August 1978

Where do the first photographs come from?

You’re staying in a summerhouse near Skagen, at the very tip of Jutland. Your parents have taken you there for two weeks — hiking through the dunes and heathland, visiting the small fishing towns along the coast, and today you hired bikes.

By the time you get back to the house, you’re shattered. Even though you’re young and strong, it’s hard work cycling in the summer heat, and the wind by the coastline is relentless.

After washing your hands your mother sends you to the terrace to write your journal. You’ve bought postcards to stick in, and there’s even a coaster from the café where you had lunch — Carlsberg - Danmarks bedste øl.

You’d tried a sip of your father’s beer and it was disgusting.

“It’s not for children,” he told you, slightly amused. “Just grownups.”

You were happy to stick to apple juice.

You and your sister sit at the wooden table while your mother fetches the journals — large notebooks with paper that’s yellow on one side, purple on the other. She returns with scissors and glue as well so you can paste things in.

“I prefer the lined ones at school,” you tell her. It’s easier to keep things in a straight line.

“This will do,” she says. “Now sit up straight.”

You hate writing your journal. Your mother always sits beside you, correcting your spelling, telling you, “Hold the pencil properly.”

She’s patient and speaks calmly but she doesn’t smile. She only says “well done” when you get it exactly right, and getting it exactly right is never easy. You’d rather be kicking a ball around, or hitting a tennis ball against the wall.

There’s no TV in the summerhouse.

You start to write a sentence, but already after two words your mother gently stops you.

“You can’t form the letters backwards,” she says firmly.

Gently.

“Hold the pencil like I’ve shown you.”

She makes like she’s about to write something, positioning herself correctly.

“Keep your elbow by your side, not on the table.”

At school you hook your hand over the lines when you write. Frøken Andersen always tuts when she hands your work back, shaking her head sadly but not in a mean way. It’s as if she’s telling you, “Well done for trying”.

Frøken Andersen is your favourite teacher. Nothing like Fru Juul, the music teacher, who reeks of cigarettes. In certain light, it looks as if the front of her curly white hair is tinged a nicotine yellow, from all the smoke.

You write: Vi tog til byen. Vi sad på en café og jeg spiste chips. Jeg havde juice, som jeg godt kunne lide.

The underside of your hand smudges the words almost immediately as you write.

“Let’s start again,” your mother says, turning the paper over. “Hold the pen properly. If you get it right you might be able to use the special pen mormor gave you for your birthday.”

You love that pen. It’s heavy and the nib is gold and it feels expensive. But although you love to hold it, feel its weight in your hand, you always somehow end up with ink on your fingers. One time, you even managed to get ink all over your trousers, which your mother was not happy about. So it stays in its box for now.

You glance across the table, where Helle is effortlessly writing, already halfway through the page.

Your sister’s handwriting is perfect despite the fact she’s nearly three years younger than you. No matter how much you try, you can never get the letters to fit together as neatly as she and you mother can.

The next half an hour is a struggle. You write more about the day and what you’ve done, correcting your spelling with your mother’s help each time she stops you.

This isn’t how summer is meant to be.

When you’ve written your ten sentences and glued the postcards into your journal, your mother looks at you and smiles.

“Ok, you’ve got about half an hour until dinner.”

So, you leave the table and go around to the front of the house where you find the football and kick it repeatedly against a wall, drumming it against the stonework, practicing kicking with both your left and your right foot.

“I think it’s time to go inside,” your father says when he appears, returning from the grocery store with milk, bread, beer, and the things to make sandwiches tomorrow.

“Come on, let’s go inside. We’ll get bitten by the mosquitoes if we stay outside much longer.”

He’s already explained to you that there are always more mosquitoes in the evening. You’ve never seen them before at home but you get them every evening here on holiday.

“It’s because it’s not so open here,” your father says. “We’re too close to the wood.”

He stops for a moment, glancing back at the car.

“Can you get the camera from the glove compartment?” he asks you as you walk up the steps of the summerhouse. “I don’t want to leave it in the car over night.” He glances down at his hands, holding the shopping. “My hands are full.”

You turn around and go to the car. It’s not locked. The camera is still in its leather brown case, but the flap over the lens is not fastened. You pick it up, holding the straps carefully and walk towards the summerhouse. It’s heavier than it looks, the lens pulling the camera forward and down. Still, it’s not as heavy as your father’s binoculars. They are really heavy. You loved trying those yesterday when you were up on the dunes, looking out over the place where the two seas meet, the Kattegat and the Skagerrak pushing against each other in long, restless lines. You could see the boats really clearly.

