A few moments ago, I was staring down my dimly lit hallway to a suit jacket hanging on the front door knob. So much of me wants to ask myself why? about everything. Dressing up. Life. Photos. Yet, Ive been better about telling myself to shut up and just push forward. My dilemma now is what to do whenever a plateau evens out in my artistic world. Do I stretch my time into other endeavors? Painting was an early interest, along with sketching, but those two were passed down by my fathers short appearance in my life. I think about writing a novel, but can only seem to write blogs. Once in a while I find a book, always seems to be at the Boulder Book Store, but even those rarely hold my attention. The one I came across today: The Sexual Life of an Islamist in Paris. Something intriguing about the tale to be told from that title. I suppose its just a curiosity in the differences of our cultures juxtaposed with the romance of Paris. But, nothing sticks lately.
So I push my creative energy into the workflow of my photography. Scouring through thousands of images Ive taken over the nearly two years Ive been shooting, only very special ones speak to me. Once in a while I glance back to where I started, the early folders, practicing on restaurant co-workers, and eventually branching outward.
What do you want to do with photography? friends ask. There is no definite answer. It goes from journalistic photography that can bring light to dire situations in the world, to candid portraiture of people living life, to weddings, or family portraiture, or head shots, as those are the few things within my reach that can earn a respectable income. Its hard, when Im teaching myself, not to have doubts in my work. As I continually grow, I virtually enter different realms of people. I brush up against other photographers, artists, models, et al, and realize confrontation is a necessary part of business. Some of the excitement of this endeavor is the adventure of knowing it has no formation currently. It can go anywhere. Travel photography. Magazine work. Fashion. Portraiture. Food. Its endless. If I have my way, Ill always dabble in some kind of photography, if not all.
My cousin suggested photographing racing horses.
I dont know. When I think about all that really matters in life all I can come up with is my personal happiness. I present my photography in various forms: flickr, deviantart, facebook; each with a unique audience. To this day, I still rely on feedback to guide what is generally popular. I rarely put a photograph up a photograph that has no touch-ups in one way or another (skin or color, at least). I havent quite figured out if it coincides with my personal happiness. Some days, I just want the world to see people as they are. I reserve that for my intimate life. My family. My close friends. Some day, my own family.
Once in a while I dream of a moment: my blonde haired daughter with a dandelion running towards me under the summer sun, a warm breeze rolling over us. I dream as though Ive already lived it. I have a photograph of it in my head. On days when I look over all Ive accomplished in my short period and think about my future, it seems like it will always remain a dream. So much to discover and create. I think of her blue eyes, wondering if shell look to me for acceptance in her life, and if Im able to offer it.
My mother explained to me that her father, a second generation Italian man who brought 5 children into this world, never gave her acceptance. She, the youngest of 4 women, and a disappointment to a man who wanted just one son, had to take on the responsibilities as though she were a boy. Her whole life spent working for the acceptance of a man who gave up. Her father was drafted by the Detroit Tigers, but was forced by his parents to give up the dream, because it wasnt a suitable lifestyle to being a family man. He married my grandmother, an Irish woman, and she became pregnant for 6 years solid, birthing 5 children; and only one boy.
This was the roof I partly grew up under, when my mother had to work. The home of my grandfather, who idly sat on the couch, exhausted from countless hours of work trying to feed his family, watching any given sports show. I was constantly in trouble for passing in front of the television, or playing too loudly upstairs, when I was very young. I remember sitting at the table once for nearly 3 hours because I didnt want to eat what was cooked, and that wasnt an option.
You probably felt like I did, never accepted, my mom said to me, during a game of pool at a local dive bar.
It stuck with me. Ive been searching for answers and discarding the old ghosts of my past. Who was my dad? Why was my dads father so obsessed about his health? Why did my moms dad give up all of his dreams? Why do I put all this pressure on myself? Some days I feel like Im supposed to give something to this world. I could see myself as a portrait photographer like Anne Leibovitz, traveling the world, telling the stories of people who make the media. Other days, I feel like Im supposed to travel to third world countries, and tell the stories of dying children. Another minute, I feel like I should be acting in film.
