WEDGE OF LIME

I’ve cut back on driving time. Where I used to drive all day, now I take two days. Where I used to hammer for two days, now it takes as long as it takes. I would put my camera on the seat next to me and promise myself that I’d look for photographs begging to be taken. I would stop; I meant to turn around and go back for the right photo but it never happened. Something happens when you have the steering wheel in your hands, some place you need to be and mile markers going by; it’s like eating peanuts. Going back is not an option. So I drive for 11 hours and the camera takes a long rest. But I’m changing my ways. Pushing less, driving slower, I see more and stopping is an option. 

This way you have time to slow down, stop in just the right spot. If walking is required, it’s a nice break and it’s good for you. Today I was on a stretch of interstate that I’ve driven so many times I can’t remember. The sun was low enough it came in the side window; not good for driving but low angle sunlight is great for photographs. Early March holds the promise of spring but nothing more. Grass may be starting to green but blackbirds still forage together in flocks and last year’s corn stubble is winter’s grim foot print. It occurred to me there may not be anything worth the stopping but you don’t know until you look through the lens. 

People ask what it is that I look for. How do I know where to point the camera? Honestly, I don’t really know. Whatever it is, it's about geometry and contrast, a frame of reference, lines and angles that draw you into that moment. I see shapes and colors, edges and patterns that I can’t ignore. When I look through the lens it either begs a story or it’s just stuff. I’ll hit the shutter and look at it later. I’m attracted to things people leave behind. I like windmills in particular. After the man has gone his machine is still there. It may still work and it may not, maybe just rusty old bones. Someone was here and this is what they left. If they don’t come back someone else will. I like hay bales in the field, light houses, things with peeling paint, wheels and gears. People come and go; they dig holes and plant fence posts. I can’t know the stories but I have imagination. 

In a split second I looked over into the sun and saw a blur of green with a two-track, a gate, some naked trees and a small building. In that split second I thought I saw balance. Somebody had been there, once upon a time, not so long ago. It took 20 miles of turn arounds and back track to re-arrive. The building turned out to be an old grain bin and the service road between the fence and the gate was poor foreground for a photo. Still the photograph works, there is a story there and I can wrestle with it for as long as I like. The trees and two-track hold it all together. I made it through the ditch without getting my feet wet and came away with a photograph. I ask myself, what would you rather have in hand, a steering wheel or a camera? I’m opting for the camera now more than before. I really like looking through the lens. The rectangle puts things in context, what stays in and what is left out.

         I speculate: who last closed the gate? Maybe he is an old man whose wife has Alzheimer’s, who drives around the farm all day so he doesn’t have to be in the house. His kids all moved to the city so he drives the fence rows. It’s an awful story so I take it in another direction; the farmer who uses this gate took the winter off, took his surf board down to Baja to ride the waves, washed shrimp ceviche down with some Corona and a wedge of lime. I bet he’s a little sunburned now, another week before he heads back, parks his surf board and fires up a monster tractor, starts planting those mile long corn fields. It’s his farm but it’s my photograph and by default, I get to pick the story.