Looking back, looking ahead
Yesterday I did something I’ve been thinking about doing for some time: I boxed all my camera equipment —- two camera bodies and too many lenses —- and shipped them off to a place that buys used gear. That leaves me with exactly no cameras and zero lenses, and that’s got me thinking about what’s been and what’s next. This photo, looking down into Aravaipa Canyon, Arizona, was shot with my very first real camera, a Pentax K1000 with a 50 mm lens. It’s fuzzy since it’s a lousy scan of a poorly-stored slide. I had no idea what I was doing, but I remember the thrill of finding a scene or object or person that interested me, twisting the lens to focus, clicking the f-stop I thought would work, pressing the shutter button, waiting for the local photo processing place to send word that the photos were ready, and then opening the envelope to see how well I succeeded, or not.
That camera gave out, and in the meantime work and family distracted me from pursuing photography. Then, in 2011 I had the good fortune to be sent to Rwanda for work, but the better fortune of having a colleague send along a serious digital camera with a serious lens and telling me to record everything. Again, I had no idea what I was doing, but I followed some basic instructions and shot everything I saw. These children live near Murambi, the site of the mass murder of some 20,000 people in 1994. It dawned on me at this moment that photography could tell a story, record emotion, and convey complexity. I still ask myself , Who are these children? What do they know of the events of 4/21/94? What is it like to live in such a place, where you can enter the abandoned classrooms of the technical school where the massacre took place and see the preserved bodies of over 800 people?
Not long after I returned I bought an entry level Canon with a kit lens, and started walking the streets of Washington DC. On one of my first Sunday photo walks I passed a dry cleaners near Dupont Circle and heard the sound of a French horn, so I stopped and entered the shop where I met the Korean-American proprietor named —- I kid you not —- Ben Hur. He reluctantly agreed to have his portrait made and even played “How Great Thou Art” for me. The result is still one of my favorite photos, the artist pursuing his art surrounded by plastic-wrapped clothes.
What’s next? I’m not sure, but I’ve decided that it will be one camera and one lens. I’ll move my feet, I’ll take my time, I’ll get even closer, and I’ll keep my eyes wide open.
