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Uniting

My good friend Charles sent me a note yesterday.
He had printed the card himself,
   placing appropriately one of his photographs
      on the outside.
His image, made a year ago,
   is quite reminiscent of one of mine,
      made last month.
We share an appreciation for meadow salsify.
He had taken the time to write his reflective thoughts
   in his careful handwriting,
      pure black on pure white.
In part, this is what he wrote:
"Your writing and your photography
   are a perfect match.
You find your way into poetry very much, I think,
   as you find your way into a photograph.
There lurks in a corner of my mind
   a passage in Robert Frost
      that seems a commentary on the way
         your work relates to your life.
Yes, here it is:

But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes are one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes."

I would like to think
   that I am living my way
      into my friend's kind words.
In the meantime I'll hold on to his thoughts
   as I tramp that field
      just south of here.

Proper Response

The proper response
to the world
is applause.
William Carlos Williams

I like that.
But more I believe it.
A fitting response?
Not a long-winded tribute.
Not a well-crafted sonnet.
Not a blog with words and photographs.
Not even a melodious psalm.
Applause.
Vigorous handclapping.
A standing ovation,
   one that might last
     the better part of our lifetime on earth.
At which time
   we would cease doing the clapping
      and then become the clapping.

Don't Think

Don't think,
look.
Ludwig Wittgenstein

I don't know the exact context
   in which the Austrian philosopher
      composed these words.
Odd that a man of thought
   would eschew thought.
And yet isn't that the mantra
   that brings into being every photograph
      that is contemplative in nature?
Isn't that the inner voice
   that is heard when such photographs
   are about to come into being?
Don't think—
   look.
Don't study—
   see.
Don't try to reason it all out—
   go with your God-given intuition.
Don't stay in your mind—
   let go of it
      and allow it to let go of you.
Dare to be in your eyes
   and see with your soul
      and live with whatever results.

Real

One morning last fall Bernie and I
   left our B&B on the coast of Maine,
      agreeing we would drive inland,
         not knowing where we would end up.
I was looking for color to photograph;
   Bernie was simply out to see.
Noontime found us in Union, Maine.
Union is home to 600 families,
   a tiny village green,
      and Hannibal's Cafe.
Naturally, we pulled over for lunch.
The atmosphere was clean, casual,
   well-worn, and friendly.
Both coffee and soup were great,
   warming us nicely.
We enjoyed listening to the talk
   that jumped from table to table—
      these folks had gathered there before.
Over one spoonful I spotted a T-shirt
   on the far wall.
"Hannibal's Cafe" it read, in outdated graphics,
   a steaming coffee cup to one side.
I knew right away I needed that shirt.
Nowadays I pull it over my head often.
Each time I remember with fondness
   that warm atmosphere,
      the day filled with color,
         our lovely stay in Camden, Maine.
That plain red-orange cotton shirt, already fading,
   brings me easy joy.
That's how most of my photography works.
I see, for example, the image
   of the wet leaves found on the bush
      along the edge of San Antonio's Riverwalk last month,
         and I smile inside.
I remember our walk in the overpowering rain,
   the dinner overlooking the water,
      the unusual morning sounds.
I believe one mark of contemplative photography
   is that it's about the real,
      wherever that appears—
   beside rivers,
      in fields just down the road,
         inside white-washed village cafes.
I believe it's less about what's grand
   and more about what's authentic.

Scratch

If you wish to make
an apple pie from scratch,
you must first create the universe.
Carl Sagan

Sagan's words are a wake-up call
   every time I come upon them.
When we photographers take complete responsibility
   for the images we make,
      we will do well to be reminded
         of Sagan's admonishing wisdom.
If we're going to call that image of a rose completely our own,
   then we'd best start with having designed
      the rose from the ground up.
Otherwise the true creation of that image
   is not ours alone, but shared.
In fact, a photographer's role in that creative act
   is terribly minor, bordering on insignificant.
I believe most photography says,
   "Hey, look what a person with a camera came upon and saw,"
      not, "Look what a person holding a camera
         made from scratch."
While the photographer may boast otherwise,
   the photograph knows.
So does the rose.

The Simple

It is always the simple
that produces the marvelous.
Amelia Barr

I wanted to photograph the simple
   without any distractions:
      an ordinary weed
         with nothing else in the frame,
            not even a color.
So my brother Mike built me
   a world-class backdrop,
      then I did some serious shopping
         for some weeds in a nearby field.
I set up to photograph outside,
   but when the wind refused to cooperate,
      I moved everything indoors.
I stationed a weed where I wanted it,
   turned on a light,
      and proceeded to photograph.
It felt weird photographing this way—
   I had never posed a weed before.
Having done this type of photography once,
   I don't imagine I'll do it a lot,
      but I imagine I will do it more.
In the finished image,
   I found the stark simplicity
      of this piece of God's creation
         rather intriguing.
It's so simple.
But look at its amazing complexity!
It's so ordinary.
But think about designing something
   as extraordinary as this!
I'd say it's nothing less than divine.

Contemplative Born

Children are born contemplatives.
Fr. Laurence Freeman

We were visiting relatives in San Angelo, Texas recently.
San Angelo, if you're not aware, is home to
   the International Waterlily Collection.
I've tried to photograph waterlilies many times
   but I have few images to show for it.
It's hard to get close to them,
   to get a good angle on them.
Then there's the problem that one's tripod
   doesn't work all that well
      standing on the surface of a pond.
So when I heard about the International Waterlily Collection,
   I made my way there.
It's lovely.
More than that, it's all a photographer could want.
Many varieties of lilies grow in well-maintained pools
   of various heights.
The small park is sunken below street level
   so it feels private and quiet.
Concrete paths meander throughout.
I photographed there two mornings,
   one afternoon, and one evening.
Calmly and quietly I photographed the calmness and quietness
   of my subjects, making over 200 images.
I studied each one as I downloaded it
   on my laptop after each session.
A representative one is below.

The morning of our last day in San Angelo,
   the local newspaper ran a large, full-color photograph
      on an opening page.
It was of a waterlily.
It had been taken the day before
   at the International Waterlily Collection.
The image was serene and restful,
   soft in color and tone,
      a delight to the eye and the soul.
It was more evocative than any image I had made
   in all my trips there.
I knew it the moment I saw it.
My eyes then fell to the caption below the image.
The photograph had been made by a nine-year-old girl.
Somehow it seemed only fitting.