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.

I Have Sinned, Maybe.

I have sinned. I have acted out of alignment with God; that is sin, right? Webster's dictionary defines sin as "a condition of estrangement from God or any violation of God's will, either in purpose or conduct." As humans our sin runs rampant through all parts of our lives, leaving no sanctuary of the mind untouched. In Dante's Divina Commedia the liar and falsifier of what is true is sentenced to one of the deepest and most torturous circles of Hell; this is where Dante would have me. I have falsified the truth, I have distorted reality, and, most awfully, I have taken the beautiful creation of God and changed it to fit what I thought was truly beautiful.

As I hiked up the Echo Mountain trail in search of a memorable panaroma, I thought to myself how easy capturing beauty was in these majetic mountains. When I reached the end of my climb, I set up my tripod and scoped out my image through the viewfinder of my digital Nikon D70. The scene was simple, breathtakingly simple. It was a perfect mountain range that curved evenly around the point at which I stood, with an orange sun low in the western sky. My horizontals aligned and my tripod locked off, I smoothly captured five images with a slight overlap. With each open and close of the shutter I was sure my image was perfect; with each gentle press on the extension cable, I was excited to get to my computer and piece together my raw pixels. Within the hour I was doing just that, aligning the pixels and masking out all lens and angle distortions. My picture was beautiful because the last entity to touch my subject as a whole was God, the God, the mountain moving God. Nothing more needed to be done to the image; it was the best it could ever be. However, out of the darkness in my mind a thought came and whispered its lies and deceit. I guiltily boosted the saturation, the contrast, and warped the hues. I had violated and defiled the masterpeice of God. I have sinned.

I have sinned. I think I have. Maybe I have sinned. Or maybe I have not sinned. Maybe in my writing of a simple caption, I over dramatized the situation. Maybe. Maybe this is my sin nature talking when I say I still really like the "defiled image;" or maybe it is not. Maybe God likes my image. Maybe. Hopefully.

A Changed Wordview

Botanical photography has never really awed me in the sense that I would leave and remember the photographer as great. Maybe I have simply not seen enough botanical photography and it is in ignorance that I make this claim. Flowers, to me, seem already too beautiful to work with and photographing them is, in my mind, cheating. I held this strong belief until I encountered a small pink flower, of no especially unique character, that caught and held fast to my impatient eyes. I did not understand what so intrigued me about the little mass of pink petals. It seemed to beckon to me from across the patio, and so, against my seemingly better judgment, my legs took me captive and dragged me into the little flower's presence. This flower was not unique, as it was surrounded by thousands of others just like it, nor was it kingly, for it was no larger than the pink erase on the end of an old fashioned Ticonderoga yellow pencil. As I drew near, I expected to be disappointed by a lame excuse for a flower; however, and much to my amazement, the closer my now captivated eyes got to the minuscule plant, the more intricate and incredible it became. I quickly loosed my wide angle lens from my digital Nikon D70 and attached a simple macro. I marveled at the enlarged version of my little pink flower in the view finder. I set my exposure, lined up my shot, and, pressing gently on that little silver button, heard the belief-shattering sound of my shutter capturing a botanical image.

What I learned about myself and botanical photography that day was simple, though I may not appreciate a botanical photographer as great, I don't think that that photographer would care about my opinion in the least. When I shot that little pink flower, I did not care about the resulting image or if my photograph would be revered or commended. My main focus at that point was on the flower, and learning about all its intricacies and wonders packed into such a small and perfect package. In my mind, a botanical photographer does not shoot to please others, he shoots to please himself.

A Dabble in Portraiture

I've only ever "gone into a shoot" once, and the "shoot" was some lighting and a big white sheet. But for the sake of simplicity I'll use such jargon. I enjoy shooting nature, the organic and inorganic; I enjoy shooting man made beauty or not-beauty; and I'll even shoot a living breathing human as long as it's unbeknownst to them. However, and much to my disappointment, I was required to shoot a portrait of a friend, and I was required to create a situation with him where his personality is shown. I was required to create. This I knew, even before going into the shoot, would be difficult as I do not create, I merely capture. After many failed attempts, and with only a few shots left, I was fairly irritated with my inability to make him more of himself for my camera to see. I gave up and was about to expose the last of my film into a negative I knew I would dislike anyway. I stopped and asked my friend to play his guitar, the prop he brought in to help showcase his personality. So he played, and with my last image I captured him. I did not create a scene; I was required to stand in front of a person who was comfortably himself on his own, without my help. I had a camera. I wound the last of my film into place, lifted the old Nikon to my face, focused precisely, set the exposure, and, gently pressing the little silver button, heard the sweet sound of my shutter capturing an image I would like. Thank you Matt Kwa.

Humble Beginings

My dad walks into my room as I'm trying to get a few assignments finished and asks me to take out the trash cans. As you can imagine (or picture vividly if you know my dad), this was not a suggestion nor was it an arguable request. My fate decided, I stall a few minutes and, hoping to make the best out of the trip, sling my not-so-sleek, heavy, film Nikon FA over my shoulder and trudge outside. The sun is low and, of course, at the perfect spot in the sky to get its rays right through the only gap in the trees and blind me. I pull out the two yard wastes, recycle, and classic trash to the curb. Before going inside I look around for something beautiful, something that Shlenker, my photo teacher, will commend me for. In a bad mood, I see nothing worth remembering. I sit on the curb and think; then, turning to the stupid trash can to my left, I raise my camera, focus, check the lighting, and, pressing gently on the little silver button, hear the satisfying open and close of my shutter.

I ended up loving the image and spent quite a bit of time making a 9x7 fiber print. Simplicity is beautiful.