Imperfect lenses and seeing clearly . . .

* A note to regular readers . . . I'm suspending The Wednesday Pop until next week, so I can tell the Nicaragua stories in consecutive posts.  Pop will return!


So, you know I just returned from this amazing trip meeting friends in another land.  Everything is different after you do that - thoughts, the way you 'take in' a regular ole' day, the things you appreciate. Nicaragua was wonderful, from the vivid colors of her landscape to the big open hearts of her people.  I can't wait to go back.

I went to Nicaragua in a confusion that I rarely feel.  I decided, after advice from friends who had been before, that taking my 'real' camera wasn't the thing to do.  I vacillated with that decision from its inception until moments before I boarded the plane.

On the one side of my brain, I heard, I always take my camera!  How will I make it, not recording what I see to the best of my ability?  Will I miss something?  Will I be able to retell the story when I return without crisp, sharp photos?  How will I make it without my 'friend'?  

On the other side, I'll really BE there and live in the moment.  I won't have that albatross around my neck.  There will be no worry at the chance of destroying my investment.  My big camera won't be between me and the wonderful souls I'll meet.  

I went back and forth, back and forth.  I do that too much anyway, and this was serious see-sawing!  It drove me crazy!  I researched meaningful photography with an iphone, I threw the question out and tried to hear what God had to say, and I looked into 'making it work' without a DSLR.  I put myself through the ringer, trying to decide.  I tried to remind myself what I tell people all of the time . . . it's not the camera that makes a great photo.

Okay, you get the point.  I was befuddled.  Folks felt like the dusty conditions weren't the right thing for my camera and some wondered if maybe it would be a good exercise for me to see things through a different lens.   What to do, what to do?

So, I went and boarded the plane, loaded down with small cameras and equipment.  I spent the day of travel convinced that I was forgetting something, as I was so accustomed to carrying my heavy camera bag.  I had a borrowed camera, a new small camera to leave with friends in Nicaragua and my iphone, accompanied with my array of extra little lenses for it.  I was armed and ready.  I would leave my Canon at home and I would head off into a new world and see it with my own eyes.  I wouldn't carry a great big instrument around my neck.  I wouldn't worry about which lens was best for each situation.  I would see what I was seeing, instead of composing it through the viewfinder of my comfort zone.  I would retrain myself to use different equipment, and I would enjoy it.

Want to know how I did?  I'm still not sure!  I did enjoy the freedom my camera choices allowed me.  I often felt closer to what I was living than I sometimes feel behind my usual mechanical friend.  I was lighter.  I was quicker.  I didn't worry about water or dust or sand or where to set things down or whether something was safe.  That was good.  I focused with my own two eyes.  Maybe I was more of a participator instead of the director.  I snapped and snapped and snapped.

I guess I could say it was a success.  I missed things, though.  I missed the artistic part of what I do.  I missed the familiar feel of camera in hand, imagining what stories I could tell with what images.  I missed the work that goes into the choices about light and focus and speed, etc.  I was out of my element, a bit.  And, when I returned home, I really missed the crisp photos I like to see.  I was disappointed with the fuzzy images of the people and place I now love so much.  I missed the art.  I missed the bokeh behind my new friends' faces.  I missed the focus on just a small section of the photo of something special.  I missed the clarity I look to find.

But the trial wasn't a blowout.  It worked.  It really did.  My camera stayed safe at home, ready to get back to work when I returned.  I moved effortlessly around a new home in a new land.  I was with my subjects.  I was there.  Nothing was between me and the people I loved.  I snapped and snapped and snapped like I always do.  All was all right.  I learned.  I learned a lot.

I'll admit that when I look at the photos, I often find myself wishing I could 'do it again' with clearer machinery.  I do.  But, in the end, I made the right decision.  I spent my first trip to a new favorite place with less baggage, and that is always a good thing.  I'll go back.  I'll probably go back with a familiar friend around my neck.  But, nevertheless, I did it right the first time.  This time it was about getting to know this place and her amazing people.  I did that.  Thank God.

As I've edited the photos, I've had to re-assure myself of this epiphany over and over again.  I've had to tell myself, again and again, that the images I returned with are just fine.  And, as usual, I did come back with a few thousand photos too many and I can look at them and immediately bring back the moments that meant so much.  They work.  They help to tell a story.  I'm thankful.

The little cameras were just fine to remind me of what I saw.  Wish you could have seen it, too, friend.

 I wish you could have watched this quiet time between my dear friend and this precious little girl, living in the dump just outside of Chinandega, Nicaragua.

I wish you could know the magic of watching one with nothing tenderly helped by one with plenty.  I wish you could have witnessed the gentleness of this speck of time; this moment with no language.

