high art or dusty file?

i don't know how it has come to be. but the camera has fascinated me for longer than anything else. pipped crayons, pastels, air guns, video games, pyromania and other habits of the past, to my choice of distraction. i've never really idolised (z?) anybody. and all of a sudden it occurs to me that bresson and capa and the others occupy a bigger part of my conscience than i have ever cared to admit. as i go to bed every night, when i should ideally be thinking of matinee sirens and lost love and the like, i find my adled brains engaged in a heated near academic debate on whether photography qualifies as art or it just remains a mere chronicle of our times. a dusty file?

and then before slumber takes over, i'm reminded of bresson's wisdom.
"with my open eye i look without.
with my closed eye i look within."

and i know then that it is neither art nor instrument of history. and i'm glad for the buddies out there (hari adi, jack and the like) who understand what i mean. i'm glad. i'm glad.