Creative: Making the Doughnuts

Why am I doing this? It’s fun. That’s about it. Venture out, make some pictures, post them up, blog it out, and move on while secretly compiling a massive book in the background. I’ve been pondering the idea of something in print, something real. Something that would make me intensely happy. Something unexpected, but the time and focus required are beyond me, at least for now. I do have a cover mockup, however. I do have a title. I do have a general design idea.

Someone asked if I write the same thing here as I do in my journal.

The answer is yes and no, or sometimes, or it depends, or I don’t have a plan. I just do. And just doing describes most of my life. I might have a general idea of something, but most of the time I just do what feels right at the moment. That might mean writing longhand in the journal, then transcribing here, or it might mean creating two different stories for two different landing zones. Sometimes, at least with the journal, I want to force myself to get outside of “normal” writing. I use the journal as a way to tap into my imagination.

I just got off a two and a half hour phone call regarding a scouting trip to Patagonia for a potential future workshop. I haven’t had a call quite like this in a long, long time, and the idea of it has me salivating. (I also got emails from folks in Hong Kong and Croatia, which I am hoping lead to bigger and better things.) The images you see here are a taste of what it feels like to be in the field. These images were made in a very short amount of time. Was this a dedicated photography day? No, we had numerous places to visit, things to do, and we weren’t pushing, just looking. A soft sell, if you will. But these images represent little victories, and when you experience a little victory, your body and mind begin to crave bigger victories.

The simple image of the gull with a crab is just that: a simple image, but the story played out over a period of five minutes. Being there to watch the life and death struggle as the salt spray drifted across my lens, and the rain fell on my back and shoulders, was what counted. This is why I became a photographer. To be out there, in it, and to have life on me. The screen is not enough.

I often think about what it would be like to NOT have to photograph or write or study. Just exist from place to place without an agenda. No need for nada. I think this works for most people, but not for me. Never has, and I’m imagining it never will, because I’m not doing this for any reason other than I love it, so it’s not like there is a reward waiting for me. A lifer, I guess. It might actually be getting worse. The drive, that is. After 4 PM, all I can think about is what the light is going to look like at 7 PM.

There are some moments of some days that require speaking with the stranger next to you. You are both there watching the color and light, but it’s so dramatic that you need to tell someone else, and they, in turn, need to tell you, even though you are both looking at the same thing. You say things like “Can you believe this?” or “This is incredible,” as if that wasn’t a given. And yet we still do it. I can’t remember her name, but she was there, and so was I. And we spoke. And then we spoke again. And that led to her family history, and a story about her children and video games and birds, and prior life experiences. Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why I do photography.

And there was another guy. Speaking to me from his truck, asking about photography and if we were professionals. He exited his truck and tried to show me images on his phone, but he was old and couldn’t get his phone to work. His hands were shaking, so that app icon kept moving. He talked to himself. “I’m not good at this,” he said. “Oh no, darn, let me try again, oh no.” Home button, app miss, home button, app miss. I found myself reaching for his phone, knowing I was looking at a future version of me. Damnit, buddy, I’m rooting for you, but if you miss that icon one more time, I’m out of here. He shrugged, looked embarrassed, and walked back to his truck. F&^%^%$ technology. I felt bad for him, but he was smiling, and so was I.