Why am I so attracted to photography? Of what use is it? Or better, what use do I want it to have for me or others? These are just a few of the questions with which I’ve been grappling? The impetus for these questions has come from Tony Luna’s book, How to Grow as a Photographer. The book is really for career photographers who are in the process of examining their career and reinventing themselves. Since I’m not a professional photographer the book doesn’t apply specifically to me. However, Luna has a lot of great things to say about what it takes to be a photographer and what might become of one’s photographic abilities. In fact, much of the book has spoken to me.
I’m obviously drawn to photography and find a great deal of joy in it. Luna encourages photographers to go further, to discover (or rediscover) their passion, to articulate a clear vision and mission. So I’m asking myself, “What do I want my photography to do?” “How do I want it to affect others?” “What is my underlying passion and how can I use this to make a difference with the camera lens?” I’m working on these.
Is my greatest interest landscapes, churches, people, missions, or something else? Do I want my art to bring people joy, make them pay attention to life in new ways, or motivate them to do something like care for the marginalized in our world? Sometimes I feel like my photographic art is all over the place. You’ll notice that I post a lot of different kinds of pictures on this site. Eventually, I hope to narrow my focus–discover how I really want my photography to matter. Feedback from others will be an important part of that. So, let me know which of my photographs touch you most and why. I would love to hear from you.
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I bought my first camera in 1976. I think it cost me about $179 ( a great deal of money for a 20-year-old college student 33 years ago). It was a Vivitar SLR and had a couple of lenses with screw on mounts. This meant that every time I wanted to use the telephoto I had to laboriously unscrew one lens and screw on the other. By then I had missed whatever shot I had in mind.
I bought the camera because I was going to Maryland’s Eastern Shore for the summer and wanted to record my memories. My task for the summer was to work with migrant farm workers living in the area. The workers lived in sub-standard housing erected in camps on the individual farms. They worked in the fields from sun-up to sun-down for pennies a bushel. They had no transportation except that provided them by the landowner. They had no medical care and few basic necessities. It was my first introduction to real poverty.
Although I can no longer put my hands on those pictures from three decades ago, I still remember quite vividly the snapshots of the faces–a teenage mother holding her baby on her hip, an old woman sweeping the dirt in front of the cook house in her camp, young muscled men lifting bushels of vegetables on their shoulders, an old man sitting in a torn overstuffed chair discarded from a flea market. Taking those pictures not only captured a moment in time, it allowed the memory to become part of me.
I thought about this first camera and my experiences in Maryland today because I was listening to a CD book by Octavia Butler entitled Kindred. This 1979 classic is a wonderful story about the oppression of slaves in early 19th century Maryland. Most of the story actually takes place just a few miles from Easton, MD where I spent my summer. Butler vividly describes the brutal treatment of slaves that was an accepted part of the culture of that day. She paints word pictures of beatings, inhumane conditions, rape, hard labor in the fields, and the cost of running away (among many other atrocities).
It occurred to me that 150 years after the slavery conditions on the Eastern Shore there were still Blacks, shirtless in the hot sun, who spent their days in back-breaking work. They picked crops for landowners, bending over a 1000 times a day to snatch a tomato or cucumber. Although some may argue that the Blacks I met in 1976 were free and could leave at anytime. The reality was that they had no money, no transportation, and no where to go.
What I saw in 1976 was poverty. I was less aware of the oppression and even slave-like conditions. I haven’t been back to Maryland’s Eastern Shore since 1976, so I can’t comment on the work conditions of the farm labor now. But whether I’m in 1976 Maryland or 2009 Oklahoma, I want to see the injustice that has been part of the human experience since the beginning of time. God forgive me for my blindness. Help me to see.
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My wife and I had dinner this evening with a young couple from our church. Both have recently graduated from seminary and have just entered the world of church ministry. I am simultaneously thrilled for them and scared for them.
We talked of their hopes and ambitions as a ministry couple. I was reminded of my own enthusiasm and dreams in my first ministry position almost 30 years ago now. Ministry provided me many wonderful experiences and often gave a real sense of purpose. I found myself revisiting several fond memories. I hope for them many years of success, joy, purpose, and fulfillment.
Our conversation, however, also allowed them the opportunity to voice some of their early frustrations and struggles. They asked for wisdom (as if I actually had any to give). Their questions brought to mind many difficult, hurtful times in my own years as a minister. I felt inadequate to provide any true insight into the difficulties they are now experiencing and will experience in the future.
Whether ministry or some other career path, I suppose each of us face joys and difficulties. If we are wise we embrace the joys and seek advice for the problems. Experience teaches us that many difficulties have no solutions, however. They simply are. Learning to accept them as part of life allows us to push beyond them to grasp that which provides us joy. I know this truth in my head, but I still have difficulty living it. I hope my young friends are able to learn this more quickly than I, before their problems squash their joys.
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I recently cleaned out my attic and came across several boxes of books and files I had stored when I left my previous job almost four years ago. I looked again at each book and took the time to peruse the file contents. The exercise left with me two competing emotions.
On the one hand, I felt a great deal of confusion about who this person was that read all these books and filed all these pieces of paper. Of all the boxes of files, I kept about a dozen file folders that contained personal items. Out of several hundred books I kept perhaps ten. I kept wondering what attracted me to these items. Why would I read these subjects? Why would I keep information that I now have no interest in at all. I must have found these things important at one point in my life. Now they seemed irrelevant.
Change is inevitable. Over the years I’ve become a different person with different interests, goals, and even values. Sometimes this change is purposeful, but probably for most of us it is the natural course of life. It creeps up on us before we understand what is happening. I’m okay with change because I like who I am now and don’t want to return to that former self.
On the other hand, as I rummaged through my stored items I felt a large sense of loss as if a good friend had died. The person who collected these files and read these books was me. I gave many years of my life to this endeavor hoping it would make a difference in others’ lives. Although it was time for that former self to be laid to rest, I was not ready for it emotionally. I mourned (and still do mourn) the passing of this person. My former job brought with it many fond memories. It offered me deep friendships and purpose. These, for the most part, have passed with the change of job.
I grieve the loss even as I embrace the newness. Am I alone in this? How has your life changed? Do you also sometimes grieve the loss of what was?
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