Portraits of the Intangible

I've always had an obsession with the idea of childhood. In my head exists a grand notion of all its beauty, purity, wonder, and whimsy. Even during my own childhood I could sense that I was in a time to be treasured, even through its patches of bitter cold and sharp pains I could see how brightly it gleamed when the light hit it just right, when childhood was what it was meant to be. Even then, I grasped at my own youth like a buoy of joy in a sea of serious faces, and I dreaded growing up. I dreamt of Neverland, of Hook and the Lost Boys. I dreamt. 

A decade later, with all the scars to prove it, I still dream of childhood. Though I see it more clearly now for what it is. I understand that no one has ever experienced childhood as we all believe it should be, but I still cherish the idea of the thing.  I still hold deeply esteemed in my heart the essence of childhood as I wish it were. And I appreciate people who use their talents to bring that essence to life.

I recently found the blog of an Australian photographer who specializes in child portraits and goes by the name Jinky Art. Her images capture the spirit of what I believe childhood should be. Though her subjects may not possess the dreamy youth they seem to. They hurt, and they cry. They hear the bitter words between their parents, and their bed sheets have been tissues to dry tear-streaked cheeks and wounded eyes. They are beautiful babies with blossoming insecurities who will one day write Shakespearean tragedies with their lives. No, her subjects may not be as untouched by the woes of the world as they look, but their portraits nevertheless contain those qualities we long for in childhood: an air of whimsy and a whisper of the divine.