The joy of photography

the train to DC, originally uploaded by Mr. Wright.

Languishing somewhere in the nether regions of my photostream, I found this image, which I consider among my best, amid a bulk upload of other shots from my trip to D.C. last March. I remember thinking, at the time of the shutter click, that I'd gotten off a pretty good shot, using my rolling suitcase as an impromptu tripod for the Optio. The train rolled in. Off we went.

Six months later, in a fit of productivity, I was looking for a new desktop for my computer at work. Pulled this image up, nodded approvingly, set it.

It wasn't until my computer was shutting down that day — in that brief glimpse when the programs close and the icons vanish, and what's left is an image, full-screen, as if framed — that everything fell into place. To cloak it in poetry: Here was a story; it's hero still yet unformed. Photos, though, are simpler than verse. The best photos are a collection of details that all move toward a single statement, a single emotion. Like a herd of buffalo running toward a cliff, each detail, when examined individually, reinforces the direction of the others, and the sum is always greater than the parts.

You had to see it big to catch everything in this picture. Viewed at 500 pixels, the picture reads as a central, blurry figure against three simple compositional zones. But full-screen it reads almost like an arc, and the details do the heavy lifting. The track and power lines emerging from the darkness; the bright structure above the figure; the BWI Airport sign; the woman-as-generic-traveler at the very far right — all swirl around this kid in the middle, whose eyes, we can now see, are cast away from the track, back toward where he just came from. The uncertainty of travel is now inserted into what would otherwise be a typical picture of bland transportation.

All of this registers instantly when you see the image large. It registers again as you read it left to right, each detail balancing the next. And there is no way that a photographer could ever control all of these elements, or think them through one by one, before pressing the button. They are captured mostly by luck, a little by persistence. What separates the great photographers from the professionals is the ability to repeatedly see these pictures coming, or the patience to wait for them to appear, and then to capture the image and also something of self-expression in those few, lucky moments.

POSTSCRIPT: I realized about halfway through that last paragraph that analyzing a photo can pretty quickly suck the joy out of any picture. And, furthermore, committing that analysis to a lengthy ramble can pretty much suck the joy out of reading, too. So, you know, sweet, killed two artforms with one post. Apologies. But this is a useful way for me to talk about my aesthetics — a lofty and self-important exercise, but a necessary one, at times, I think, if I'm to give some direction to the tens of thousands of photos I insist on taking.