The First Step
My mind sees the landscape backwards, they call it dyslexia, I think. When I tried to paint a landscape I saw the mountains as closer and brighter than the tree and the horse that stood in a sunny pasture before it. That is how my minds works. So, I admired photos and fancied that maybe I could take beautiful ones, like others did. Yet, I'd snap a picture and look at the results, which were dull and uninteresting. When finally I realized the truth of my handicap, I put the cameras away and tried to imprint visions in my mind.
So, it was, many years later and not long after the digital age began, I was shocked when someone told me that they liked my photos. I'd gotten one of those 4 megapixel point and shoot jobs, which was expensive at the time, and was having fun messing around with it. Once in a while I'd take an interesting shot but wouldn't have a clue about what was different than the rest. Not a clue. I didn't see the light in the right places, the detail or the composition. Focus on the middle and press the button, hoping everything stayed the same until the camera clicked. I hated that delayed reaction in those cameras and it became a game to anticipate the movement of an object, like a dog or a bird.
But then I went to work as a writer for a newspaper. The paper was small and we were required to take our own photos and so I did the best that I could. The publisher liked them time and again. My artistic longing filled with excitement and I began trying to push the envelope. Then, on Memorial Day, we were putting the final touches on the edition when a car wreck was reported over the scanner. I grabbed the camera and ran out the door - we needed a good photo and crime story for the edition and this was perfect. Turned out to be a Vet, under the influence, who'd driven his truck off the road, into fences, onto the road and back off, finally stopping against a twist of barbed wire. When I arrived, an empty whisky bottle sat on the rear bumper, next to the New Mexico Veterans license plate. First responders placed the man onto a stretcher and pulled him from the passenger side of the truck's cab. I snapped the photo just as he turned and looked at me. The entire story in one photograph - Memorial Day, a war, disabled vet, whisky bottle, obvious accident and his wide eyes staring through a swollen red face. It was the kind of shot that won awards at big newspapers and the publisher decided to run with it.
Unfortunately the man came from a small, prominent family in the Route 66 community and they did not appreciate their father on the front page of the newspaper. They stood outside of our office and they accosted me on the street. They yelled about how insensitive I was. Which I was. But I believed in the message. And I believed that just because someone came from a prominent family didn't exempt them from the same press an ordinary person would've gotten. And, it was my publisher's decision.
After that, my publisher gave me his good camera to use and he encouraged my photography. I was instantly addicted and could not stop. For the entire summer I chased hummingbirds around my yard, taking thousands of photos and never getting the right one. Still, I kept trying.
Another small town, on the Washington Coast, another publisher and more encouragement. I still didn't know what those two men saw but it was the only encouragement I'd gotten in a very long time and that was all it took. I bought a professional SLR and a couple of lenses. I began to study the landscape and the light. I'd look through my photos and try to untwist my dyslexic mind in order to see what made one better than the other. The whole world became a picture. All the words that I wrote were illustrated by a photograph.
Five years have now passed and I own three SLRs and countless lenses. I'm still trying to get good at shooting birds. F stops and ISO's still boggle my mind, along with shutter speeds. What does someone mean by too contrasty? Why don't people comment on photos that I really like? What am I missing? I will take a photo that thrills me to pieces and post it on my flickr site and it might get a lot of views but nary a comment. I pull it up time and time again and try to see what my mind is missing. I don't know why people don't like it and they won't tell me. Some times I ask but no one says a word. I find this to be weird. My heart aches for what I see in the picture and it aches for what I'm missing. Never do I stop.
I am serious about photography and therefore pour my heart and soul into it. I work hard because I want others to take me seriously also. When someone comes along and hits my lens with the leg of his tripod, as he puts it up in front of me, I get overly frustrated and angry. Hey, I want to shout, that is five grand that you just hit and this is my space. I count! Don't stand in front of me. It is as if they are dismissing my very presence. I shrink into the background, rather than to cause a scene. And then I realize that it is up to me to let them know that they are crossing my boundaries and it is up to me to realize that they don't even know what they are doing. They are caught up in their own moment and their own excitement, as I have been many times before, and there is nothing personal in their actions. I need to forgive them and live in peace but also need to tactfully let them know that I am there also. That they need to value my equipment and space as I value theirs. And I need to remember that, when excited and caught up in the moment, I've also acted in the same thoughtless manner.
Photography is a passion and a thrill and it over takes my senses. I need to remind myself to slow down and be gentle. And, I am thrilled to have learned enough about it to know that I know nothing. Finally, I am going to learn about those F stops...
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