I’ve decided to get back into photography.
Not that I ever abandoned the pursuit altogether, but my purchase of a Nikon Coolpix a few years back (mainly for the portability and video capability) rendered my older Canon DSLR obsolete. I grew tired of carrying around two cameras, one for photos, one for video, and while my old iPhone 5 did well as a backup, data storage issues usually meant any video clip longer than 3 seconds was a crap shoot. Hence, the Coolpix was a logical alternative.
Recently though, I found myself missing the creative possibilities of a full-sized DSLR; the superior image quality, interchangeable lenses, and the pretense that I was some kind of semi-professional.
As I often do when a whim grips me, I did my research, then promptly marched out and purchased a new camera. While I would have loved to own the same full-frame DSLR used to shoot the 2013 movie Escape from Tomorrow (filmed surreptitiously on Disney property without permission), the $4000+ price tag was a tad over my budget. However, being the financially responsible type, I did immediately list my (perfectly functional) 9-year old Canon 50D on eBay, in hopes of recouping some cost.
Upon the grand unboxing of the new camera, I marveled at its magnificence; full HD video, state-of-the-art autofocus, high megapixels, blazing shutter speeds and WIFI connectivity. Unfortunately, the remainder of my existing gear suddenly looked weary in comparison; the tripod rickety, camera bag worn, speed-light outdated. I decided I needed not only a new camera body, I needed new accessories to go with it.
Then my thoughts drifted towards a new high-end desktop monitor; 32” with 4k resolution, to edit those raw images, masterpieces streamed seamlessly from camera to computer, with each shutter click.
Maybe an f/2.8 macro lens to complement my repertoire.
I was out of control.
So I paused to regroup.
Why photography—why now, I asked myself. When you consider anyone with an iPhone can take a decent photo these days, what was I hoping to achieve?
And it became clear.
I was avoiding something.
The blank page. My writing journal, long forgotten atop the bedside table, untouched, demoted to coffee cup coaster, awaiting rebirth, rejuvenation.
A novel doesn’t write itself.
And then I considered this; if a picture is indeed worth 1,000 words (a good picture that is; one with crisp focus, great depth of field, even lighting, vibrant imagery, and compelling subject matter), surely sixty good pictures equates to 60,000 words.
A completed novel.
I can handle sixty photos.
Until next time,