The Dreamer's Dream

I envy those who are able to actively and easily leave reality. I wish I had the ability to jump on a flying carpet and go see New York. I wish I had the capacity to develop worlds within my mind. I would love to be able to see things that no one else can see, and to see them clearly. I know very few people with this talent personally, and even fewer who have complete control over their talent. It seems to me that if we could all slay dragons in algebra class, tour Rome while doing yard work, or even take a nap on a cloud when, in actuality, it's naught but a couch, life, and all its more depressing components, would become much more bearable and possibly even enjoyable.

In my house, in order to get to the bathroom, I must walk through my little sister's room. When I open the door I see a bed, a desk, a mirror, a closet, and countless piles of strange trinkets she has collected over the years. I see nothing more. I obviously make this trip quite often and I see the same scene every time I enter her room. However, I am convinced, this is not what she sees. The above picture is not of my sister nor is it of her bedroom, but the idea is very much present. As my dear friend walked through the door of my garage, I had a quickly passing, strangely sensational idea. I called her back and told her to walk through the door once again. She did so and, in mid-step, I pressed that little silver button that, when I heard the open and close of my shutter, knew that only half on my image was captured. Later on, I captured a beautiful blue sky painted with large, billowy clouds. I then put them together into one, single image. I'm not entirely sure at what Emily sees, but this is what I see.

To Emily, I'm jealous of your creative mind:


I'm jealous of the dreamer's dream,
Of sights and sounds extreme.
I envy the ability
To leave reality.

I stare at her, her dancing there,
Completely unaware;
Perfect kind of aberration:
Mindful vindication.

She's met them all, all in her brain,
Save dragons not quite slain.
I think she's now contently smug
On swiftly flying rug.

She opens doors to worlds unknown
And calls the clouds her own.
I'm jealous of the dreamer's dream,
Of things not often seen.

Opinionated Artists

A friend of mine once gave me a little book full of quotes and sayings by some of the wisest and most intuitive men and women to ever walk the planet. Her explanation for the gift was this: "Many have said what needs to be said much more gracefully and memorably than I could ever hope to be. Here are my thoughts through the mouths of others." I have kept that little quote book going and very much enjoy adding the profound to its pages. It is an extremely heavy little book. The above picture needs to be explained to you, but I have found that others have already said what I want to say much better than I could ever hope to put. I am far from the best photographer and even farther from being the most profound. I stand meekly in great shadows. However, with the help of the casters of these great shadows, I hope to explain to you the photograph.

Ansel Adams is one of the greatest names in photography and, in my mind, is one of the wisest in the medium. Photography is not merely the pressing of a button. Photography extends far past the camera into the mind of the photographer. Adams puts it best, "When I'm ready to make a photograph, I think I quite obviously see in my minds eye something that is not literally there in the true meaning of the word. I'm interested in something which is built up from within, rather than just extracted from without." A photograph is much more than the gathering of light in the fibers of a paper or the printing of pixels on a piece; a photograph is the capture of an idea, a passion, an emotion, or a theme. This, combined with the assumed objectivity of a photograph leads Adams to his next point, "Not everybody trusts paintings but people believe photographs." A work of art can be twisted, warped, created, and pressured to be something outside of reality much easier than a photograph could ever be. Photography is art, but it is also a window to reality that people allow themselves the capacity to believe. Ferdinando Scianno said "A photograph is not created by a photographer. What they do is just to open a little window and capture it. The world then writes itself on the film. The act of the photographer is closer to reading than it is to writing. They are the readers of the world." A photograph has the ability to capture all that it sees. Adams says "We must remember that a photograph can hold just as much as we put into it, and no one has ever approached the full possibilities of the medium."

Possibly my favorite quote in regard to photography is from Francis Bacon, "Jesus would have been one of the best photographers that ever existed. He was always looking at the beauty of people's souls. In fact Jesus was constantly making pictures of God in people's life by looking at their souls and exposing them to His light."

In this madness and flurry of opinion, I've extracted nothing but contradictory opinions from different photographers and their personal feelings on the photograph. What is a photograph? Is it what the photographer intends it to be or what the viewer makes of it? Could it be both?

