Adventure: What You Do After

I’ve never been motivated by what comes after. You know, the marketing, the sales, the distribution. I’ve always been juiced by the juice of being in the field. The experience of making the images. That’s the crux pitch. Several days ago, I shot a forty-five-minute film, edited, color-graded, uploaded, captioned, and then promptly deleted the entire thing. Once I took a minute to reflect on what the film covered, I thought, “Why bother?” There is no endgame for me with this stuff. I want nothing from you, other than for you to realize whatever goal you may be after. This ideology doesn’t play well in our modern world, where much of what we see is performance art disguised as work.

When asked if I’m a birder, I always say, “No, not really.” “I’m just paying attention for the first time.” What I love about paying attention is that it immediately makes apparent how much I’ve learned to ignore, pass by, or fail to notice. And for those of you dismissing the birder scene as an odd little subculture filled with people in bad clothing, well, you would be correct, but dismiss this group at your own peril. The most educated, driven subculture I’ve ever met, and it’s not even close. I love birding because it’s endless. Even if I were to quit my job and go on a full-time quest to see them all, I’d never make it. I love that Colombia has a national birding plan. I love that birding is a 275 billion dollar industry, and 97 million of my fellow Americans alone are wearing the birding patch.

The little bird you see above might not seem like much. You’ve probably seen a variant of this bird so many times you lost count, or perhaps you never saw them in the first place. The innocuous little brown bird. When I walked up on this scene, there were two photographers crouched down near the edge of the water. In front of us were hawks, cranes, geese, endless waterfowl, and more, but these two guys were bent on something twittering around in the brush. That’s what I love about this. The little brown bird isn’t just a little brown bird.

Coming home, I download, archive, and have a quick look at the take, but my mind has already moved on. I don’t keep a list, I don’t track and post, and I don’t have any plans other than to create the best archive possible. The birds are going away. Three billion lost in North America alone. Three BILLION, with a “B.” All of us are on a clock. Most won’t care. Can’t be bothered. Not much anyone can do about this. My old pal Joe said to me once about my documentary photography, “The question to ask yourself,” he said. “How do you get anyone to care?” Perhaps I’m a fatalist.

This isn’t close to the best crane photo I have, but it doesn’t matter to me. I remember what was going on around me when I made this image, and that far outweighs the standalone impact of this frame, although there is something simple about this photograph, something profound about watching a 2.5 million-year-old creature navigate our world. It’s like the old saying, “You had to be there.” So, what’s next for me? More of the same. Get out, see, record. Take note, as what you see today might never burn your retinas ever again.