I do

I went into my local camera shop lugging everything, rattling off at the mouth. I have to be at the suite in an hour and I think I need more memory do you think I need more memory? I think I need more memory.

The guy behind the counter smiled in the way of someone who's seen his share of frazzled, pre-shoot memory-seekers. He handed me another 16 GBs and I left the store feeling sufficient. Two hours later, I sent my husband back again. More! AGGGH! More memory more more more! They shoved another card into his hand and said Go, just go. We'll figure it out later. And my husband ran, snuck in behind the procession, slipped the card into my bag just in time for the piper.

It was the first time I've ever shot a wedding as the principal photographer and can I say something? Not one thing. A few things, aside from gratitude for my husband's help, and having an independent, local camera shop that knows how to throw accessories at a moving target and shout "Good Luck!" at the same time.

1) There is no such thing as too much memory. Or batteries. Or extras. As they say in high-angle rope rescue, one is none and two is one.

2) In eleven hours, I shot 2800 photos. After several rounds of finer and finer-still editing and processing -- with a cold and ruthless eye -- the finished set contains 330. Did I shoot too much? I think I shot too much. But I couldn't help it. Everywhere I looked, a surplus of adorable.

3) I walked with a hobble for a week. Flattened! Like running a marathon. I've got processing claw. My eyeballs are all dried up. The last time I ate was breakfast last Tuesday.

4) There are many reasons why, to the bride and groom, photography seems to cost (or should cost, if it's worthy) so much. See #1, #2, and #3. The behind-the-scenes preparation, the gear, the failsafes, the endless processing. The responsibility of capturing something so sacred, so joyous. The richness of the scene, in terms of photographic potential.

I was a one-woman creative shark frenzy. Adrenaline. Then some indigestion. I've already got a substantial volume of notes to inform various next-times on the horizon. Now, finished, I wait for Mr. and Mrs. to return from their honeymoon. We'll sit down and walk through the day, remembering. And I'm hoping with every breath that I've done it justice.

I've never been so humbled. What a task, what an honour. Regardless of being the principal photographer or the second in charge of candids -- or even bringing your camera as an unsolicited extra eye for friends or family -- what have you taken away from the experience of shooting important occasions, parties, or one-time events? What did you learn? Who saved you, advised you, assisted you? What will you do differently next time?

stylin'

I've had a revelation.

I see photography on Pinterest (oh my loving holy stars, THE PINTEREST) that, like all good photography, makes me scrinch up my nose and lean in and wonder how, what lens, what time of day, what exposure, what skill, what luck. Lately, though, it's been occurring to me that exposure, gear, skill, and luck are only half of it. Well. Alright. Three-quarters of it. But still.

Well of course it's pin-worthy. They have hot air balloons, a matching dress, and a bow-tie. The perfect swoop of a proper umbrella, the long white-blonde hair, the tight black trench. They're wearing matching hunter boots, bloomers, and vintage Chanel. The harmonious tones of twin cupcakes as well as twin dresses. A dress like that.

It's true. A photograph can be made thanks to a visionary pause -- an eye for crafting an image. A flash of specialness, character, something out-of-the-ordinary. Or even just an elegant sort of plainness, the sort of well-crafted neutrality that keeps all the viewer's attention on soul and light (as opposed to a Spongebob Squarepants t-shirt that says GIT YER NERD ON).

Sometimes it's more than a visionary pause that makes a photograph. Sometimes, it's a visionary blueprint. There are people out there who seek out props, hats, flair. They watch for it and they know how and where to apply it. They see a kid with the most fantastic curls ever and instantly they think LOOSE COTTON SEERSUCKER + C. 1930s FISHING KREEL + BEACH = PERFECTION. And they do it. Like those obsessive-compulsive math people who can't stop counting stairs, some people are obsessive-compulsive about the mechanics of scene-setting. They see inspiration everywhere.

I love seeing that care, but now, let's talk about you and me and the everyday. How do we take a page from the stylist-photographer's book? What's all this mean for spontaneity? Do you craft your images, even on-the-fly? Knowing your camera's accompanying you for a day, do you dress or prop you or your subjects with a photographic eye? Could you?

Giveaway! An interview with Andy Karr, author of 'The Practice of Contemplative Photography: Seeing the World with Fresh Eyes'

Andy Karr is a writer, photographer, longtime meditator, and Buddhist teacher. He trained intensively with two of the great founding teachers of Western Buddhism: Shunryu Suzuki Roshi, author of 'Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind', and Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, author of 'Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism', 'Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior', and other classics.

Andy and fellow photographer Michael Wood have written a fascinating book on what he calls Contemplative Photography - summed up, the practice of shooting more from the heart's eye than from the brain's eye. It's a sentiment that's wonderfully relevant to all of us at Shutter Sisters, and I'm thrilled to offer a copy of his book today. Read on, and comment to win!

Photographer Jay Maisel said that your book takes readers into deeper water with a perception that would feel new, beyond matters of aperture and focal length and ISO. Do you remember the moment that you felt that deeper water behind the lens, or did you bring that perception with you to photography? (What came first - your camera, or your way of seeing?)