To be honest, as I sat in my backyard looking at a small, rusted birdbath, not many thoughts crossed my mind. To be as accurate as possible, what crossed my mind was most probably exactly this, "Well, that's pretty." And, drawn by beauty and nothing more, I lifted my old Nikon FA to my eye, set the exposure, and, when I pressed that little silver button, let the world write itself onto my film.

"A true photograph need not be explained, nor can it be contained in words." -Ansel Adams

A Moment

I find it thought provoking in the least to consider a moment in time for a single individual. There are six and one half billion people on this planet and there is a unique and distinctive moment for each and every second they are alive. A photograph, especially of a person, is the capturing of just one moment in a time-line so profound that only God could possibly comprehend it. These moments added together create history, each moment is necessary and as important as the one prior and the one following. Every moment to every person is important and every moment should be lived as if it were the last. This saying is no longer cliche. This idea is valid and to the point.

As i sat in a small coffee shop drinking a delicious Italian soda, I looked across the room and saw this man sitting, writing, and pondering something far more complex than I was. He had no idea that his presence in the room brought these thoughts to my mind. He will never know the affect his being there had on me in that single moment. He may never see his picture. He may forget that day in the coffee shop altogether, but I will not. This is why we must live to the best of our ability in each moment because we never know when our actions or even simple presence will affect another. Each moment has the potential to change the world or to change someone's world. We are generators of moments. We are producers of change. We are keepers of progression.

The Huge, Tiny City

Humans were made in the image of God, and this is obvious. Humankind is powerful, wise, and strong. We have sent man to the moon; we have bridged great rivers; we have touched the sky with our skyscrapers. We have constructed great cities that tower over our heads and are known world wide. We have created light. We have looked into the vast reaches of space and into the darkest depths of the human body. We are great. We are powerful. We are special.

Or are we? Yes, we are made in the image of God, but are our accomplishments so great? Are our cities so extravagant? Are we really that powerful? Are we actually invincible? Because of our pride and our assurance in our own ability, we have led ourselves to believe that we are powerful enough to tame the Earth and to rule over it like gods. Who are we to even think such a thought?

I am not invincible. I am not all-powerful. I am really, actually not. No one is. A man will stand on the top of the tallest building in LA and declare himself and humanity important because we have defied gravity and kissed the very sky. But, as he stands there in his own, fake glory, I take a picture of the entire city from a true masterpiece of design, a mountain. I stand on the lower foothills of a great mountain that passes the very clouds, and I see the great city in the distance. I do not see the important man. I see no one at all. I remembered what Neil Armstrong said after returning from his mission to the moon, "It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small." I put up my thumb and I blotted out all of LA, every man and woman frantically going about life in that huge, great city. We are not great. We are not all-powerful. We are, in the grand scheme of things, quite simply nothing. Yet the Creator of this vast Universe made Himself into a nothing and gave his life so that we might live. I lifted my digital Nikon D70, set the exposure, tried to focus on the pinprick of a city, and, when I pushed the little silver button, hoped that Los Angeles did not have too much trouble climbing into my lens.

Memories

On a trip to the dump, I was met with this simple image of an old couch that had seen its day and was now discarded so its previous owner could purchase a new and better looking piece of furniture. It gave me a strange feeling inside, knowing that the couch had been used and then thrown out when it was no longer wanted. I felt stupid for thinking such a ridiculous thought because it would be childish to think that the couch cared one way or the other. The scene surrounding the dejected couch may have been the culprit for my internal angst; the dump was a graveyard of unwanted items that had at one point been useful or wanted by someone. Themes of betrayal and pain danced in my mind as I tried to imagine the vast amount of memories that couch held, from Christmases to Sunday football games.

My dad called me back to the truck to help him unload a mass of nail infested walling from a project in our house. I slipped on my worn, leather gloves and got to work unloading the abusive cargo. However, the ideas the forgotten couch had evoked inside of me still stirred and whirled around within my ever-brooding mind. I let my thoughts drift back to imagining all the memories that the couch could have possibly seen in its day. I was rudely brought back to reality with a previously unseen nail that set itself into my arm as if it had belonged there all along. My dad laughed at my mistake and told me not to get his gloves bloody. I chuckled at this but went back to my couch thoughts. We finished up with the unloading and I slipped off my gloves and set them in the car. My dad hopped in the drivers seat and turned on the ignition. I looked back at the couch and realized that I could not just forget about such a special piece of trash. I jumped out of the car with my digital Nikon D70 and, when I pressed that little silver button, felt my camera take on the heavy burden of years of memory and even a little wisdom. With the sound of the shutter, I knew the couch would at least not be forgotten in a graveyard of once-loved memory holders. I turned around and saw my dad driving slowly away, making me run after him. I knew he was laughing to himself.

