Most of the time, I feel compelled to make pictures. Maybe even, driven to make them. I don’t assign any particular meaning to my photographs. I don’t think much at all about how to take them in any technical sense. I pretty much just shoot to capture the way the scene makes me feel. I love the act of framing the picture within the viewfinder. The whole process feels organic and natural to me.
And truthfully, I can’t get enough. On evenings like this, as I study the pictures of the day, all I can think is how much I love my work. For so long my taste was far superior to the pictures I could actually make. Now every picture seems right . . . for me. This is not to say that every picture is successful in all ways or that there is no room for growth and improvement, but I have a secure sense that I am on the right path. I don’t need to be right to get it right.
These pictures, though quiet and simple, light a fire in me. I find rest in spaces like these and a kind of openness that permits goodness to flourish. In these spaces there are whispering conversations among lovers, next to the young mother enjoying an afternoon tea while her baby sleeps soundly in the stroller, alongside the older gentleman reading his novel, and the photographer painting with light as the shutter closes silently. The feeling is one of immersion . . . and restraint.
What it might mean . . . there are some beautiful moments when mindfulness is effortless and coming to my senses is as natural as breathing.