“Can I take a picture?” you say, hurrying to catch up with him although by the time you get to the summerhouse he’s already indoors.

Your mother has got the tiny stove on and is frying.

“Dinner won’t be long,” she says, turning back to cooking.

The house smells of fish.

“Can I take a picture?” you ask your father as he puts the shopping down. “Please!”

He puts the bread down on the kitchen table and the milk in the tiny fridge and glances at your mother, who is busy cooking. She nods.

He turns back to you.

“Ok, just the one,” he says. “But let’s go outside. It’s too dark in here.”

You follow him outside onto the terrace. You still have the camera strap around your neck. The light is still golden although part of the table is in deep shadow.

You can still feel the warmth on your face.

“Can I take a picture with you in front of the water?” you ask.

Your father glances out towards the sea.

“I’m not sure if the light’s too strong,” he says. “It would probably be better if I stood here.”

He steps onto the grass a bit away from the summerhouse and turns to face you. Behind him, there are more summerhouses, nestled close ot each other. Outside the house nearest to you is a family eating their dinner. You can hear them talking, laughing, the sound of plates and glasses. They’re German.

You look behind your father.

“Can’t you stand there?” you say, pointing to the spot where you want him to stand, still wanting him to have the water behind him. “I don’t want the people behind you,” you explain.

Your father glances at the sea.

“Alright. But let’s be quick. Your mother says that dinner will be ready soon.”

He takes a couple of steps and turns around to face you, the sea now behind his back. The light still glistens.

Then he walks towards you, and takes the camera out of the case. He puts the strap over your head and, still holding the camera, steps behind you.

He raises the camera to your eye and he’s standing so close you can smell the familiar scent of the cigars he smokes when he’s on holiday.

“Look through this and tell me when you start to see clearly.”

You look through the viewer. Everything is blurry. It’s like it looks when you’re not wearing your glasses.

He slowly twists the lens, pulling the image into view.

“Do you see it now? Is it in focus?”

You tell him it looks fine.

“Yes. I can see everything.”

You can see the dunes really clearly now. And the summerhouse and the people outside eating dinner.

He carefully lets the camera hang down from around your neck and takes a few steps in front of you. He looks at you and smiles. The sea ripples gently behind him, the water glistening in the long Nordic evening light.

“Are you ready?” he asks, smiling. “Lift the camera up and turn the lens like I showed you. When you can see everything is sharp and in focus press the button when you’re ready.”

You lift the camera to your face, looking through it with your left eye.

“Hold the camera steady,” he says, his voice calm but firm.

You’re not in trouble; he just wants you to keep the camera steady, that’s all.

“Now turn the lens. Slowly. Like we did before.”

You start to turn it and as you do he fades into focus. He is standing there, his hands in his pockets, smiling at you. His brown hair has flecks of grey around the sides but you can’t see the rest of it as the light is glowing. It’s almost like stars of light, bursting around him. A halo.

“Are you sure it’s not too bright,” he says, turning briefly around to look at the sea then back again. “The picture won’t come out if it is. Can you see what the meter says?”

“It looks ok,” you say, although not entirely sure. The mysteries of how to make a good photo are still years away.

“It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t work,” he says, again smiling. “It’s just a picture.”

You twist the lens a bit more, the light still glowing around him; you see his face more clearly. You can see his eyes and you can see his smile.

“Are you ready? Say cheese!” you call, like he always does, although perhaps you sound more earnest than you mean to.

And making the final adjustment with the lens you pull the world sharply into focus. You press the button on the camera and it makes a click. In that moment everything stops. You can’t hear the people next door anymore or the sound of the water. For a split second your father is frozen, surrounded by light, smiling at you as if reassuring you that you’re doing it right. There’s a hint of a frown perhaps, no doubt worrying that you might drop his expensive camera.

In 1/250th of a second the moment is gone and he’s walking towards you.

“We’ll develop it later,” he promises, lifting the camera from around your neck. “But I don’t think it will come out. The light’s not right, you’ll see.”

He chuckles.

“That’s the magic of photography. You never know for certain what you are going to get.”

He fastens the camera case shut so the lens is once again protected.

“Right! I’m hungry,” he says, putting his hand up to your head, ruffling your hair. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’m starving too,” you say, the smell of fried fish wafting around the summerhouse as you open the door. “Is dinner ready?”

By the time you sit down to eat you’ve already forgotten the photograph you’ve just taken.

---

Writing is a bit like photography.

You never quite know what you're going to get — or whether it will come out.

If you'd like to help me keep developing the pictures, you can buy me a coffee here.