I have always loved EVERYTHING about photography–from the smell of the chemicals in a black-and-white darkroom to the elegant complexity of a 1940’s-era press camera. I grew up with the sights and sounds and smells of photography, and was initiated into its rites as soon as I was tall enough to reach the counter in my dad’s make-shift garage closet darkroom. I’ve never NOT owned and loved and used a camera–or a dozen cameras all at once. But as much as I love every aspect of the photographic process, lust after the gear, collect the gadgets, order the filters, download all the software, stash the tripods and purchase all the newest lenses, those are not the reasons I am addicted to photography.
It’s the silence.
It’s the fleeting moment when external and internal noise goes quiet, when only the eye is alive. With camera in hand, my vision expands enough to focus on the patterns and colors and details that are invisible otherwise. Photography at its best is, for me, a walking meditation on the intricacy, simplicity, and order of the world closely observed and almost reverently recorded.
And when I put the camera away and wake from that walking dream, the photos remain, imperfect reminders of an altered way of seeing that draws me back.
And draws me back.