Definitely the camera came first. When I was a kid in New York, I often carried a camera with me, but had no idea what to do with it. I worked at the basic technical stuff, but mostly longed for more and better gear.

I began to meditate in my early twenties, and that was a big landmark, but it took another couple of decades before I began to develop some insight into perception. Soon after that, I ran into Michael Wood and his contemplative photography teachings. That's when photography, and the connection with fresh perception started to click for me. I studied closely with Michael for five or six years. Later, we produced The Practice of Contemplative Photography together.

Buddhist teachings reference human warriorship as rooted in the Tibetan word 'pawo', which means 'one who is brave'. Can a camera be a conduit for bravery?

I think this practice does require bravery. It takes a certain amount of bravery, or confidence, to let go of your ideas about subject matter, and all the conventional tricks and techniques, and just let perceptions come to you, rather than cooking things up. At first, it can feel quite naked to let go of your cultural and artistic baggage.

In the forward of your book, you share a quote by Henri Cartier-Bresson: "Technique is important only insofar as you must master it in order to communicate what you see. . . In any case, people think far too much about techniques and not enough about seeing."

In that point in our learning when we don't quite have the technical instincts yet, how can we let go of that constant internal muttering about aperture and focal length and ISO to see in that contemplative way?

Well, with a reasonably decent digital camera, you really don't need to worry very much about any of those things. Just set the camera to Automatic or Program and open to perception. If you can see clearly, you will get good shots. You might mess up a few of them if you don't master a little of the craft, but you will definitely get most of them. On the other hand, if you can't see clearly, you can get a lot of technically excellent, but meaningless and banal images. Anyone can learn to see, and make outstanding images with today's technology.

What's the most unexpectedly beautiful, ordinary thing you've photographed recently? What did you see in it?

It was definitely this piece of junk and the shadow of the street sign. I got out of my car, and was stopped in my tracks by it. There's no way I can explain why that happened, but it did.

In portraiture, how can we overcome the self-awareness or insecurity or hesitation of both photographer and subject?

I think the main thing is to not struggle with our feelings, but let them be there. If we are anxious, we should be anxious properly. Otherwise, we add difficulties to difficulties. There really are no magic tricks. We need to be comfortable in our own skin, and that develops over a long time with a lot of patience.

What are your constants in photography - those elements that click and successfully translate a contemplative eye? Light, colour, your own state of mind?

I like Henri Cartier-Bressons statement, "To take photographs means... putting one’s head, one’s eye and one’s heart on the same axis." I think that's about it.

To win a copy of Andy's fantastic and thought-provoking book The Practice of Contemplative Photography: Seeing the World with Fresh Eyes, tell us about a subject that snapped you to attention in that contemplative way - and tell us how it felt in that moment to see extraordinary beauty in the ordinary everyday.

Update on Monday, May 9, 2011 by Kate Inglis

Thanks to everyone for sharing such thoughtful comments and fantastic images - We're thrilled to announce that the winner of Andy Karr's book The Practice of Contemplative Photography is ELK of Red or Grey. Thanks everyone! If you'd like a closer look inside the book, go here. It's a wonderful read.

pocketful of quarters

In our play, we reveal what kind of people we are.  ~ Ovid, Roman poet (43 BC–18 AD)

Today, show us play so intent that they didn't even know you were there. Child's play, grown-up play - show us moments of concentrated joy.

sewing room

My mother is a quilter. She's a founder of bees and guilds and she speaks at conferences and teaches and retreats and shows at galleries and inventories antique textiles and for as long as I can remember, people have leaned in to her work and said, "Oh- my- gosh. Those are the smallest stitches I've ever seen."

I don't have the patience gene, and so I'm not a quilter. But I can appreciate what makes a good one. Colour composition and design. The pepper that punctuates colours that cooperate - an unexpected brightness that pops, used sparingly and intentionally. The accuracy of piecework, points that meet all crisp and sharp, flat fabric origami. The hang of a well-made piece, straight and true. And the heft of it, pressing you into the bed on a night when the wind whistles through window seams.

I'm the only one left without a website, she said, cringing. Quilt Canada's coming up and there's nothing for me to link to. Can you help?

We started with an afternoon in her sewing room, a place I've hung out in since she started paying me a penny a pin. I'd crawl around at her feet running my hands across the wood planks, watching for flashes of silver while the machine thrummed along, piles of fabric collecting at her feet, her fingers easing it through. Picking up needles and straight pins, flat-headed pins, ball-headed pins, basters. Watching her with the rotary cutter, her hoops for hand-piecing. There were no pins this time, and no pennies. But captures of her space, her cherished things. Oh, the dust... she fusses, seeing how close I am. I insist she doesn't touch a thing. The dust is soaked in with the pleasure of making beautiful, useful things. That makes it, to me, beautiful and useful dust.

Do you have a sacred space? A kitchen, an office, a crafting table? Today, show us a piece of it, just as it is, yours or someone else's - creativity's home in still life.