A Profound Cliché

The term cliché is a phrase, expression, or idea that has been overused to the point of losing its intended force or novelty, especially when at some time it was considered distinctively forceful or novel. It is generally used in a negative context, and I use it quite negatively when referring to the above subject. When I look through my viewfinder, I search for an image that is original, or at least original to me. I admit, at times I am tempted to photograph a sunset, a baby, an autumn leaf floating down a stream, a white picket fence, a rose, or a cornucopia of others. This candle, my candle, is cliché. The image has been done time and time again, and plenty of eyes have rolled quite dramatically over the meeting of this image. This is my disclaimer and acknowledgment of my cliché.

In my mind, there are four parts to the entity of the photograph: the subject in reality, the image captured, the intended meaning of the image, and the meaning the viewer takes for him or herself. The photographer can completely control only two of these, as reality cannot be completey controled by the photographer and the viewer's perception is entirely subjective to themself. I will explain the first three for my candle, and I will leave the last up to you.

It was almost Christmas and it was raining incredibly hard outside. If one closed their eyes and imagined an occasional bark or meow, the classic saying would be quite believeable. The power had gone out and the house was littered with small candles, flickering only when someone disturbed the still air. I sat on the couch with my Nikon in my lap, angry that I had no light to shoot the Christmas themed image for class. The temptation to accidently set a candle under the Christmas tree was strong, but not strong enough to cover up the knowledge of inevitable punishment. I sat and wished the candle would burn just a little brighter so my third eye could see the small nativity scene on the coffee table. I set my camera next to the nativity scene, with the lens facing the candle. Out of boredom, not the prospect of an original photograph, I knelt, focused on the wavering flame and opened my shutter for a brief moment by pressing that little silver button.

The darkness around the flame was opressive, and it seemed that the darkness itself had the ability to extinguish the flame. I stood up and retrieved two more candles from the mantle and set them next to the first on the coffee table. The darkness surrounding immedietly backed off a few inches. I was reminded of a hymn in that moment that spoke of running into the darkness with your candle, and of joining with others to shine brighter than before. I walked around the house and gathered all the candles I could find and set them on the coffee table. The darkness reluctantly stepped further and further back from the amassing light. It became clear to me then that the idea of community is entirely accurate. In scripture, the body of Christ is referred to as a city on a hill or an uncovered lamp, the only light in a dark world.

The image above may look like a clichéd photograph of something done time and time again, but the truth is, this candle is not really a candle at all. In reality, this wax cyllinder carrying a small flame may be called a candle, but in my photograph it is not. This is a self portrait. The candle is me, alone and oppressed by the dark, but soon to stand with a multitude of other in a marvelous light.

These Swift Waters

Time is a concept that we rarely consider or even question. Time just is to us. We curse time, thank time, and stare directly into its smirking face constantly throughout the day. Rarely do we stop to consider time's effect on our day and ultimately our lives. The passage of time is not questioned and our inability to complete a task in a timely fashion would obviously mean we had worked too slow, not time moved too fast. But when was the second hand crowned king? When did we begin to submit to the calender? We race the clock, we conform to schedules, we are awakened by the alarm, not the sun, and we have no power to fight this force. Those who ignore the existence of time are tread under foot, but those who live their lives by the command of the clock suffer the greatest stress. Where is a happy medium? Where is there a cure for our mindless and frantic obedience to the time-piece? We are willing slaves to a master we cannot even see, a master who may or may not intend good for us.

