Category Archives: a photographer’s heart

an exciting or remarkable experience …

is how Merriam-Webster defines adventure.  I believe that to be an apt definition and find myself in such situations regularly.  I love driving along deserted country roads where flowers spring up in the hot days of summer.  Putting the convertible top down and heading to the high places with the sun on my face is sheer ecstasy.

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I have favorites; roads, bridges, trees, rocks, trails.  I love them all, but I do have favorites.  Often, I start to one place and find that, without actually being aware of it, end up somewhere else entirely.  It is these times I like best for I end up where I need to be to find that which I seek.  Sometimes it’s a photograph, other times, it is nothing more than silence ensconced in the beauty and rhythm of nature.  In these places of solitude, shadow and light, I think my thoughts and dream my dreams.  These are the quiet, lovely adventures that leave my mind clear and my body strong.

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I can’t compare my solitary escapes into the wilderness to the whirlwind trips to D.C, St. Louis, New York and Las Vegas.  Those were very different adventures.  They were full of noise, lights, crowds, smells and frenetic energy.   There was no peaceful silence or slow, lazy days.  In those places of chaos, shadow and light, I tried very hard to hold onto my thoughts as the world unfolded before my eyes.   While in Las Vegas, amidst all the opulence and grandeur, there was a welcome respite; a drive through the desert and across Hoover Dam.  That was an awesome experience.  Even with my mind boggled and my body tired, it was awesome.

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I’m certain that none of what I have experienced thus far will be comparable to the one I am on the cusp of experiencing.  I am going to a place I’ve never seen in a city I’ve been before.  Lord willing, I will have an orchestral experience that has the real potential to blow my mind with its magnitude.  I haven’t even left yet and I already feel altered somehow.  I suppose it is the excitement.    This era of my life is a precious window; my time, my place.   I don’t plan to waste a minute just watching it pass.

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There is something …

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about hands that has the capacity to make my mouth water.  Tonight, as I sat by a  friend as he played a song on the piano, I was mesmerized; as much by his hands as by the music they made.  They rolled effortlessly across the keys, without thought or direction … simply playing.  I couldn’t look away and wished for my tripod and a light.  I wanted to capture that moment, but I didn’t want it enough to risk losing the magic. I was surrounded by those powerful notes, feeling them touch my skin as they were absorbed into my blood, my bones, my thoughts; that is not something I would risk losing, even for a photograph.

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The hands of an artist are mysterious and intriguing.  My art teacher has the ability to practically breathe an image onto a page.  Each time I go to class, I stop and stare at a portrait he drew. The realism of it makes me shudder as it evokes precise images of a very frightening movie.  I fully expect the portrait to come to life and say, in a menacing, crazy-man’s voice, “Heeere’s Johnny!”.  But, I digress.  The hands.  The permanent ink spot on the finger, the darker shade on the pinkie edge, the way one lies flat on the table while the other draws; I sometimes find myself distracted by his hands and forget to pay as close attention as I mean to.  I want to photograph those hands, but it isn’t the time.  There will come a time.  I need to.  And I will.  When it’s time.

The hands that hold the hammer are strong and sure, yet gentle enough to bottle-feed a newborn lamb.  Those hands would belong to my Daddy.  He and I didn’t see eye to eye for way too much of my life.  I was too soft-hearted to hold my own against such a strong personality and sense of self.  I perplexed him, I think, more than anything.  At some point in my adult life, we became close; close the way I always wished it would be.  It was then that I started noticing his hands.  More often than not they were cut and bleeding, the fingers and palms thick with callouses from years of hard work.  I have taken many photographs of his hands, have managed to fade in to the background and work, unnoticed, as he does what he does.  Working, praying, fishing, gardening.  I have hundreds and each time I look at one, I am reminded of the love and strength in them.

fishermanhands                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      There are others’ I wish to see, to photograph.  Some of them are musicians, others not. I do find, though, that the musicians and artists have a greater pull to me as their hands are a part of what they create.  Just as my eyes are  essential instruments to my photography, so are their hands in the paintings they paint and symphonies they play.

