What a deliciously agonizing edge of growth you find in a discipline pursued, when the drunken joy of the beginning has worn off and you’re sobered to the work ahead; when you’re faced with the choice of becoming something deeper, a choice you’ll get to make again and again.
Do you like to write now and again, or are you a writer? Do you go for runs, or are you a runner? Do you take photographs of things, or are you a photographer?
I’ve long resisted that transition under the auspice of maintaining freedom and status as a unique snowflake, as well as not wanting to be burdened by perceptions that accompany certain occupations. I loved surfing but many surfers I encountered were jerks, so no thanks.
But what I’ve really doing is avoiding responsibility, accountability, and a great and painful possibility for growth.
I’ve hit a spot in this project of taking daily photos where just pointing my camera at something outstanding isn’t good enough. I want intention, craft, meaning; dammit I want to be a photographer. At some point soon that’s going to involve studying with mentors, but for now it’s just me and my bootstraps. And you.
If I was alone in here my scathing self-criticism would probably burn this down. But even though you’ll see some embarrassing moments in bad photography, the chance that you’ll still enjoy and perhaps even get something out of the process, and what’s on the other side, lights a healthy fire.
And now for some bad photos from SoHo. Ha!