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When Kurt was a little boy, one of his favorite films, just after the Sound of Music, was His Girl Friday. He loved the fast talking riot of the dialogue, the snappy sass of Rosalind Russell’s Hildy, the bustle of the newspaper business. He realized later in life that half the reason he loved the film was due to the mere presence of Cary Grant, but he continued to romanticize journalism all the way up to his freshman year of college.
As part of a required credit, Kurt elected to take intro to photography. He’d always been a fan of the visual arts, but had never thought much about standing behind the lens or the brush. He was a stage man; he’d been born to perform, to absorb the bright lights and thundering applause. He’d believed that up until his junior year of high school when Karofsky cornered him in the locker room. Karofsky unloaded on Kurt that day, first with his lips and then his fist, before being expelled for physical violence. In the time it took for Kurt’s nose, lip, and eye to heal, he’d become a recluse, sitting at the back of the choir room and swaying behind Rachel.
It was sitting in the back with his phone, snapping photos of his friends smiling and dancing that he started to find his passion for photography. He’d discovered the subtlety of a moment and the vibrance of a second, both captured in one image. Since Kurt didn’t have anyone to talk to, he talked through his photos, a silent protest against his loneliness.
Years later, he still sits alone, this time at a small cubical in the corner of the newsroom, the silent news room. Gone were the days of the bustling journalists, rushing articles to print. Instead, everyone sits at their computers, iPods and headphones drowning out the quiet, updating their blogs and posting on the newspaper’s website.
Kurt sighed, flipping through the pages of Aperture, searching for the right image for an editorial he’d been assigned. He needed to find it, edit the image, and post it before the staff meeting in twenty minutes when the fresh batch of journalist wannabes were matched up with their mentors. He groaned at the thought of guiding around a chipper, puppy-faced freshman, but the thought drifted quickly as he found the photo and set to work.
