“Now, do you take nice pictures of people or just flowers like your father?”
This question came from my Grandmother when I found myself bitten by the photo bug in my early 30’s. To her chagrin, I was forced to confess that I was guilty of the same passions that led my father to spend hours in the early morning examining dew-laden blossoms from every angle, sometimes shooting an entire roll on a single flower. I knew better than to tell her that glistening spider webs could produce fits of ecstasy in me and that an unusual mushroom would have me laying belly down in the mud for closer inspection before I had time to consider my clothing.
Twenty years later, I’m no better. In fact, I may be a good deal worse.
My camera has led me on paths into the natural world that I never expected to love so deeply. Of course, I have taken my fair share of butterfly photos and have celebrated the photogenic qualities of lotus and fern. I’ve captured sunsets and rainbows and awe-inspiring storms on Lake Michigan. Who could resist falling in love surrounded by those wonders?
I’ve even been seduced into the world of manmade objects…the romance and mystery of rustic Spanish architecture. The beautiful patinas of old iron and wood. The delight and whimsy to be found in roadside antique shops. And who can resist a pair of nattily dressed sock monkeys, I ask you?
What I had not expected was to fall in love with spiders. And I never expected that I would end up with an impressive catalogue of dead animal shots. But if you have ever seen a 10-point buck skeleton dusted with new snow, then I know you’ll understand. Of course, you probably haven’t seen that, so I did capture the moment for you, just in case.
What I have come to appreciate by following my camera, is that I am forever falling in love. With life. With death. With the mystery of the entire unfolding of our existence and how the dance of decay and rebirth is always swirling around us, beckoning us to pay attention.
When you do that…when you heed the call and pay attention, it erases the distance between you and life. It also erases the distance between you and death. That may sound horrific to some but it is actually quite beautiful, living in that awareness of our temporary nature. You can’t help but be moved to gratitude and appreciation of the miraculous moments when life unfolds before you when you understand how fragile it all is.
My camera taught me to approach what I have feared. To seek understanding over distance. Kinship over dissension. The photograph you take while in that state of understanding is not of an object on the other side of your lens. What you are actually capturing is your relationship in that moment, your relationship with that thing you are seeking to understand and your relationship with yourself as you seek that intimacy.
In the end, every image, at its most basic level, is a self-portrait. Every image that touches you, a mirror.
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