Photography for me is kind of like the win-lose of athletics: I can make satisfying images and be happy with my performance, or I can suck. I take cameras and lenses out into the world but if I don’t take my A Game, I’ll learn (again) the humbling lesson of how easy it is to be mediocre.
Last weekend we traveled through the high mountains of Washington and into one of our favorite valleys. From our base camp in the sunny, spring-like valley, we could spend days hiking or mountain-biking or just kicking-back, reading. There was also wonderfully easy access (by car) to a high mountain pass where I ventured --as a shivering photographic pilgrim-- two mornings for sunrise and two evenings for sunsets.
Leah asked me: "Why do you keep going up there again and again?" I replied: "I’m looking for the surprises."
We photographers must rank second only to novelists in terms of the weirdness of our craft. A number of very famous writers have admitted that this is how they work: They sequester themselves in a small, plain room, mentally close their eyes, then write what they imagine to be going on outside. Photographers? Well my suspicion is we’re best off if we keep a bat in our hands and fidget around on the bench, trying to stay loose. When the manager yells “Photog!” we stride to the plate expecting a pitch high and inside but knowing that the better image will probably be found on the outside corner, in the shadows.
