Almost 10 years ago, I sold my digital camera, all my lenses, my strobes, and a really cool tripod. I gave up photography forever.
4 Years ago, I was gifted an old film camera, a Konica, and some lenses from a partner who made a career of cleaning out old houses. I fell back in love with photography. This old camera re-ignited the thing I loved about photography in the first place: my ability to express myself in a moment, to realize and capture something special just for me.
When I first picked up a camera, close to 20 years ago, it was pragmatic. I needed to document the scenic designs I was creating. Every show got captured for the theater by a professional, but that professional was there for the actors. Great for the costume designer, great for the theater, useless for showcasing the sets I had designed. The lighting and projection designers had the same complaint. So I started shooting the shows myself, and that’s where my photography career began.
I dove into photography hard. The photos I took of dance and theater not only helped propel my scenic design career, but they also pushed my photography career forward.
As a talented, burgeoning photographer, I started getting asked for more and more photography. This led me into event photography, mostly at the theaters I designed for. It led me into headshot and portrait photography, photographing the actors and other professionals that I worked with. I was able to build a portfolio of credible and usable photography and a gear list that supported this endeavor.
The 2008 crash marked the start of a transition into graphic design, marketing, and administration for me. After all, that’s where the money was being directed to get butts in seats. These roles enabled me to use my photography experience to build organizations through their marketing and development departments, and they eventually led me to own my own company, Mindshare Labs, Inc.
Then, the magic sort of fell away. Photography was a job, not a means of making a passion possible, but a real job. I realized this while photographing two wedding rings as a second shooter working for a high-end wedding photographer in North Carolina. I had snapped maybe 400 photos of the same two rings, searching for the perfect capture, the perfect light, the perfect memory… and none of it belonged to me.
It was after that wedding that I sold it all.
Transition to film
I didn’t pick up another camera until I was gifted an old Konica, a camera that had been neglected in the back of a closet for 30 years. It worked! It took horrible photos, and I loved them. It was here that I started to explore what it meant to be a fine art photographer. I started with landscapes, forcing myself to give up digital by packing only a film camera when traveling.
Film forced me to slow down; financially, it was impossible to take more than a couple of shots of each setup, and practically I couldn’t look at the result right away; the act of developing became a temporal limitation to my process. There was no judgment right after the shot; there was no on-set feedback; I had to trust my eye and technical capability.
I’ve often described this “slowing down” as the thing that enabled me to find the type of photos that I like to take. As these photos started to take shape, I started to question why I was photographing the things I was photographing.
Answering my “why”
A new collaborator, Nicole, invited me to take part in a sort of photography retreat in collaboration with Michael Ash Smith. This was an opportunity to spend a few days taking photos away from everything, but more importantly, I got to spend time with an established and talented artist whom I could learn from and who I respected. It was at this retreat that I started to explore my why.
Why take the photo?
Why commit to this image?
Why models?
Why nudity?
Why black and white?
Why film?
When confronted with these questions, my answers were surface level. I didn’t believe them beyond the practicalities of “that’s the camera I chose”, “this is the place I chose”, and “color is hard.” But I knew there was something I was responding to. After all, I lead with intuition, and that intuition is responding to something… but what is that something?
My identity as a photographer had leaned on film as a means of obfuscation and process. It worked for the things I was creating, but I was still having a hard time defining exactly what I was creating. I still am.
Unfortunately, due to technical problems, only a few images got created at this retreat. But, I suspect that doesn’t matter much because what came out of it was a new way of looking at the images I create. No longer are my photos a solid recipe (place, person, exposure, composition) and nothing more. I’m now of the understanding that I can express myself through this medium, and it doesn’t matter the tools I use. I’ve introduced an exploration of “why”…
Film?
The next retreat, which I completed just days ago, brought this more into focus. In an effort to actually capture some shareable, usable photography during the retreat, I rented a digital camera (lensrentals.com, they are amazing). Whoa!
I shoot (shot, now?) film because it slowed me down, enabled a process for me to be more intentional with my photography, it connected me better with my models, I responded to my environment, and insulated myself from immediate judgment via the LCD screen. I worried that picking up a digital camera would open me up to these hazards. But this did not happen.
I was able to create some of my best work. I was able to connect with my models. I remained intentional, connected, and free of judgment.
So. I guess I need to purchase a digital camera.