And then these all just feel like dreams.
Just like my daughter.
So I push my creative energy into the workflow of my photography. Scouring through thousands of images Ive taken over the nearly two years Ive been shooting, only very special ones speak to me. Once in a while I glance back to where I started, the early folders, practicing on restaurant co-workers, and eventually branching outward.
What do you want to do with photography? friends ask. There is no definite answer. It goes from journalistic photography that can bring light to dire situations in the world, to candid portraiture of people living life, to weddings, or family portraiture, or head shots, as those are the few things within my reach that can earn a respectable income. Its hard, when Im teaching myself, not to have doubts in my work. As I continually grow, I virtually enter different realms of people. I brush up against other photographers, artists, models, et al, and realize confrontation is a necessary part of business. Some of the excitement of this endeavor is the adventure of knowing it has no formation currently. It can go anywhere. Travel photography. Magazine work. Fashion. Portraiture. Food. Its endless. If I have my way, Ill always dabble in some kind of photography, if not all.
My cousin suggested photographing racing horses.
I dont know. When I think about all that really matters in life all I can come up with is my personal happiness. I present my photography in various forms: flickr, deviantart, facebook; each with a unique audience. To this day, I still rely on feedback to guide what is generally popular. I rarely put a photograph up a photograph that has no touch-ups in one way or another (skin or color, at least). I havent quite figured out if it coincides with my personal happiness. Some days, I just want the world to see people as they are. I reserve that for my intimate life. My family. My close friends. Some day, my own family.
Once in a while I dream of a moment: my blonde haired daughter with a dandelion running towards me under the summer sun, a warm breeze rolling over us. I dream as though Ive already lived it. I have a photograph of it in my head. On days when I look over all Ive accomplished in my short period and think about my future, it seems like it will always remain a dream. So much to discover and create. I think of her blue eyes, wondering if shell look to me for acceptance in her life, and if Im able to offer it.
My mother explained to me that her father, a second generation Italian man who brought 5 children into this world, never gave her acceptance. She, the youngest of 4 women, and a disappointment to a man who wanted just one son, had to take on the responsibilities as though she were a boy. Her whole life spent working for the acceptance of a man who gave up. Her father was drafted by the Detroit Tigers, but was forced by his parents to give up the dream, because it wasnt a suitable lifestyle to being a family man. He married my grandmother, an Irish woman, and she became pregnant for 6 years solid, birthing 5 children; and only one boy.
This was the roof I partly grew up under, when my mother had to work. The home of my grandfather, who idly sat on the couch, exhausted from countless hours of work trying to feed his family, watching any given sports show. I was constantly in trouble for passing in front of the television, or playing too loudly upstairs, when I was very young. I remember sitting at the table once for nearly 3 hours because I didnt want to eat what was cooked, and that wasnt an option.
You probably felt like I did, never accepted, my mom said to me, during a game of pool at a local dive bar.
It stuck with me. Ive been searching for answers and discarding the old ghosts of my past. Who was my dad? Why was my dads father so obsessed about his health? Why did my moms dad give up all of his dreams? Why do I put all this pressure on myself? Some days I feel like Im supposed to give something to this world. I could see myself as a portrait photographer like Anne Leibovitz, traveling the world, telling the stories of people who make the media. Other days, I feel like Im supposed to travel to third world countries, and tell the stories of dying children. Another minute, I feel like I should be acting in film.
And then these all just feel like dreams.
Just like my daughter.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
selene:
Wonderful to read...I hope whatever path you take is the one that truly brings you happiness. 
heathen:
The beauty of life is that many paths are laid before us. The sorrow of life is that people often expect us to only choose one of those paths. Sometimes, the fun part is to weave together your passions and forge a new path 