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Photographing hands is an ethereal experience for me.  It is sometimes heartbreaking, the emotion that they invoke.  Knowing that I am close enough to that which I seek, to see it clearly through the lens of my camera, is the kind of moment I hope for.  I know, when I no longer notice that there is a body attached to the hands, then it is time.

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If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men ~ Romans 12:18

The older I get …

the more I learn how little I really know.  I could stretch it and say that each day is a learning experience, but that would be extremely broad.  During a single day, there are many instances that have the ability to either help me grow or hold me back; many chances to breathe each moment, hold it, understand it and then move on.  I try not to dwell too much on the ones that hold me in limbo or worse, take me back a step.  Of all the things I am or aspire to be, perfect isn’t one of them.  As a matter of fact, it didn’t even make the list.

The first moment comes with awakening from sleep.  That pivotal instant between dreams and wakefulness, when the first thought, whatever it may be, comes to my conscious mind.   That single thought, if I let it, has the power to define my day.  Life events, dreams, daydreams, thoughts, wishes, people, places; they all play a part in that first waking thought.   Being the first learning moment of the day, however, makes it just that.  The first.  If I fail this one, I can either decide that the whole day is wasted and carry a chip on my shoulder or, I can move on.  Live and learn.  Isn’t that what we are all trying to do?

Being an idealist, I pretty much glide through life on a cloud of positive, often turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to the negative.   I just take it, good or bad, as it comes.  It can’t though, no matter how much I wish it, all be good.  I try not to over-think things when they, as they sometimes do, go awry.  Since I have already learned this lesson, I know that a long hike with my camera is good for calming such tendencies.   As I make this journey, I continue to grow, learn, imagine and find pieces of myself I didn’t know were there.  Every day has the potential to become an incredibly wonderful adventure.   I have clothes, tripod, first-aid kit and my second favorite pair of boots in the car.   When I head out to work in the mornings, it is always with the hope that today will be the day.  For what?  Who knows?  And furthermore, who cares?   If it doesn’t happen today, there’s a good chance it will happen tomorrow … and so it goes.

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Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.   ~ Proverbs 3:5-6

Last night, I went to the movies …

and found myself bored brainless in a theater that had issues with soundproofing;  the issues being it was nearly nonexistent.  Never mind that, though, for without those outbursts from the theater next door, I likely would have fallen asleep.  I’m certain, from the even sound of their breathing, that half of the couple behind me was sleeping.

It’s the first time I can remember being at a movie and not hearing anything but the movie.  No laughter.  No gasps.  No ooohs or ahhhhs.  It was weird.  Besides myself, there were only ten other people attending the 7:00 pm showing of Side Effects in Norton. That number, however, doesn’t account for the complete lack of emotion or reaction from the attendees; myself included.  Like I said, it was weird.

The movie was slow.  It started slow and ended the same way.  The twists were predictably expected.  Jude Law was not spectacular, as a matter of fact, barely mediocre … but pretty.  Pretty, however, isn’t worth an eight dollar ticket.  This, you understand, is only my opinion.  I have heard many people, some I respect and others I even admire, rave about the film.  I likely, without their input, would not have watched it.

The theater itself was, at first, off-putting, then comforting, and finally, confining.  Upon entering, I was physically and mentally assaulted by a cacophony of loud, shrill, abrupt sounds and rapidly-blinking, strobe-like lights.  I was unprepared for that blast of over-stimulation and fully expected it to throw me into some kind of manic state, but blessedly, for a time anyway, that seems to not be an issue.  Praise God for that.  But, I digress.

I got in line for the obligatory bag of popcorn and diet coke then made my way to where I wanted to go.  When I opened the door and  walked into the empty theater, I was taken aback by the inexplicably soothing familiarity.  Though I had never been to this particular place, it smelled familiar.  My thoughts flew backward over three decades to The Terrace, the first theater where my sister and I ever went to a movie alone.  Pinocchio was the film.  There were, at that time, still shorts prior to the movie.  I’m certain, that if my sister reads this post, she, too, will remember that day.  It smelled just like now. It smelled like good times.   So then, the comfort measure of the theater becomes known.

