There’s a curse among photographers, if you believe in such things (curses, that is, not photographers), and it’s this:
Sometimes what we do not see can blind us to what is in front of us.
Go somewhere with a certain kind of photograph in mind and you might look so hard for that kind of image that you never see what’s actually there. Our expectations can be our biggest blind spots.
I went to Zimbabwe and South Africa last month with some very particular expectations; expectations that often went unmet because the animals were so scarce after an extended dry season. It took me some time to work with what I had, so blinded was I by what I didn’t have but had so hoped for. And so I came home with fewer images than I expected. So many unmet expectations!
But! Once I got out of my own way, the images I did create are better, stronger, and more truly mine than the ones I had in my mind (which were not only different but more numerous).
Where did this obsession with more come from? Why am I always hoping for more when I know from years of experience that I am most thrilled by the fewer images that take me by complete surprise (the ones I never expected), images that represent a risk taken, an extraordinary moment experienced, or fraction of a second truly lived in wonder? And how many of those do I really need?
After almost 40 years, I’m still learning. Learning to take the chance and just press the shutter instead of overthinking all the reasons the scene is utterly hopeless—and if the scene isn’t hopeless then the photographer himself often seems to be. Learning to see past my expectations. (There’s a whole different sermon about overthinking, but I’ll save that for later.)
Once in a while the lesson sticks, as it did with the image below of a young leopard distracted by a dung beetle. I knew the shot wouldn’t work (how could it?), but I pursued it anyway. Was it luck? Skill? Or just the willingness to try? Probably a mix of all three, but I’m so taken by the resulting image and the moment it represents that I don’t care who or what gets the credit. Years ago, I wouldn’t have tried at all. What we expect of ourselves and our own abilities can often blind us and stop us from ever trying. This is my favourite photograph of the trip and I almost didn’t pick up the camera to make the effort (overthinking again!).
I’m learning (every day, and so slowly, it seems) to say yes. To risk making what I assume will be a very bad photograph, in hopes it just might be better than I expect.
The images below almost didn’t happen, either. We had tracked a leopard all evening, finally finding it just as the light got impossibly low. “Too low for a meaningful photograph,” I told my guide, who then asked if I wanted to use a light to illuminate it, to which I said no, clinging to some notion that it wouldn’t look good and I don’t use artificial light and blah, blah, blah. But then I changed my mind. Why not? He flipped the light on and I was right. It looked terrible, all front-lit and gross (a technical term). Then he asked if I wanted the guide in a second vehicle to do the same thing and I shrugged and mumbled something like “Sure, why not?” and the light hit just right, creating depth and colour contrast, and suddenly it was magic.
Click any of the images in this post to see them full-sized.
Fumbling towards something better, that’s my modus operandi. It ain’t graceful, but I’m learning.
There were other moments, too. A scene with African wild dogs (also called painted wolves, which is my favourite name for them) where they’d hunted a baby impala and I had no idea where to point my lens because there were 12 of them running amok (all with various pieces of the poor impala), but somehow I got lucky when one of them trotted out with the head, a heartbreaking trophy but a moment filled with meaning as his sibling looked on in something that feels like jealousy. A moment with two lion cubs the week before felt much the same way.
It’s in these moments you hope desperately that the gear doesn’t let you down, but you’re not thinking about the technical stuff when it all moves so fast. There’s no time. You’re relying on whatever instinct you’ve nurtured so far as you’ve learned your craft. You’re worried you won’t make the shot; you’re worried you’ll miss it.
You might (like me) also cuss and swear a bit, but the longer you do this, the more often you won’t mean it so much and the luckier you’ll feel just to be there.
In moments like these, I hope you’ll feel that the magic of being present, of being witness to something so vital and wonderful (and sometimes sad and complicated feeling), is more than enough to displace any thoughts of what you aren’t seeing (there are those expectations again).
I hope you’ll also be smiling, knowing how lucky you are to be part of it. To be feeling so alive to what is.
The secret of life, if there is one, is being awake to what is right in front of you, not worrying about what isn’t. The secret to being a photographer, if there is one, is not closing your eyes to that, or wishing it were something else.
“So how do you do that and still get the shot, David? Forget the existential poet warrior stuff and tell me how to get the shot!”
Time. You put in the time. And you try, dammit. To the best of your ability, you try. You press the shutter. You remain open to luck and the possibility that you’re a little better at this than you thought you were. Skill builds so incrementally that we sometimes don’t notice it.
The best gear will support that learned skill, but it won’t replace it, so you make a lot of bad photographs to learn what makes the one that thrills you. And this takes time.
You learn from the mistakes. And this also takes time.
You find the patience to wait out the scene, and you find the patience to wait for the photographer that you are becoming to be equal to the task.
And you never let that distract you from the wonder, never let what you don’t see blind you to what you might see if you would just let go of the expectations.
Here are a few more photographs from last month. They aren’t what I expected; I think they’re better.
Conversations like this matter. My latest book is filled with them. And with the holidays fast approaching, might I be so bold as to suggest you consider picking up a copy for your favourite photographer, especially if that’s you.
Light, Space & Time: Essays on Camera Craft and Creativity is available from Amazon or wherever great books are sold. You can also get a limited signed hardcover edition here. If you’re one of the many who have already purchased it, thank you so much for your support. I’d love to hear what you think. Feel free to leave a comment here on my blog, or better still, leave a review on Amazon to help others decide if it’s the book for them.
For the Love of the Photograph,
David.
