When do we come to the end of wanting to produce “competent” photographs?
I have been pondering this question as I go through my catalogue of photographs taken – many of them remembered, some forgotten, and some re-seen as I encounter them again after sitting in cold storage on a hard drive.
Few are the photographs which please on all the levels that we seem to expect from our work: that they must be technically impressive (and how impressive can an everyday photograph be, in everyday light?), have deep relevance to our lives, fit the characteristics of those photographs which are currently in vogue, be representative of some sort of unique artistic “vision,” whatever other goal we may dream up, or be stimulated towards desiring by the books and blog posts on photographic philosophy which we read. We demand much of a humble file directory on a home computer, or in the cloud, do we not?
Realistically, our photographs are a collection of our mistakes, half-understood concepts, moments we only responded to after the decisive moment arrived to waken us from creative slumber. But rather than blame our photographs for their shortcomings, why not see them for what they are: a record of our consciousness? Imperfect, misaligned, often derivative, but honest. Always growing toward someplace, while leaving another place behind.
Photographs grow stronger with time. Things and people come and go. The inner landscape also changes. Sure, photography can be a purely technical pursuit, and we may impress a few people with a few photographs. But the time commitment this requires is an exchange, always. We can choose to inhabit those negatives, or to simply accumulate them, just as we can accumulate years at times without much to show for them. Regardless of how well I absorb lessons the first time, my photographs hold on to them like patient teachers tucked away.
The Sprocket Docket 