Rest of the Story, I … with Apologies to Paul Harvey

The rest of the story… what does that have to do with this blog? For me, each photograph has a story, I don’t know about you, but I have my favorites. Those photographs that stand the test of time and never bore me. I’ve been photographing since I was eight, and a good portion of that time was shooting film.

In the beginning, it was 620 (precursor to 120) black and white; then I graduated to color. When I got my first 35mm camera at age 12, I started using Kodachrome 25. Later, when I turned pro, I moved to Fuji Velvia 50, over-exposing it by a third of a stop to keep it from being too harsh to my eye. I even convinced some National Geographic shooter friends of mine that it was great film. They had been died-in-the-wool, National Geographic Kodachrome 25ers.

Those days are pretty much gone. Most of the great labs in this country have folded or morphed into digital labs. The majority of people have a digital camera. It makes it so much easier to take pictures. But you know me, in our workshops, we keep talking about making photographs, not taking pictures and hoping you come out with something. And making photographs is something I’ve been doing for a long, l-o-n-g time!

As noted above, all of my favorite photographs have a story, and I thought this week, I’d share a few of my ones from film days, starting with this one. “Misty Islands” is the view from one of my treasured camping spots, itself another island. I am sitting on the rocky ledge on a point. There is plenty of moss, soft ground cover, and well-placed saplings so that I can stake my tent and secure it against a sudden line squall.

I tend to get up early in the morning to enjoy the quiet of the lake. Well, maybe not quite, as I am prone to calling in the loons. Say what you may, but I can do a pretty good loon call. A loon answers my call, and we take turns making that crazy sound as he/she comes ever closer to my part of the island. Although I have photographed many loons over the years, for some reason, I never want to do so after I have called one in. To me, it seems like a betrayal.

My loon is now about 15 feet off the point, and after gliding around for a bit, squeezes in his feathers to remove the air and silently dives down for breakfast. I turn the other way to bask in the early sun and am greeted by this scene of the mists rising. It is magical, and I pick up my camera and find a pleasing overlapping of two islands. I no longer live in New England, so it has been a few years since I camped here. Hopefully, I’ll get back there some day.

“Porch of Lace” was only there in this state for a very brief amount of time. Just a few days. It was part of an old inn that was being refurbished to become what I believe was the second home of PC Connection in Marlow, NH. The stately old New England building had been scraped down to the bare wood. A primer coat had been applied. giving it the textured look you see. I loved the gingerbread on the porch and looked to find my composition.I finally found it in one window that was graced with Victorian lace curtains that echoed the shape of the gingerbread. It took careful composing, as I didn’t want the upper porch elements, nor did I want the paint buckets and drop clothes below. This was my shot. It has been a calendar cover, a greeting card, a photograph in ….

My mother was an artist who worked in oils, watercolors, pastels, pen and ink, and even etching. She was a member of some prestigious galleries, including the Copley Society in Boston. She always worked on simplifying her compositions, not recording exactly what she saw, but interpreting it. She and I would go off on scouting jaunts, she for subject matter, I for photographic fodder.

We were attracted to the same scenes, so when, as we were chatting one day on a narrow dirt road, Barney Oldfield, my little, red, VW Jetta, suddenly stopped, backed up, and stopped again — all of his own volition you understand — my mother instantly saw what I had seen out of my peripheral vision.“Passing Season” was just that, a moment in time when the colors were rich in the late-afternoon light, soon to morph into the next season, where the branch that had fallen actually added to the scene, where there was a subtle criss-crossing of hill lines. My mother now has dementia, and those days of traveling on back roads with her are gone, but every time I look at this photograph, I think of those wonderful trips, full of laughter and fun. In a sense, this photograph is for her, although she never ended up painting this scene.

Over the years, I have gone to New Orleans a number of times. It is a grand city that has seen devastation and more recently, renewed hope. It has one of the best photographic galleries anywhere, the A Gallery in the French Quarter. Arnie and I have gone in there and been shown the works of Edward Curtis, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Yousuf Karsh (he did a portrait of my Aunt Helen), Berenice Abbott, Margaret Bourke-White, Edward Steichen, and I could go on and on. It is a city that has inspired photographers forever, even during the terrible time after Katrina.

I have always loved photographing there and was fortunate to find myself in this city for a national meeting of our photographic association (ASMP). I always made it a point to get to these meetings a few days early and stay a day or so afterwards.As I rounded a corner, I was struck by this unlikely combination of reds and pinks. While I am not a smoker, it was compelling, and I had to photograph it … “Marlboro Window.” You may have figured out that I love close-ups of doors, windows, architectural features, etc. This one was made for me and my camera!

Three years later, I returned to The Big Easy, again for a meeting, and took a friend to see “my” window. It wasn’t there, at least in its former splendor. The shop had changed; the displays, while undeniably healthier, were not nearly as photogenic. My brilliant window had turned into a drab, uninteresting scene. The city, however, gave me another surprise.I had seen this door on the previous trip, but it wasn’t the right combination of colors for my eyes. This time, it greeted me with its two black eyes and sad smile. Did “Big Easy Door” know what was to come?

So, the next time you go out and photograph, take your time, turn this way and that. Savor what is around you. See what grabs your attention; then make something of it; don’t just record it. Hopefully, your image will tell its own story, but when you have a memory to add to it, it makes it that much better. Even if the viewer doesn’t know, the image will convey that there is something more.

Next: I’ll share a few more of my film favorites and the stories that go with them. All of these photographs have been oft published, been juried into shows, hang on the walls of private collectors, and continue to give me pleasure every time I look at them and remember the rest of the story.

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