self-discovery

Last month I traveled to Haiti with a non-profit organization to document the re-opening of two primary schools that were devastated by the 2010 earthquake. I knew that the experience would be somewhat extraordinary. That as soon as I would land the fears that had been keeping me awake for many many nights would disappear. That I would learn, and hopefully thrive as a photographer. And delight in the discovery of a new culture.

And although my understanding for this country has shifted, and I now have a much better sense of appreciation for life, and respect for photographers who are in the field serving the stories of those in front of the lens, I am mostly grateful for the way this experience has uncovered many layers of my personal story, and helped me discover what I am capable of, what I'm passionate about, and who I truly am. 

Today share with us. What did photography make you discover about yourself?

Heaven

Image shot with a Lensbaby.

On the first day of spring, we braved the cold Portland rain, threw our suitcases in the back of the car and headed for the airport. I couldn't help but feel giddy. Giddy to be leaving it all behind for a couple of days. And when our little plane finally landed in Palm Springs four hours later and we stepped out onto the tarmac, out into blinding bright sunshine and wide open blue skies, I wanted to cry. Giddy is maybe not even the word. This trip to Palm Springs had been in the works for months. The fine folks at the Ace Hotel & Swim Club had invited me down all the way back in August but due to circumstances beyond my control, I wasn't actually able to take them up on the offer for a good six months. I know now that the timing was perfect, that the whole thing had come to fruition at exactly the right moment and as our cab pulled into the driveway of the Ace, I felt my shoulders relax. I looked at my sweet friend Nataly (who I'd invited along for the ride) and I think maybe I squealed, I don't know. 

When it comes to traveling, I am notorious for over-planning. I get excited about new cities, new places and want to learn everything I possibly can so that I can plan extraordinary experiences. I try to leave room for things to just happen but more often than not, we are rushing from one thing to the next. With Palm Springs, I let all that go. My only plan for our 48 hours was to just let things unfold. To raise my camera when it felt right. To wholly surrender to the experience. And for 48 hours, that's exactly what we did. We wandered the grounds and lounged in hammocks. We laid in bed and listened to records. We drank mexican coke in white flannel robes by the patio fireplace and ordered room service. We hopped in and out of the photobooth (and then in and out again) and borrowed bikes from the Ace to ride into town. We floated on our backs in the swimming pool and looked up at the stars. We sat in the quiet of the diner and talked. Sometimes I picked my camera up, sometimes I didn't. 

It was exquisite. 

I didn't want to leave. Ever. I wanted to send for my husband and children and maybe a few of our things. I wanted to start a new life in room 237. But when the time finally came to leave, I felt rested and ready to go, ready to take on the real world and a hundred other little things. And as our cab pulled away, my mind jumped ahead to October. I couldn't help but feel excited about Shutter Sisters Oasis. And I couldn't imagine a more perfect place for it. 

Today, share with us a time when you just let it all go, relaxed into life, and allowed it to unfold.

***Just a reminder: Registration for Oasis opens today, at 9am Pacific Standard Time. We do hope you can join us!***

Accidental Tourist

 

As photographers we often find ourselves looking through our lenses like tourists, seeing the world around us with fresh eyes, documenting everything that’s new. Even what we’re familiar with can be captured through a new perspective, a different angle, a renewed way of discovering it.

And when we are actually tourists—experiencing something for the first time to us—it can also seem like we are children again; bright-eyed, curious, excited about new sights and sounds, people and landscapes.

There is nothing better than taking in all the wonder of our surroundings. Of seeing things from a different perspective. Exploring either the new or the old through a lens that appreciates it all. And having the tools to take what we see and create something brand new with it. To tell the stories that beg to be told. A moment in time that somehow, no one else has seen.  An angle that surprises even us and offers a whole new way of thinking. A landscape that feels as foreign as the moon and yet somehow as familiar as our own backyard. A person, who seemingly comes out of nowhere begging to be noticed, recognized, seen, recorded.

I am here. Can you see me? Do you know what I stand for?  the monument pleads.

I am here. Can you see me? Will you help me to tell my story? the man begs of me through his gesture (a peace sign).

I am reminded time and again of what an incredibly important job we have. It is through our eyes, through our lenses that stories—of us and of the world—are told.

Do show us today what stories you been asked to tell.

wonderland

"This is what a Utah winter looks like," she told me as she drove me from Salt Lake City up to Park City, Utah. I marveled from the passenger side as huge snowflakes poured out of the vast bucket sky.

Click, click, click.

Through the windshield I snapped image after image of the landscape that surrounded us. Amazed by what I saw. It had rained all day until all of the sudden, it turned to snow. And minutes later, a total transformation from all gray to winter white. I don't recall ever seeing anything quite like it. We could have been on the moon for all I knew.

It was a long and harrowing drive for most of the people on the road that afternoon but not for her. And even if it was, she wouldn't let on. Apologizing all over myself for the amount of time I was stealing from her day and for the traffic and for the weather, she urged, "This is the magic, Tracey. I wasn't going to let you miss the magic."

And I didn't. Those 24 hours were filled with picturesque views, real winter weather, my camera, big boots, bright lights, warmth, inspiration, and friendship. In a word; magic.

Share with us today your wonderland. When you gaze outside your window, what magic awaits you? Let's see the landscape that surrounds you today.

souvenirs

On the morning of our last full day in Gjilan, Kosovo, we sat around the breakfast table and discussed souvenirs. We'd been there all week, doing art workshops for high school students and now we finally had a tiny bit of free time. The plan was to hit the local Saturday market and hit it hard. As I began to make my list of people to shop for and what to bring back, a friend leaned over and asked where my name was on that list. What was I going to bring back for myself? I don't know, I answered. I hadn't actually thought about it. I'd been fixated on so many other things--- what my kids might like, what my husband might get a kick out of, how much I could feasibly fit in my suitcase, what I could get past customs, blah blah blah. I hadn't actually thought about what I might like to bring back for myself.

Photographs, I finally told her. That's my souvenir of choice. 

What I realized was that it didn't really matter if I found something at the market for myself. Not that I wouldn't pick up a few goodies, you know. If I saw something I really liked. But I thought about the stack of polaroids up in the hotel room. The big fat stack that sat on the small wooden table next to my bed. How each one told a spectacular little story. The group of small children I ran into during an afternoon walk, how I crossed my eyes to make them laugh. The old wooden easels that belonged to the freshest young painters. Entire shops solely devoted to the selling of eggs. Eggs. Just eggs. The bowl of pinkish red apples hand-picked for us by the mother of an artist whose home we visited. My bare feet on the rug of the most authentically bohemian artist studio. The burnt sienna rooftops of Gjilan. And the hanging laundry. My goodness, the hanging laundry.

Yep. I had my souvenirs. Anything else I picked up for myself on that last magic day in the market in Gjilan would be the cherry. The cherry on top of a big fat happy Albanian sundae.  

What do you bring back from your travels? Are your photographs your souvenirs? Please do share one with us today.