concrete shift between how I took pictures then and now. I now worry about the algorithm and how something will be received online before even picking up my phone or camera. I used to just document for the act of documenting, expecting just myself to look at it. The constant need to “be perceived” has changed photography and I’m not sure how to reconcile it
Damn. This went HARD. Loved the writing, grim as it is. I enjoy whatever you are putting out into the world, for what it's worth!
The funny thing is that in writing about living your life for newsletter-worthy moments you’ve probably written your best newsletter in a long time, so the cycle continues. Also, I appreciate any successful attempt to get Faith No More into a newsletter. I have been listening to Angel Dust a lot recently and our daughter says ‘A Small Victory’ is “beautiful”.
Thank you, Tom. I was worried that was going to happen.
Noah, you’re perfect, yes, it’s true, but without me, you’re only you. Seriously solid take and all too real. The upshot, almost everything can be tax write off!
Everything is a write off! I haven't made money in decades.
If it's any consolation, it only gets worse.
I can’t wait!
Wow. Just… this. That line: “I’ve come to the unfortunate realization...”
This hit me hard. I could feel the little boy in me screaming, “F---!” after reading it.
I had stopped shooting for a while. Pulled back. Told myself it didn’t matter, but then I regretted it. Eventually, I realized the difference between shooting for myself versus shooting for something—or someone—else.
Then you wrote:
“I’ve trained myself to live like a photographer... but somewhere along the way, making the photo became more important than the experience itself.”
Yes. That. That’s where it all unraveled for me.
I stopped. (shooting)
Then I remembered: "You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take." And that regret? It gnaws at me. Because if I don’t shoot, even just a little, then the moment fades and all I’m left with is a blurry memory.
But then, out of nowhere, I remember someone’s comment to me: “Nothing matters.”
Oddly enough, that little piece of advise reinvigorated me. Liberated me, even. So I’m trying again. Shooting again. (wondering who said this?)
And yet, the modern dilemma:
To share or not to share?
And if you do share and no one sees it,
Did it really happen?
So, I barely shoot anymore.
God Damnit Noah. Brillant once again. Speaking for all of us.
I turn 40 tomorrow. Thanks for the insights : ) and happy early birthday.
You're still so young
I still feel young at heart, but there’s this creeping awareness—like the lights are coming up at the party, and I realize I haven’t even hit the dance floor yet. There’s so much I still want to do, and I’m wondering where the time went.
I turned 39 the other day. Every year since I turned 25, I've listened to Pink Floyd's "Time" and reflected on those haunting lines: "Every year is getting shorter / never seem to find the time / Plans that either come to naught / or half a page of scribbled lines." The verse famously ends with: "The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say."
I'm not yet in my "midlife crisis" window, but I found myself doing some math yesterday after reflecting on a particularly joyful afternoon spent on the lake with my family. We were there for two hours over Memorial Day weekend, kayaking and soaking up the sun. I've been alive for roughly 342,059 hours as of this writing. In about fifteen minutes, that means our joyful lake outing will have accounted for just 1/171,030 of my entire existence. For my four-year-old son, those same two hours represent 1/18,750 of his life so far—nearly ten times more significant than they are to mine. Every hour that passes makes it a smaller fraction still for both of us, until—anti-climactically—those ratios freeze forever at the moments of our deaths. They will become part of the final equations of our lives; "all our lives will ever be."
But does the math of our existence grant our lived experience emotional weight and resonance solely as a function of joy or sorrow divided by time on earth? Does my son's lake afternoon carry ten times the impact simply because it represents a larger percentage of his brief existence? Does that resonance diminish over time as the denominator grows?
This line of thinking has consumed me for weeks now. I blame a mid-summer fever, but it could just as easily be my own mortality tapping me on the shoulder: when all the math is run and the equations simplified, what portion of my existence will I have spent in joy, warmth, love, satisfaction? Will the good outweigh the bad? Am I doing enough to tip the scales? And perhaps most importantly—am I doing it all for the right reasons?
Or perhaps the true crisis isn't the math itself, but the compulsion to maximize it, to record it. The fact that I'm calculating the fractional value of a perfect lake afternoon instead of simply letting it exist as what it was: two hours of unmediated happiness. Or further subdividing it into fractions of a second via shutter presses and keystrokes. Perhaps the observer's paradox applies to more than just art-making—the very act of examining our lives too closely transforms us from participants into performers.
At 39, I've come to suspect that the best hours of my life are the ones I'm too absorbed in living to measure. Now the trick is learning to make peace with that uncertainty, and to stop hanging on in quiet desperation.
I feel like you should write about how it felt writing this post, and the response you get from it. Could make a really good newsletter.
That was a dumb joke but this post was not dumb, it was good.
What if documenting your life IS your life? Storytellers need followers. Artists need audiences. We're here for you, even in your midlife.
On the flip side, these things often deliver what we crave most in life: meaning and a sense of purpose. If you took all these things away, what would you fill up your life with instead? If the answer isn't something better than all of your (superb) creative output (that others appreciate), I'm still gonna say you're doing a great job of living.
Vaguely related: I tend to play Wordle every day and take pride in keeping my win streak alive. But every once in a while, I log on and realize the streak's been broken because I forgot to play the day before. Then, for an instant, I get really upset with myself. "You schmuck." But then, I stop to recall what happened on the previous day. Invariably, it was a great day. I was on vacation, in the woods, taking shrooms, or hanging with friends. How silly to get mad at myself for actually living my best life. Sometimes you've got to remind yourself of the streaks that matter.
Thank you, Matt. You're right!
From one 45 year old to another I want to thank you for making it this far. Your words, photos, images and art have always resonated with me and this post is no different. You have given me a lot to marinate on Mr. Kalina. While I sit in thought pondering your words and listening to Faith No More - I would like to just thank all those who have shared their thoughts in the comment section it is so inspiring to read all the heartfelt reactions to your post/work. While getting older can sometimes be an ominous experience, it is really helpful to connect with others on the journey and I feel that’s what your work has done Noah. Thanks y’all and keep moving with or without a camera.
I really appreciate that, Jon. Thank you for sticking with me for so long.
Yep, when you pull out that camera, you are changing what you're observing. Lately, when there are magic moments, I'll forget the documentation and lean into the moment.
Yep, when you pull out that camera, you are changing what you're observing. Lately, when there are magic moments, I'll forget the documentation and lean into the moment.
You articulated it all so perfectly. I think instant “postability” of work has a huge impact on imagemaking as well. I was recently scanning negatives from a time before social media and I realized there’s a concrete shift between how I took pictures then and now. I now worry about the algorithm and how something will be received online before even picking up my phone or camera. I used to just document for the act of documenting, expecting just myself to look at it. The constant need to “be perceived” has changed photography and I’m not sure how to reconcile it
Totally agree. I don’t think I’ve been able to reconcile this but it might be because I do not even like photography anymore.