(Author’s note: This was submitted to the most excellent Photowalk podcast and I wanted to share it with you as well. Enjoy!)
I’m turning 40 this year. This marks about 35 years since I first held a camera, given to me by my Dad. None of the pictures that I’ve made since age five have won awards, nor afforded spectacular accolades. That never really bothered me until just recently. I went out and purchased an expensive photo printer with the hopes of making my work mean something. I hoped that I could make them more than just a grid of images online that no longer maintain their correct aspect ratio…I digress.
My flavor of photography is a sort of observational and detail-oriented hybrid; my favorite focal lengths are either the 24mm or 105mm macro on full-frame. Another camera that my Dad gave me, the trusty Nikon FE2, has become a long-time friend that somehow still produces great images all these years later.
And that’s good, because most of what I’ve photographed all these years has been just for me. Sometimes it’s a textured detail in the corner of a room, other times it’s a strange bokeh shape in a glass on the table, and still other times (more than I can count) it’s the way a painterly sky looks at the start or end of each day. The more analog and transient, the better, because those are traits that we humans share with the world around us.
That’s one thing that my Dad always encouraged me to do: Capture the amazing creation all around us by looking through the lens. Then set the camera down and enjoy the moment for yourself.
All that said, upon realizing that I was about to pass another decade milestone in my life, I heard the soft whisper of doubt over my shoulder, saying something about a lack of clear direction or accolades to show for all these years with a camera in my hands.
Then I remembered my Great Grandfather using a point-and-shoot film camera almost until he passed, just a day before he turned 102 years old. He could barely see through the viewfinder and yet, there he was, swaying slightly as he lifted his cane to hold the camera to his eyes with both hands. The photos were simple, the camera movement definitely unintentional, but he still shot away, ordering prints at the grocery store and reviewing them held inches from his face. He was quite the storyteller, you’d have liked him.
Perhaps these lessons from my elders – using gifted cameras to capture moments with cane-free determination – is the secret to the inner peace that will lead me through the next 40 years of life and photography. I still feel indebted to them for their lessons. My Dad still reminds me that he loves the way light bounces through my lens, which will always be a voice far louder than that whisper of doubt that I’ve felt this year.
My three children also carry cameras of their own now. They capture moments with a hilarious mixture of studious investigation and wild abandon. It’s refreshing to ponder how they see the world and be reminded of what it was like to peer through a viewfinder for the first time.
Where will all of this lead me? I couldn’t say. But I have drawers of film yet to shoot and stacks of photo paper yet to print. I’m in love with the process and am in no rush to reach a final destination whereby I have “arrived” as a photographer. Not sure what I’d do if that moment ever came, to be honest.
So if you know anyone who wants a print of a textured detail, strangely shaped bokeh, or Midwest sunset, tell them to drop me a line. I’ll send one their way with a smile, hoping that pictures I’ve made somehow capture the joy that a five year-old had when first holding a camera from his Dad.