I long to make you see what this child's face looked like when she looked back at Marta with no words and with a thousand words.  A child who is used to nothing walks by with her gift of oranges from us and works to carry them safely back to her shack to her waiting family to share in the magic.

   She and Marta work together, with a few failed attempts, until they got it right, and this little love looks back with thanks.  It was tender.  It was loving.  It was sad and happy and beautiful at the same time.  I snapped and snapped and snapped.

And I didn't need a fancy camera to see the look in the eyes of this little girl from the same area, as she spotted the familiar face of a friend from far away.  I wouldn't have had time to decide on the right settings on my usual camera, but I was able to grab the little one and click, click, click.  I can't tell you how wonderful it was to watch this sweet girl see the face of my friend and lunge into the air to get to her!  What a moment.  These photos don't follow any rules of composition; but for me, they capture that magic moment - a moment when two people who share no language, no realities, no familiarity, come together in love and understanding.  Snap, snap, snap.

And on the day before I left this new place I love, I was able to jump out of the back of the truck when I saw the looks on the faces of my dear friend and this sweet mother in the village.  They didn't know each other.  They share no commonalities.  But, what I saw convinced me that their eyes screamed out in understanding.  They looked at each other in a way that said, from one to another, "We know that feeding our babies, physically and emotionally, is what we are here to do."  They loved each other without words or shared stories.  I was there.  I grabbed my trusty phone and witnessed the magic.  Snap, snap, snap.

So, I'll get over the fact that the photos aren't perfect.  I'll move past it and remember that they can still tell the story.  These fuzzy photos can still tell the story of folks who came together in ways more meaningful than I could ever imagine.  Thanks be to God.

The other perspective heard from . . .

I've been considering perspective quite a bit lately.  I'm leading the "Photography Club" at my children's school; I speak to them often about using different perspectives to 'tell' the story, to get different points of view.  I've had the kids do all sorts of activities to work on broadening the way they view various photo opportunities.

The kids love working with perspective; and as I suspected, they pick up on things more quickly than us adults.  One of the first rules of photography is to make sure that you, the photographer, are constantly willing to move to get the best shot.  A photographer has to move herself when she needs a new view.  It's a serious no-no to have your subjects have to move, and we are yet to figure out how to move objects like the sun, the trees, etc.  Kids have no trouble with that - they are quick to move, to look at things with a  new eye, to find a different approach to the same old scene.

They have enjoyed playing with perspective, too, loving to 'manipulate' the end result by changing the angle or the distance with which the photographer shoots.  It's fun to have your friend move to the end of the hall, another friend stand just feet from you with their hand held up and take a photo that makes the viewer imagine that the closest friend (the one that looks like a giant) is holding the tiny friend (the one at the end of the hall).  You can imagine all the fun that a group of kids with digital cameras can come up with to alter reality a bit to create a different scene.   No one can resist that fun!

The kids have learned about how to shoot to make the subject look large and imposing and they've learned how to make the subjects look tiny and diminutive.  They have learned to integrate photos from every angle, every side, different distances.  They love this stuff - the moving around, finding the best spot, the best way to understand the subject.

Again this morning, I was the student and my son was the teacher.  He stormed up the stairs with a loud battle cry that reminded me (loudly) that I needed to practice what I was preaching about looking at things from different perspectives.  Don't you just hate it when your lessons get thrown in your face?


I'll spare you many details, as many of them are not proper fodder for discussion.  Here is the Cliff Notes version of the morning drama . . .

Our dog, Sadie, is a fine dog.  She's sweet, obedient, and we argue over who she loves best.  Hands down, they don't come any better than Sadie.  She was a rescue dog, and we are always happy that she rescued us.  Sadie turned eight years old last summer.  She jumps around like a puppy when she's happy and runs like a greyhound, but we are reminded when we go to the veterinarian that she is 'getting on up there' in years.

She came to us trained and ready, thank goodness, and there was never any house-breaking tasks on our part.  Lately, though, she has begun to leave us some 'surprises' in the morning.  Not every morning and not a big mess, but a mess we don't much want to clean up in the hurried craziness of the school day.  We know when she has had an 'accident' before we go down the stairs because Sadie is a very bright dog.  On the mornings after her offenses, she quietly paws her way up the stairs, gently snuggles herself into the warm bed, leans against one of us and nods off in innocent sleep.  She does all of this just minutes before our normal wake-up time.

Alas, we wake the kids, turn up the heat and make our way downstairs to the mess.  We know it before we see it - it's there.  We clean it up, while the offender slumbers above.  We wait until she comes down and then we show her the mess, force her to get close to it and we say, "NO - SADIE, NO!"  Our children think we are abusing her and they run for cover.   They don't want to see or hear this horrible scolding.  (I must add here that this 'scolding' lasts less than two seconds and never reaches the decibel level of the voices of our children.)  This scolding is not horrible.  It is, though, the only thing we know to do.  We try hard to make sure Sadie gets plenty of outside time, we take her out right before we go to bed, and we hope for the best.  Other than this tiny behavior management tool (which, apparently, isn't working), things go along unchanged.

