Badly Repaired Car | Olympus om-1, Kodak portra 400

One Picture/One Paragraph

On Sally Mann. And ambiguity. And what it is about pictures that we love. And how we take pictures that convey emotion. Sometimes there is a confluence of events that set my direction and my depth. The meaning of my work. A friend wrote to ask about how we make pictures that evoke feeling. In response, I thought about how making pictures of things that we are passionate about translates into pictures that pull the viewer in. My friend Kate sent along a link to a video, Sally Mann in “Place.” She knew I would love the video, and she was right. In Sally’s words, “If it doesn’t have ambiguity, don’t bother to take it.” For Sally, there has to be some degree of peculiarity or the subject and scene simply are not interesting to her, at least not interesting enough for a photograph worthy of her time and attention. Sally likens her aesthetic to that of a magpie, taking advantage of what is readily available—in the case of this video, she is photographing dog bones (the kind dogs love to chew, not those that compose the skeleton). I love that she talked about making art just for fun, too, without some overarching theme or profound statement. I pass this car, with the blue painter’s tape along the widows and seams, every week on my way to physical therapy. It’s not far from the medical complex, and without fail, it catches my attention. I wonder if the car is abandoned. Is the tape there to keep rain and snow out? Is it there to repair some damage? Hold things together? I do not know. I only know that this is the kind of picture that I care about. How things can be broken and still loved, purposeful, meaningful, worthy.

Mid-morning Snack

One Picture/One Paragraph

Entering our home is a joyful experience, especially if we have been away, for a few days or even a few hours. I love the way our home smells, the thoughtful arrangement of things of beauty and function, the soft light from windows without curtains, the little clues to who we are and how we live and love. It is a safe space filled with years of memories. On this day, we had been grocery shopping and stepping over the threshold I stopped to breathe deeply, in and out, soaking in the warmth of this familiar place. Left on the counter, a chunk of banana meant to go along on our errands, left behind, forgotten, a still life scene in the midst of a not-so-still life. That banana made me smile, sitting there resolutely, casting a shadow, demanding attention, before groceries could be put away. My husband laughed at my exclamation, “This looks like an art installation in a museum! I’m going to get my camera.” I refuse to frame my way of seeing the world as corny or clichéd. There is nothing more beautiful than sincerity.

I’m reading “Write For Your Life” by Anna Quindlen. I like her perspective on revisions and rewriting in which the true shape of the work emerges. Anna is honest in saying that she’d rather do anything than revise her work. But she knows . . . work that has been edited and then revised is most often better than work that has not.

I love this part.

“But the problem for students, particularly students who are used to doing well, is that having a paper handed back for another go-round implies not a desire for improvement but a verdict of failure. There is something wrong. The problem for the teacher is that that’s not necessarily what she is saying. Looking at an essay is different from grading an algebra test. Either the numbers are correct or they are not. With an essay it’s sometimes like seeing a photograph that is slightly out of focus. The picture is compelling if only it were sharper.” —Anna Quindlen

With revision, there is the promise of something better, maybe even something really good.

I feel this way about photography, too. It’s often difficult to accept constructive criticism about my work, but there is no question my work is better for the input. It’s challenging to live with a project, moving photographs in and out and around. Editing and processing, over and over again with small changes and tweaks. Setting work aside. Embracing a body of work—loving it and unloving it depending on where you are in the process.

It was the church at the Westmoreland County line that I stopped to photograph. It’s rare to find a simple church these days. One with the essentials of space and places to sit and listen and learn and nothing more. Crossing the highway, what really caught my eye were the crossed wires, pulling at odds, to create tension and stability.

These pictures are the story of my life. Small, unremarkable, read perhaps by only me, but I will not let judgment prevent me from telling. The process is invaluable.

Pops of bright color
belie winter gray
till the flowers come.

practicing with film, Olympus om-1 and Kodak portra 400 . . .