I suppose the only thing left is the confinement.  That came about twenty minutes after the movie started.  That instant when I want to leave, but hoped it would get better.  It didn’t, and there-in lies the lesson, I suppose.  After the movie was over, I came out if with the realization that I had just sacrificed two hours of my life for nothing special.  Next time, I’ll follow my instincts.  Too bad there wasn’t a piano bar in the area.  Some eighty-eight key therapy, done right, would have likely washed the taste of a bad movie out my mouth.

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That cherished moment …

when the cloud that surrounds me, taking me perilously close to a state of chaotic madness, lunacy, insanity; call it what you will, lifts.  It is a bit like going through a thick, consuming fog bank, unable to see in front, behind or on either side, left with only the senses (which are already stretched to the breaking point), to navigate.  Then, at the moment when I have reached what I perceive to be the pinnacle of hurt and disillusionment , the fog dissipates and nothing but clear, wonderful skies, stretch into the distance.  These are the days I live for.

I am thankful for many things, but when the fog lifts and I realize I have cleared another hurdle … well, I am especially thankful for these times.  They aren’t easy, not for myself nor those who suffer along with me by simply being  close to me in one way or another.  It seems that those I trust most carry the greatest burden.  I could apologize, but I have found that apologizing for who I am is a useless and undermining endeavor.  I am who I am and other than trying to live a more Godly life, I wouldn’t change a thing.  If an apology were needed, then I would have, obviously, been confiding in the wrong people; instead, they humble me with their tolerance.

I am thankful that each day brings me closer to that which I strive to be.  I don’t know, exactly, what I will be when I grow up, but I know, whatever it is, it will be wonderful.

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Isaiah 40:31 ~ But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.  Amen.

There is nothing …

like that moment when a locked box pops open.  When things that I thought I had no knowledge of became clear because there was a remnant of it somewhere in the recesses of my mind.  Something that had a familiarity about it, felt good, wholesome and real; that  lingered just beyond my grasp.

Having a key to open a lock is, for obvious reasons, optimal, but the key … who is to say, at any particular time, what that is?  As a photographer, I know a bit about light, shadow, depth and perspective, but in photography, the image is already there and I simply capture it.  It sometimes takes a great deal of work and, at times, planning and a hint of imagination; other times, it is just there.  Tonight, I found that I had the ability to capture another kind of image.  The one that lives in my head.  The one I can’t see with my eyes until I actually create it.  It was the closest thing I can imagine to writing a song, taking a blank page and making something that wasn’t there before.

Starting new things is often difficult for me as I lack something vital.  Confidence.  Confidence in myself, my ability, my strength and even in my weaknesses.  I find that I look, with distressing regularity, for an outlet to take me somewhere other than where I find myself to be.  I use words, images, nature, books and music to name a few, to transport me.  I seem to be  continually trying to expand my horizons; horizons that I am often afraid of because they force me to step outside of my comfort zone.  Expanding ones  horizons takes confidence, and therein likes a big part of the problem.  Why, I ask, would anyone care to look at photographs I’ve taken, read words I’ve written or hear of experiences I’ve had?  It is difficult, when something comes from deep within, to believe that anyone other myself has any reason to find it interesting.

Tonight, I learned a valuable lesson.  It came in the form of a charismatic genius.  An artist who opened his world to me.  His time, his mind, his talent.  And as I sat in the class, following the instructions he gave, I watched, in awe, as an image appeared on a previously blank page.  An image that wasn’t there before and emerged as I coaxed it with lines and perspective.

I was apprehensive about trying something that I had already convinced myself I could not do, but was willing, simply for the need to know, try.  I left my first art class feeling like there was nothing I could not accomplish.  I learned that I could, in fact, draw a straight line with a ruler and that the possibilities are endless.

The box I opened tonight wasn’t Pandora’s, for it was full of things that were inspiring and wonderful.  The box I opened tonight was was the one I drew by using the knowledge I have, the tools I was given and the instruction I received.

I am, for the moment (and the moment I am in is all I really ever have), at a place where I decide whether I will stay where I am or move forward and become more than I thought I could be.  When I went to bed last night, I felt broken.  That feeling carried over to the morning and self-doubt, my oldest nemesis reminded me that I had no talent or artistic ability.  This evening, that self-doubt took a serious blow.  I found it to be one of the most empowering times that I have faced in a very long time and I was reminded that I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.  Yes.  A long time, indeed.

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