So in an entirely not-unrelated series of events earlier this fall, I broke my camera and enrolled in a beginning photography course.
I really have no idea how I broke my camera. I didn't drop it, I didn't abuse it in some nefarious way. I took it to Chicago to visit Jana, took a few shots while I was there, and discovered its tragic brokenness when I got back home. It is broken and estimates to fix it range from just shy of what I paid for the camera (a lot) to what I would pay for a digital SLR (a WHOLE lot). So my camera is dead.
So, enrolling in this photography class was supposed to do two things: one, it was to justify spending the cash on a DSLR and two, it was supposed to satisfy my longing to learn how to develop film and prints in an actual darkroom. And, for the most part, I have gotten exactly what I bargained for out of the class.
I have learned about the limitations of a point and shoot camera and how they can be overcome to a certain extent with a camera with more controls. I know how to roll my own film from a bulk loader, put exposed film on a spring thingy (technical term), and how to develop the film with chemicals, shaking, and time. I can tell a good negative from a bad one (and i totally call them "negs" like a tool). I know which of the five exposers in the darkroom is the best and I always try to get in the room first because I am certain that the other people in my class do not mix the chemicals correctly. That's probably because I am the only person in my class who shoots more film than digital for our assignments, so they always forget what the right ratios are when mixing stuff. I've made dozens of prints and have learned how to play with light and shadows to create a print that looks like the picture I want.
What I did not expect to learn from this class was a sense of discipline that has eluded me my entire life. Frankly, I wait for nothing, and pretty much indulge every whim I want, when I want. Candy bars at midnight? Okay. Spur of the moment shopping trip? I'm there. The only things that limit me are time and money, and I have been known to let neither of those hinder me if the prize is right. I've been cultivating photography as a hobby for a while now, and digital is great for me for that reason. I don't have to wait to see if I've got the shot I want, I just size up the scene, snap a few tries for posterity and review them. There aren't very many surprises in digital photography.
But film is not like that. Because it's a resource more finite than a memory card, I have to be careful with each press of the shutter release. I have to trust not just the mechanisms and the pieces and parts of the camera and film, I have to trust myself to pick the shot and get the settings right so that the camera can begin to mimic what my eye sees. Since I've been shooting exclusively black and white, I am drawn now more to texture and angles and contrasts more than brilliant colors and moments to preserve. And more than that, more than the trust in the machine and in my own talent and vision, I have to wait for my pictures.
I'd forgotten what it is like to wait for my pictures. That waiting that at first sort of infuriated me (because along with my lack of discipline is a complete lack of patience. i am a wonder to behold, i tell you what.) has now, instead, begun to inspire me. When I trust the shot and trust my instincts, I let go of the picture. And wow, that sounds so much more artsy-woo-woo than I mean it to be, I think. But it's true. Because I cannot gratify myself immediately with a final result, I let go of the picture I intended to take. I can't keep that vision in my mind for hours or days or weeks. I compose the picture in the camera, release the shutter, make a few notes for posterity's sake if I feel like it, and I move on to the next shot.
By the time I see the picture I actually made, I have mostly forgotten about the picture I intended to take and I can look at my work with a newly objective eye. I've learned a new appreciation for waiting. That can only be a good thing.
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