always had a sort of playful obsession with old photobooths. I don't know. there's just something about slipping into that private little booth with the adjustable stool and curtained background. your dollar bills are sucked into the machine and bright flashes of light fire and pop. at this moment, you have the freedom to be whoever you'd like to be-- you are both photographer and subject. afterwards, you wait as it miraculously spits out your strip and there you are-- goofy, fresh-faced, brave, ridiculous, tender, outrageous, sexy, odd, somber, mysterious, self-conscious, vulnerable. any of these things, all of these things, automatic and anonymous. who can resist that? digging out my personal stash (taken over the course of 34 years at dime stores and arcades all over the place) is something I find myself doing over and over and over. and I love to look at photobooth snapshots of complete strangers, too. vintage ones are best and I'm occasionally able to find them at the fleamarket (more than happy to rescue them from the bottom of a crusty old box). when I know I'm going to be traveling, I hit up the photobooth directory- a splendid little site devoted to locating them all over the country (because you just don't see them like you used to). the very thought of squeezing into a tiny booth with my family and taking home a souvenir strip or two (or TWENTY) makes me all giddy-like inside.
not too long ago, ward and I were dreaming about how we would spend a massive amount of cash if we had it. and seriously, I think I would buy myself a photobooth.