This morning, though, Harry stormed up the stairs to save himself from witnessing the torture, tore open my door and flew his tear-filled self onto my floor.  "I can't take this anymore!  I can't take it!  How can you do this?  What do you do when you need to go to the bathroom?  You go!  What do I do when I need to go to the bathroom?  I go!  Every night before bed, you remind me to get up and go to the bathroom whenever I need to.  Every night!  How can you get mad at Sadie for doing what she's supposed to do?  I can't take it any more!"

Well, there I was.  I had one eye sufficiently mascared.  We were late.  But there he was, in my space, reminding me to look at things from a different perspective.  He got me.  I woke up.  I was reminded.  I quickly told him he had a point.  I thanked him for reminding me.  I put mascara on the other eye and vowed to look at things differently.

And I will.  I'm not sure what we'll do to change the situation.   I doubt it will go away.  I imagine it's here to stay.  It's a small price to pay for the enormous gift of Sadie.  And this morning, Harry gave me another gift.  He threw my own lesson right back on me.   I DO use the bathroom when I need to and I WILL look at our little dilemma with new eyes.  I WILL.  I've been practicing all morning and I'll keep on trying.

Here's to looking at things with new eyes, from someone else's point of view, from a different side, a different angle and remembering that sometimes I have to move myself when I don't understand the situation.  Thanks, Harry.

Say "Cheese" and say it often

Photographs ARE more than paper - I know you all know that. And, I know that many of you have already read the post that I am sharing today. It has been all around the internet over the last few days. It is sad, very sad; and it is hard to read. It is hard to think about. I want you to read it, though. I don't want you to read it just to be sad, and I don't want you to read it as some sleazy way to promote what I do. I am a photographer because I love it and because I know that helping to preserve pieces of our lives is important. My clients understand that, and so they are willing to invest in the process. Sometimes it is expensive and always it is worth it.

I want you to read this blog post from another photographer because I think it has more of a message than making the investment in photography. I think this is a call to all of us parents (often Moms) that it is IMPERATIVE that we have photographs of us - when our children are older, they will want to see what WE looked like, what WE did with them, when WE looked happy or tired or excited or sad or content, what WE shared with them. As parents, we work hard to ensure that we have photos of our children at every age, in every phase, at every special event, etc. How often, though, do we think of a zillion reasons why WE shouldn't be in the photos? My answer to that question is . . . OFTEN!

Do we fear that our children will grow into adults who look back at the pictures of us and see tired or overweight or without make-up or not dressed correctly? Are we afraid we won't measure up? Will we not look as good as the other mothers and fathers? Will our children wish that we had been dressed more fashionably? That's preposterous - you and I both know that.

Our children will see the one thing they are looking for - their Mama or Daddy or Dad or Mom or Pop or whatever you are called. They will see you and remember how we usually looked on those regular weekdays when they came in from playing. They will remember what made us laugh and when we got a serious look. They will remember just the way they sat in our laps or just how we threw them in the air or that we always looked at them in 'just that way.' They will look at those photos, snapshots or formal, and they will tell their children what it was like to be the child of us. I doubt they will notice the make-up or lack of it, the outfit we were wearing, or the amount of weight we needed to loose. They won't be looking for that. They will be looking for pieces of their past; pieces of the way things used to be. They will hold on to our photos in the same way we hold on to theirs.

As I look at the above photo I remember a grand good time. I also see a terribly fuzzy photo, taken with a cell phone, of a crazy tired woman with a funny looking paper thing on her head. I doubt that's what Emma and Harry will see when they look at the photo in years to come. I believe they will see a Mama who loves them, who laughed with them and tried to make that particular night fun. I believe they'll remember how they were the waiters and that they served the food to everyone on the porch and that they helped me use paper towels to make a chef's hat. I believe they'll remember.

I write this today and share this post for you AND for me. I suspect that you are like me. I spend most of the time behind the camera; and even with much prodding from loved ones, I rarely step out and get in front of the camera. That's not okay. I might not love seeing myself in pictures, but my children will; and seeing the photographs that we take today will be the tangible pieces they have of times gone by. I cherish the photos of my children as babies and toddling to walk and making a mess when they learned to eat - they will cherish the photos of their Daddy and I laughing and hugging and smiling and being surprised. I owe that to them. I do.

Please read:

http://fototails.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/a-letter-on-my-doorstep-portraits-are-more-than-paper/