Creative: Something Serious

I was going to say “I did it again,” but it’s actually that “I’m doing it again.” As I sit here writing this, I’m setting myself up for failure once again. I know I’m doing it, and I’m forging ahead like a kid holding the metal prongs of a power cord, inching toward the wall socket knowing there is a surprise coming. I’ve got “something serious” sloshing around in my gray matter. Well, serious to me. The outside world won’t care, and probably shouldn’t, but what else is new? Most of what I’ve done over my career, photographically, doesn’t matter. That might sound self-deprecating, but it’s also true. I love the description of mountain climbers as “Conquistadors of the useless.”

“What did you do once you reached the top?”

“I came down.”

“Oh.”

The old Rick Rubin quote about “The audience comes last” is a good one. I believe this as well. The only time I had an audience for my documentary work was during the early years of my career when I worked for a major newspaper. Somewhere near a million eyeballs were waiting for what I could wedge into those small columns. I will admit, knowing those folks were out there impacted how and why I did what I did. I felt a responsibility to those people to be the best photographer I could be. To get things right. To be as truthful as a screwed up twenty-something could be. Impartial? Never. Unbiased? Impossible. But I tried. When a kid lost both parents to a homicide/suicide the night before, and I showed up the following morning to make a portrait, he decided to ram my truck with his parents’ car. Did I want to see him rot in jail for the rest of his miserable life? Yep. Was I taking into account the gravity of what happened? No. Something serious, and yet I still couldn’t quite get it right.

Most of what I do has some semblance of seriousness to it. I’ve worked for Blurb for fifteen years. In the tech space, that might as well be 150 years. It’s uncommon for someone to stick around like I have, but I love what I do, and I love the brand, and I love the people. I’m inspired by my colleagues. Many are younger than I am, and they see the world differently. Their skills are different, too. I probably feel and sound slow. I talk too much. I still can’t figure out Microsoft Excel. But I’m still here because I’m high miles. I started this little voyage over thirty-five years ago, and those decades of pounding the pavement have credibility. This I take seriously. I’ve been reading people since I started my career. I’m happy on the sideline, but I do like to call my own plays.

So, once again, I dream up something serious knowing that the requirements are outside my ability.

A spot on the map. A place I know the fringes of, but have yet to stand in the center. I dream about what it looks like, smells like, and what it will feel like to be there. I daydream and previsualize the images I will make, and the experiences I will have, knowing my dreams and reality are mostly miles apart. I dream of weather, and moments, and new faces I will direct and consume. I dream of how this work will fall into place on the printed page. I dream of covers and typefaces and short but potent copy. I dream about what it will feel like to tuck this little packet under my arm and venture forth. I dream about how the people in those photographs will think when they open the book and see a version of themselves staring back. “Wow,” they will say.” “I can’t believe you did this, and I can’t believe I’m a part of it.” I will feel warm and powerful and like a real photographer. I will feel like I have finally arrived, but in a town with no name.

There is so much to do before I can embark on this desperate voyage. So much ground to cover. I’m in one place now, but then I go to another place for a month, and dissect that month with short trips to other places. Then home and then far, far away, and then home again. Then, maybe, I can embark. This serious thing will and does haunt me. I was silly enough to allow the thought to grow roots. What’s the difference between quitting and letting go? I’m not sure, but I can see both becoming good options. Just talking about it feels wrong. And yet here I am.

I like serious things. Always have. They say I was a nervous kid. I bit my fingernails. My parents threatened to hold me back a year. I got good grades and showed promise. Dad got thrown out of three universities, and mom paid someone to attend class for her. My brother was the first family member to get a degree. Our house had animal heads on the wall and smelled like gun oil and wet dogs. Promising was reserved for other people.

In my defense. I don’t regret. No time for it. And I openly admit failure. Heck, I celebrate failure when it’s too good not to share. (Did I ever mention the little accident in my pants at school? Epic story covering intestinal distress, and a bus ride of shame in plaid highwater pants. Deserves its own post.) I believe it’s healthy for us to always have something serious brewing. That doesn’t mean to take ourselves seriously, or try to make everyone else believe in the same seriousness of the serious thing. Nope, just a personal dialogue of “Hmm, do I hold the cure for cancer?” “What if I could solve world hunger?” “Could I convince the world that chocolate doughnuts are a new food group?” This morning was cool and low humidity. The wind is up, and a northern cardinal is booming from the depths of the green. I get my good sweat over with, and I pace around the pool listening to things that might spark something in me. Today will be a good day. Hope you are having one too.