Listening to the voice that calls, “Come back. I’m not through with you yet.”

Solitary in Fog II

Amble Towards Epiphany – copyright 2012 — Paul Vreeland

“I know something is there. I just haven’t found it yet,” he explained. I was watching a video of a talk given by Scott Kelby at a photographer’s conference hosted by Google+.  Kelby, the author of several how-to books, and host of www.kelbytraining.com, is a well-known name in the world of digital photography. The title of his talk is “Crush the Composition” and I recommend it to anyone who is interested in the art. Crush_Composition

Click here to watch the hour-long “Crush the Composition” Youtube video

Scott was talking about “working the scene”. “Try this, try that. Create a shot list. Shoot wide, shoot tight. If something makes you stop, there is something there. Your job as a photographer is to find it.” He was offering another stop-and-think-about-what-you’re-doing slow movement dictum. “It’s our nature to want to go on to the next thing—shoot the next shot. Once you’ve done a lot of shooting, stop, sit down, look at the back of your camera and start going through your shoots. Make sure you’ve shot it every way possible.”

Every morning on the way to work, I pass Andrew’s Pond and Wright’s Bridge. The transformation wrought by the change of season on the foliage overhanging the water was remarkable this year. For several mornings I drove by, glancing over my shoulder at the crimsons and oranges bowing towards the dark water. Each time I drove by I knew the foliage would diminish both in intensity and in mass. I knew the lighting would change. I knew that if I continued my habit of getting to my desk as quickly as possible and diving into my comfortable routine, I would miss the shot, whatever that shot was. I stopped and I shot. On three consecutive mornings I stopped and I shot. Are you expecting to see the results? Keep reading.

Sometime during the past year, or maybe two, Alanna and I watched a film set in the middle east. A foreign movie with English subtitles, the plot had something to do with a two men making a road journey across a hot hard-scrabble and treeless terrain. I’m sorry, I can’t remember the reason for the journey, or the title of the film, but what I do remember is one scene in which the driver of the dusty white automobile, who happens to be a photographer, is taken by the beauty of the landscape. There is something that he sees that makes him stop. Scott Kelby would have told him, “There is something here. Your job is take your camera and find it.” We watch as the driver looks out the car window assessing the view, knowing that he will never return to this locale. His partner senses that the photographer’s talent has been tempted and he asks, “ Do you want to take a picture?” It is a moment of decision—a moment with little in the way of dialogue, and much in the depiction of self-betrayal. The photographer doesn’t get out of the car. He doesn’t take up his camera, and he doesn’t honour what his eyes have been blessed to see. He puts the car in gear and drives on. (If you know the name of the film is, please leave a comment.)

Perhaps the image of the landscape will haunt him for some time. If he retains the image, even if it is confined to his imagination, isn’t that enough, you ask. At least he has that.

Would it have been enough for Michaelangelo to “know” that his David(1501—1504) was confined to a giant block of Carrara marble—a block that had first been worked on by Agostino di Duccio and later by Antonio Rossellino, and then neglected for twenty-five years? Michaelangelo is reputed to have said, “Every block of stone has a statue inside it, and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.” – a statement that echoes Kelby’s suggestion that when he is attracted to a scene, “I know something is there. I just haven’t found it yet.”

The character in the Middle-Eastern road trip film is not a great photographer. He wasn’t as well-know a talent as Michaelangelo was a Renaissance master. But I don’t believe that this matters. The question is this: what of the writer who doesn’t apply his pen? What of the photographer who doesn’t use his camera? While we and millions of others have benefitted from Michaelangelo’s talent, isn’t it also true that Michaelangelo—something of what he discovered about himself as an artist, and as a human–was imprisoned in the stone until he brought forth his David. Maybe, for a writer, it’s not so much about the event of publication, as it is creative process of discovering who it is that is writing, who it is that is self, mirroring glimpses of the divine. Maybe, for the photographer . . .

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