These Things I Need to Know

Oh, how I love this man, Dr. Nix. My Photography 101 professor. I didn't intend to pursue photography as a career at the time, but was intrigued with it enough to take the class as an elective en route to my BFA. Dr. Nix taught me how to make a pinhole camera with balsa wood to emphasize the importance of learning to control light with the simplest of tools. He taught me how to develop film and make prints in the darkroom. But beyond all the technical stuff, he encouraged me. And hearing him say, "you've got a great eye" is (to this day) one of the best compliments I've ever received.

We reconnected a few years ago when I realized that he lived just 30 minutes from my door. Spending time with him in his home with his wife is such a gift for me. Last Friday, we talked about the start of his photography career as a photojournalist and the excitement of being called in the middle of the night to capture news in the making. "Have you ever seen an ole' 4x5?" he asked. I hadn't. And so my lesson began. Within minutes he returned to the sofa with a black box, pieced together his Crown Graphic 4x5 press camera (weighing in at a hefty 8 pounds), and demonstrated the very manual process of making images "on the fly" back in 1953. And giving a sweet glance in the direction of his beautiful wife, he even told me about the time he had to change his film under a sorority girl's lengthy skirt.

I'm grateful for this time with him. The wisdom of his life. He gives me a window into a past I'll never know. Share a portrait of wisdom with us today, or make it a point to seek it out.


The Making of a Shutter Sister

"Mommy, where is my camera?!" she called out as we hurried towards the door. "I don't wanna go without my camera."

I remember what it felt like to take my first photos.  Such power. The notion of capturing a moment in time and keeping it in view forever. It was a good feeling, and I knew from the age of seven that I loved holding a camera to my eye and looking at life through a viewfinder.

When I purchased my digital SLR a little more than one year ago, I shelved my first digital point and shoot in a cabinet. The "antique" had a dent in the side from a careless fall and a frustrating delay at the click of the shutter, but it did have the ability to shoot video, so I kept it.

My five-year old daughter asked about it one day as I walked around our backyard looking for little gifts to discover and shoot. "Can I take pictures with you..." she asked. "...with your old camera?" I'm not sure why I hadn't thought of that idea sooner, but her proposal was a fine one. Of course. So I ran inside, grabbed the camera and taught her where to look and how to zoom. 

And suddenly... it clicked.

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Do you remember your first camera or your first few shots? Have you shared a camera with a child in your life? Did his/her perspective surprise or inspire you?

More Than Enough

For the longest time, I've wanted a camera.  You have a camera, a little voice would answer in the back of my head.  And I'd have to nod and say, Yes, that's true.  My little point-and-shoot performed minor miracles for me, capturing moments of rare beauty and the kind of memories you want to hold close forever.  And I was grateful.

But then one day I rushed back to my unlocked car only to discover someone else had been there first, my hiding place discovered.  My little trusty camera was gone. 

I grieved for about five seconds and then determined it must be a sign.  An invitation even.  My time had come.  No more excuses.  I made a list of reasons why this was my next logical purchase and recited them religiously to my family members mid-click at B&H.  I need it for my business.  I need it for my blog.  I need it for our family.  The real reason, however, remained unspoken. 

I need this for my soul. 

What is it about seeing life through the lens that makes everything important come into focus?  What is it about letting in more light that puts everything in perspective?  What is it about filling the frame with something, someone you love that makes all the pieces of my heart fall into a perfect whole?

I know, I know.  I sound ridiculous.  But I can hardly help myself.  I am completely and totally in love with a new way of seeing the world, with the challenge and discipline of waiting, of watching.  I'm consumed with the task of drilling down to essentials, of uncovering magic in the most unlikely places.  I'm soaking up the experience of trying something new--even though I have no idea what I'm doing.  Even though my shiny new camera is for the most part a mystery machine in my hands. 

Someday I'll know how to tell a story with one shot that makes you want to weep.  Someday I'll know how to create an image that leaves you wistful and aching.  Someday I'll even know what AF means on that little round dial.  Or TV or AV or A-Dep, for that matter.

Until then, it will be all wonder and pure love--and right now, that feels like more than enough.

Photo and post courtesy of Guest Blogger Jen Lemen

Psssst...

Pssst. Did I tell ya? Too afraid to fess up for what it implies for the presumed amazingness of future photos, which is no sure thing.

Santa brought mama a new SLR camera, a Canon Rebel XTi, to finally displace my point-and-shoot, the Kodak Pipsqueak 2000.

It's a revelation, let me tell you. I can take pictures INDOORS! I have a lens that I can open up to 1.8. ONE. POINT. EIGHT. And the best part? It FOCUSES. I am pleased. I am thrilled. I am nose to the manual every night, determined to figure out how to get it to do what I hope it can do. Lots to learn, but learning's no trouble when you're lit up.

I know I’m all Story of Stuffed, but do me a favour and grant me one gizmo exemption.

This thing, she is some beaut.

Mastering the art of the rinky-tink-tink: part one

 

So, what is it that you do to your shots?  The sisters have asked. They’re kinda unique.

Well, I ahh… I umm… see, I move the clicker wheel to ‘BEACH SCENE’, and then I hold the button down halfway so it may (or may not) focus, and then…

Crap, I think, too late, rinky-tink-tinking on my toy piano in a roomful of Steinways. I’ve just outed myself. Next thing you know I’ll give away my ‘BRIGHT SNOW DAY’ trick.

My camera is a glorified point-and-shoot with an unchangeable junior lens, shot-in-the-dark focusing and a complete inability to operate properly in anything but blazing outdoor light. It's all I know, photographically — probably like many of you, too — aside from the 25-year-old Pentax K-1000 I learned on.

So to those who have yet to graduate to the school of digital SLR I say:

1) You are not alone in your periodic camera-directed sado-masochistic abandonment fetish.

2) Between now and the receipt of lotto winnings, we may as well make the best of it.

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It’s frustrating to hit a ceiling — to have a creative drive that exceeds your equipment. I’ve got a baby, a toddler, a recent home renovation and a credit line with indigestion. Canon? Nikon? NTFL (add ‘Not Too F-ing Likely’ to your web-repertoire alongside LOL, SAHM and OMG).

Stretch what you’ve got. If you’ve still got the manual, read it (or go online to find it). Uncover every possible setting, adjustment and feature. Capture the same scene on auto, on preset modes, with flash, without flash, zoomed in, zoomed out. Let no button or switch go unexplored. If your camera offers manual settings, test them vigorously until you can visualize the effects of shutter speed, aperture and ISO.

Learn what works best in your most common shooting scenarios. For instance, when it’s bright out I use the ‘beach scene’ preset mode to overexpose, then tone down within Photoshop after I’ve downloaded the images. Something about that setting, combined with a contrast adjustment after-the-fact, makes blue skies pop.

Such a trick I’d never have learned if I hadn’t moved the clicker off the godforsaken AUTO and taken some risks in the interest of trial by error.

Sure, I flail, and curse, and salivate in front of store windows. Then I turn to my weary, battered Kodak, my pipsqueak, and say Okay kid, it’s just you and me. Let’s see what we can do.