through the eyes of another

I can’t remember a time when I felt comfortable with the person reflected in the mirror. Anyone who has ever been my friend would disagree, but I still haven’t got around to convincing the voice in my head. 

It’s not simply my physical appearance, although that bothers me too, I’m just not an attractive person. You know those people who captivate a room? I have always wondered how they are so effortlessly beautiful even when they aren’t trying to be. 

I feel like I’m always trying, and failing. Failing, not in the way of trying to become a different person, but failing to be nothing more than a wallflower when in the presence of strangers & friends. 

So it might come as a shock to some that I enjoy documenting life in photos and picture frames, seeing as I despise being seen in them. But you see, I find beauty in everyone, just not in me. Over the years I have come to terms with the fact that I will never be perceived as one of those glamorous attention-worthy people, and have settled contentedly into living an ordinary life observing extraordinary people. 

Until August last year. 

I can’t quite remember how I met Freddy. I believe he just magically appeared one day and suddenly we were friends.

From college, to moving house, to phone calls after months of radio silence, Freddy was like a constant safe helpline I could cling onto at any time. We were so similar and yet so completely opposite that sometimes I couldn’t fathom how we stayed friends. 

Freddy had a camera, he said it was for capturing the moments that made his heart happy. He would take photos of things I thought weren’t very beautiful at all, moments even when he was very visibly not happy. 

He took photos of forgotten flowerbeds & broken plant pots, powerlines, and fading hotel posters. He took photos of roadwork signs, shadows dancing the afternoon sun and the hexagonal tiling in a coffee shop. He took photos while he was stuck in a hospital bed, photos of sympathy flowers, his collection of coffee cups, even one of the infuriating machines that refused to stop beeping. 

I asked him once why he chose to document things that people choose to ignore. 

“Everything is beautiful at least once,” he said, “many things remain beautiful for lifetimes, people are just looking at the wrong things.” 

Two years ago Freddy went for a checkup, he had been experiencing reoccurring headaches and blurred vision. It was too late by the time they caught it. 

I remember how he broke the news, we were are sitting in the car about to drive home. I didn’t know he had received the results yet. 

“It’s my melanoma,” he said, “its come back and it’s already spread.” 

I can’t remember what I said. 

There was a pause, then taking my hand he said, “It’s travelled to my brain.” 

Another stifling pause. 

“And I have four months to live.” 

Four months is not enough time to say goodbye to the one person you love the most. Freddy didn’t want to spend it in a hospital bed, bubble wrapped and labelled as “FRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CARE.” 

No, Freddy wanted to experience the best four months of his life. So we went to the seaside, and bought his favourite ice cream. Travelled to every cafe he had ever wanted to go to, and booked a flight to see the Eiffel Tower one last time. 

His constant request was “Take a picture, it will last longer.” And we did, we took hundreds of photographs of seemingly uninteresting things, but they still remain my favourites. 

It took a long time to get used to the silence of not having him around. I didn’t realise how often I saw him in a week. I didn’t realise how many times I stopped to take a photo because he had pointed out something memorable. Now everything reminded me of him. 

I was walking up my street one afternoon, when I noticed a lady waiting patiently on the steps outside my front door. It was Freddy’s mother who I hadn’t seen since the funeral over a year ago. I greeted her with some disconcertion, as a wave of memories came flooding back. She hugged me so tightly - I never knew that understanding could be felt so physically. 

She held out a parcel to me, it had my name scrambled in cursive and I knew straight away that it was from him. 

“I haven’t been able to … um,” she paused, tears in her eyes. “I haven’t been able to sort out his things.” 

I nodded, my heart sinking as I stared at the messy cursive.

“But, I found this,” she said, pointing to the parcel. “and it’s for you.”

I couldn’t open it, every time I tried, it felt like my heart was tearing in two. So it sat on my bedside table for over a month, gathering dust. But finally I could no longer ignore him, so I picked up the parcel and slid the letter opener under the envelope flap. 

Inside was a small package wrapped it brown paper with a piece of paper which read: 

“I wanted to capture what makes me happy, what I think is beautiful, and you are all colours of beautiful and you are what makes me happy. I will forever love you.

Freddy” 

Freddy knew better then anyone my adamant dislike of myself, he also knew my adamant dislike for any photographs that included me. And he had respected my wishes, I had rarely seen him take a photo that I was in. 

This little package said otherwise. Inside, were photographs he had taken and in each one I was seen - although I was mainly distracted, far away or concentrating on some stupid thing. 

I flipped one over and there again was his handwriting : ‘I know you hate your eyes, but they are my favourite.’

I flipped another : ‘ I love how excited you get over books.’ 

Each photo had an inscription of something beautiful he saw in me, something that he thought worth freezing in time. 

How do you truly extinguish the inner critic? I never thought it was possible, but I realised, as I sat amongst Freddy’s love and adoration, that for the first time i was seeing myself through the lens of another, and it was beautiful. 

I was beautiful. 

Everything takes time to truly heal, some things longer than others. 

Freddy’s death may never be healed by the passage of time, but his photographs helped heal wounds of my own making. 

Now, when I take photographs, I take them of the things that others may think unlovable. Now I look forward to wrinkles and grey hair, I look forward to those reminders of a life well lived. 

Because in the end, everything is beautiful at least once, but people are beautiful for entire lifetimes.