A few notes regarding film photography … for those who may be interested.
All of these photographs were taken with my Olympus om-1, 35mm film camera. Some with a 50mm lens and a few with a 135mm lens. The camera and lenses were all purchased at a local thrift shop (total cost $140). I was practicing using an external light meter (Sekonic L308X-U). It took me a few trials to understand the difference between incident and reflected light, but I think I’ve got it now. All of the photos were taken with Kodak Portra 400 film. I mention all of these details because I am amazed at how the characteristic tones of a specific film can bring a collection of images together—almost effortlessly. I also find that using film influences the composition of my images. Film’s ability to handle such a wide dynamic range really broadens my way of seeing. For so long, I have limited my photography to what I could take or make successfully. Often ruling out a photo before even trying because I was so sure it wouldn’t “look good.” I am much more willing to take risks with film. I know this might sound odd, given that film photography can become expensive very quickly. But for me, it has been a worthwhile trade-off. Not being able to see the picture immediately on an LCD screen has created the space I needed to loosen my perfectionist tendencies. I can’t delete the picture on the fly. I can’t make a correction and shoot again. Of course, I can bracket an exposure or try a different perspective or lens, but it’s all a gamble. Or maybe an educated guess. Regardless, this work feels really good.
Dear Reader,
I wonder how to describe in an unguarded, expressive way my process of creating photographs. How do I start a conversation about my work? Can I tell you a beautiful story about why I am making this work? When I am in the process of taking photographs, I rely almost exclusively on intuition, shooting from the heart. It is only after the picture is taken, when I step back and let the image wash over me, that I begin to see its meaning.
In these two photographs, pulled together because both have branches of one kind or another, the stories are just below the surface. I remember my grandmother’s hands carefully picking dried-on-the-vine raisins. She used the raisins to make something she called a Poor Man’s pound cake. I haven’t thought about that cake in years, but when I saw the grape stems, I immediately thought of her and that delicious cake. She served the cake to my grandfather and his two buddies, Mr. Butler and Jimmy Gorman, who stopped by for coffee and conversation most every morning. The second picture, taken at George Washington’s Birthplace in Westmoreland County, is connected by memories of my grandparents, too. My grandfather helped plant trees lining the road to the river. Every single time we visited this beach, my grandmother proudly re-told the story of my grandfather’s contribution to this beautiful place.
While these stories are unique to my growing up, they speak to the importance of those foundational years for children. Even though they are presented here as a simple diptych, they are a part of a larger body of work that I am building that deals with the healing and hope for those who grew up with emotional trauma. Those who reach adulthood with all of the external markers of success and yet feel their foundation crumbling. I didn’t realize this, didn’t set out to address this theme, but writing here . . . I can see that this is true.
One Picture/One Paragraph
I love looking at this habit tracker as I walk by my desk. It is a reminder of who I used to be and how very far I have come. There was a time when I made long lists of the ways I should improve. Ways to eat healthier, exercise more, sleep better, drink more water, and on and on. But things are different now. I don’t know if it’s my inner rebel showing her sassy self or if I have simply recognized the tragedy of a life lived with so many expectations and goals. But either way, the notepad of weekly chores with its little circles sits unchecked. This does not feel like failure. It feels like compassion. Life is often filled with home-cooked meals and long walks and creative activities and joyful movement and fulfilling relationships, all in their own time and space. There are boring, ordinary days. Days of rest to balance those of activity. Days to read all day or watch funny television shows. Days that I do not feel well. Days to celebrate. And days of sorrow over what may come. Tears of joy over every little thing. The days of the week are marked by humanity and wholeness.
My mother had a favorite saying. “In another life, I could have been . . .” She usually filled in the blank by saying she could have been a singer. Truthfully, she wasn’t a great singer but she put her whole heart into singing and she was lit from within whenever there was music. Of course, she was right in many ways. Singing was not a career that ever would have been available to her. She needed to earn money and working in the family restaurant business wasn’t just an offer, it was expected. No, really it was demanded. And so she spent her life cooking and serving food. It was a good life, but I always sensed that she felt she might have missed out on something. I get it. When I was student there were only a few options presented for work, specifically women’s work. No one ever opened a door to creative work or an artful life. I am ever grateful that I did not have to wait for “another life” to discover creative expression—photography and poetry and writing. And all of the many ways to behold life.