The power of time is like a swift, deep river; we are caught in its tight hold and, because we have become such good swimmers, let ourselves be swept away. Some drown, most reach the end tired and beaten, and there are those select few who saw a way out and took it. Life is a river and it will not wait for those who are not willing to ride. There are some, though, who have a higher faith, a stronger conviction, and a broader outlook on this life. These few have seen the shore and have learned to walk. These few allowed life to pass them by because they knew that life would only lead to death. These few know that they would see eternal life upon the rock they now traversed. I am one of these. My convictions lie in a power greater than time, greater than the swinging pendulum. So I walk, where the air is plentiful and my head is kept above the rapids.

I did not see people walking or swimming along this small river in the back roads of Franklin Tennessee, but the idea was very much there. I ran back to the car, pulled out my film Nikon FA, checked all that needed to be checked, and allowed the river to flow right on through my lens when I pressed the little silver button and heard the familiar sound of the shutter.

The Silent Servant

I can think of very few things given such an honor as to hold or carry the Creator's most prized work of art, Man. A seat can be simple or overly ornate, but the purpose remains constant: to hold what is most dear to the God of the Universe. We abuse, ignore, and disregard these servants, and we never consider them as anything more than a simple piece of furniture or decoration. The church pew, the kitchen chair, the instructor's stool, and the worn park bench are familiar images to all, but who has truly thanked this silent helper? Who has taken a second out of their day to be thankful for that which has carried us from infancy to old age?

Yes, the seat is an inanimate object that has no will of its own, but it symbolizes something much greater than itself. The chair, in a symbolic sense, has submitted itself to bearing the weight of human kind. The chair does not choose who it will allow to sit but welcomes all to set down their load upon its strong legs. Now, of course, there are those who believe themselves to be strong enough to stand through life and endure all hardships without aid. Maybe they are right, but from what I have seen, those who ignore the offer of rest and peace from the chair will only walk to fall.

Christ submitted Himself to our sin and our weight, to bear it all without question. He is my support, and I gladly sit.

A simplified version of this thought seemed to flash through my mind as I walked past an abused and forgotten park bench in the heart of China town. The bench had history and bore more weight in its life than any man could ever claim. This made me smile and I pulled out my Nikon D70. In a hurry, I quickly lifted the camera to my face, checked my exposure, focused on that silent servant, and, pressing on the little silver button, heard the open and close of my shutter.

An Unexpected Heart Break

To preface, an environmentalist is any person who advocates or works to protect the air, water, animals, plants, and other natural resources from pollution or its effects, according to Mr. Webster. Now, I will admit, personally, I think extreme environmentalists are foolish and are ultimately wasting their time on the Earth. This idea may be unfounded and may be foolish in itself, but it is a belief nevertheless. I had never considered myself an environmentally conscious individual as I was not actively "advocating" for a better and healthier Earth. I figured "saving the world" was beyond my power, and it very well may be. It was not until recently that I experienced a strange emotional drain from what I saw to be a human breach on nature. The image that met my eyes was simple, common, and seen millions of times prior. However, despite the prevalence of the scene and my belief that environmentalists are partially incompetent, the scene before me made me stop in my tracks. What I saw was this, jovial children running in front of their apathetic parents towards a chain linked fence. These children laughed and pointed at a slouched mass before them while throwing popcorn at its dejected face. As I approached the creature (I was at a zoo viewing the "wonders of creation"), I was met with a face filled with emotion, with character, and with visible pain. I do not believe in evolution and my distant ancestors were most definitely not monkeys; however, this face had the very human ability to emit emotion.

I stared at the young primate and wished it freedom, but I knew such a wish would not ever be. I am not an environmentalist; I still do not have the fervor or power to save the Earth, though I do love it dearly; but my heart broke just a little for this helpless and despondent creature. I knew I could not save it, so, in my mind, I decided the next best thing would be to remember. I waited for the ignorant youngsters to clear away from the prison door, and, stepping forward, I lifted my old Nikon FA, wound the film into place, focused on the poor little monkey, and pressed the little silver button. The shutter opened and closed in a fraction of a second, but I knew it was just long enough for the monkey to crawl through and plant itself forever on my film.

I am not fighting to save the trees, or the air, or the water, or the dirt. I'm not even fighting to save the monkeys; but, if I were to fight for something, I would fight for this monkey. Maybe if we all fought for one thing we could save the Earth, the world, the dirt. I would even lead the charge, as long as it began with my monkey.