Self-Reliant Photography
Cold and dark. Silent. No wind. No anything because this is the middle of the blackness of space. Nothingness so vast. Time has no meaning.
But, improbably, impossibly, things happen. Existence jostles with nonexistence, and things happen and happen out of control and faster and harder and hotter. Heat so hot very existence becomes an explosion. Purity. Primal energy is released in violence and in physics. Photons by the billions and billions are ripped from their bonds and loosed into the vastness of space. Straight and true they speed across vast distances, defining space and time through their very existence.
But, before they even get started, after going only ninety three million miles, some of these photons run into a snag. One by one by one, these photons start getting picked off by molecules of air, ice, water vapor — an atmosphere.
From the trillions of packets of energy that were fused in the fires of creation, only a statistically insignificant sliver of these photons miraculously survive, and so they now take on a collective name: Sunlight.
Down from the sky, dodging through the curvature of the stratosphere, tinted by pollution and diffraction, this sunlight filters down, down, down. Packets of photons bound together as rays of light fall.
Faster than a blink of an eye, the rays narrowly miss a cloud, skirt a tree, sideswipe the concrete of an office building, and hits the chrome headlight case on a lovingly restored nineteen-fifty-one Ford pickup in the parking lot of a BART station outside of Oakland. The chrome has a high albedo — a measure of reflectivity — so the rays of light are not done. After millions of miles, there are still three yards left to go. The rays hit a disc of optical glass, passing through almost untouched. Almost, but their path is adjusted in a very precise way, once, twice. A third and forth time. Four glass elements of a Tessar lens gather the rays and direct them in an orderly manner towards the end, but in a twist of fate, most of these crucial rays don’t even make it the final seventy-five millimeters. Most of them impact the leaves of a shutter and become important in the end only for their absence. The leaf shutter disappears for a fraction of a second and a handful of light rays, from millions of miles away make it through to a divine and glorious chamber of otherwise pure darkness not unlike the space where they were born.
At last, a chosen ray of light comes to its final resting place: A thin bed of pristine silver. But, the energy from that distant explosion does not go silently. The improbable ray agitates that silver on the emulsion just barely enough, minutely, practically imperceptible but undeniably enough to permanently transform that thinnest of sheets. All life is change, and so these changes are recorded on photographic film. These rays of light align and record an image, a truth, giving meaning to all time and space.
I am here. I am a photographer. I capture light that will never be duplicated even in an infinite universe.
It’s a grey Thursday afternoon. I sit at my computer and check the stats. The latest photos I’ve posted on the internet have gotten no love. No comments, mo likes, no faves. I’ve used all my social marketing tricks to draw attention to them, but in my heart I know that my photos aren’t relevant to most people out there. The realization is sobering and sometimes depressing. Like most people, I crave recognition for my efforts. I want to know that I’m affecting the world. I want reinforcement, because it feels good to be noticed. I know, because I’ve had it. I’ve gotten my million views, I’ve been on the front page. I’ve been noticed and had my moments of fame. But, they’ve been fleeting. And, has it changed me? Has it made life easier? Has it sent any more brilliant light coming down from the sun? The sun laughs at all this.
I take pictures to testify of Emerson’s “particular ray.” My vision is particular indeed. It is imperfect, and it is evolving. WIth every click of the shutter, I learn something. With every roll of film I develop, there are lessons, surprises, secrets, and memories. With every jpeg, there is the record of explosion and creation from the depths of darkness. Yes, fame can feel nice, but it doesn’t sustain. It flickers like all life flickers. Even if no one else sees my work from now until the end of time, I testify. If those I respect ignore or forget me, I testify! Because for me, this activity is bigger than views or retweets. And, I keep that and mind and I keep shooting. For me.
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Tags:emerson, essay, photography, testify
This entry was posted on Sunday, January 1st, 2012 at 5:21 pm
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I’ve reread this a few times in the last couple of days. Thanks for this. I don’t have a lot of clarity as to why I keep clicking right now. So I don’t have a lot to add in the way of discussion. But I wanted to let you know that I do appreciate your sharing.
Bill, thank you for the comment. I know you get it and I respect you tremendously. Have a good 2012!
I’m very proud of you. Good writing.