Stepping Off the Curb of My Comfort Zone

Less "right," more "joy." -- Jim Miotke

One challenge I'm giving myself with photography is to step outside my comfort zone. For me, that is street photography. It scares me a bit, but I am also drawn to it as a way to feel more connected with the people and places I visit. It is outside my comfort zone for two reasons. First, and most obvious, is the probability of having to interact with people when taking their picture. Being a pretty non-confrontational person, this is a challenge for me. It has helped me perfect my preferred technique of photographing people from behind. I'm trying to move away from this. It doesn't help that my kids have dubbed me "Creepy Stalker Mom." Second, is having to give up a degree of control over my subject. When you're taking a picture of an inanimate object or scene, you can spend time working on composition, lighting, etc. until you have a pretty good idea of what you want. Try that with street photography, and by the time you are ready the moment has passed or your subject is in the next block. 

I recently took an online photo course with Jim Miotke through BetterPhoto.com. Something he said about perfectionism really made an impression on me. He said that in creative endeavors perfectionism is actually the lowest standard, not the highest, because it is fear-based. By having to have everything perfect, you are actually letting your fear stop you from starting. As Jim says, "The quality of photography fun is proportionate to your ability to handle uncertainty."

Very motivating to be sure, but since the weather here still stinks, I went digging back through some old pictures looking for inspiration, and was amazed to find that I have been doing a bit of street photography all along. So until I can actually get out and do more, here is some of what I found:

A merchant giving samples at an open-air market in Placa de Pi, Barcelona

 Street performer, Barcelona

 Man blowing bubbles in the square opposite the Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

 Coolest. Dreds. Ever. Previa del Mar, Spain

Ironic sign (hopefully) Dominica

 The road through Mahaut, Dominica

Santa-Con, downtown Cincinnati

Tiger Dreams #1 and #2, Cincinnati Zoo

Drummers, Newport on the Levee, Kentucky, across from Cincinnati

 Although not technically a street scene, I couldn't resist taking this picture of an Amish family on the Continental Divide in Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado.

O.k., so there are a few "photographing from behind" pictures in here. Something to work on!

Kentucky Backroads

"If you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there" -- George Harrison

Over the years that I've lived in Cincinnati, I have developed quite a fascination with and appreciation of Kentucky. Every once in a while, when I have a few spare hours, I get in the car and drive the backroads, taking pictures or looking for quilt barns with my daughter. I have also spent quite a bit of time camping and caving in the wild limestone hills of Rockcastle County, one of my favorite areas.

Depending on my mood, then, I go either east, south, or west, each direction having a specific geography and culture. First off, the minute you cross the Ohio River, you are in The South. You also often feel that you have travelled back in time either several decades or at least a century. This is a good thing. I am so grateful there are still places where one can get off the beaten path, travel the blue highways, and see a way of life that has all but vanished in our modern suburban existence.

I get off the treacherous AA Highway ("Alexandria to Ashland"), as quickly as possible, and am soon winding my way down equally treacherous but beautiful county roads, down through the wooded hills, past small neat farms tucked into the hollers just off the road.

God and country are big themes down here, and although these are generally poor areas, the farms are neat and well-kept.

A horse rests in the shadow of a barn. Horse country is further south, but extends up here a bit.

Traveling east, the hills get higher, the land opens up, and the poverty gets more obvious. You can drive miles and miles without seeing a town, let alone a grocery store. My thoughts turn to the current talk of "food deserts" in rural areas. This abandoned store is in Bracken County.

Although I'm not a fan of tobacco use, I appreciate its history and cultural significance in this area.

Tobacco fields turn a beautiful golden color in the fall, and after harvesting (still done by hand, but using migrant labor), it is hung in open-air barns to dry.

Further down in the middle of the state, the feeling is decidedly more Appalachian, and far more remote. Rockcastle County is hilly, deeply wooded terrain, with limestone caverns throughout the area. One of my favorite camping spots is at the Great Saltpeter Preserve. It is one of the few places I know in the region that is so remote you hear absolutely no human noise: no motors, no traffic, no airplanes. There are no lights from towns, and the stars are incredibly bright. The number and variety of bird songs is simply amazing. There I feel life stripped of all its unnecessary, jarring modern-ness, and am serenely happy.

Just over the hill from one of our favorite caves is Climax Spring. It  comes out of the ground and runs down the hill in a small bubbling stream lined with watercress, which grows only in the purest water. (I hadn't see watercress since I hiked with my dad as a child back in Iowa.) The spring water is bottled and sold, but there is also a standpipe that runs continually, and is available for free to people who come from miles around to fill containers. It is a wonderful place to refresh after a morning in the caves, and a great way to meet the locals.

As soon as spring gets into full swing I will venture out again to fill my own container up with the sights and smells of renewed life along the backroads.

Awakening

"Every day is ordinary," Father Willibald said, "until it isn't." -- Bernard Cornwell, Death of Kings

Last Sunday, it was Spring. Oh, there have been warmer days this winter, and since then it has returned to cold nastiness, but last Sunday, it was Spring. I could hear it, smell it, feel it. The hawks were going crazy, calling and chasing each other above the trees. The cardinals were singing their spring song, so different than their winter noises, so full of joy. The branches of the maple trees were swelling with red buds. And as we discovered when we went to the Cincinnati Nature Center, the wildflowers were out!

Hellebores, their purple globes hanging heavy above nests of thick green leaves, 

carpets of yellow wood anemones bursting like little suns from the forest floor, 

and tiny clumps of snowdrops nodding their delicate heads toward the cover of last year's leaves.

It is visceral in me, this feeling, this knowing. It makes me sad that so many people are cut off from the natural world, with little knowledge of, or interest in, the movements of earth and life. I regret this de-evolution of humans, in my mind, to the point where most in our society have lost the connection with the rest of nature. And I am eternally grateful to my father, Dayton, for instilling in me the love and hunger for nature from an early age. He would take me hiking in the wooded hills around Dubuque, Iowa, and through the countryside surrounding our cottage at Crystal Lake. He told me the names of all that he knew, the birds, trees and flowers; but more importantly we just walked and talked. I think my love of the outdoors is tied up in the wonderful memories of those early times together. 

I have tried to instill that same love in my own kids. It's harder now, but when they were little we spent many hours catching tadpoles and throwing milkweed fluff to the wind. It is my great hope that someday -- not now, for they are teenagers and have more immediate concerns -- but someday, they feel this same awakening, this love for and connection to the world around them. It is so vital, and I would hate to see it lost to the young of the world.

February Sucks All Color from the World

"It look like February 19th and November 8th/ They had an ugly little baby and they're gonna call it Today" -- Greg Brown, "Help Me Make it Through This Funky Day"

How frustrating to have a new camera, a renewed and voracious interest in photography, yet be stuck in the midst of one of the dreariest months of the year. And so was contenting myself with reading articles on photography instead of actually taking pictures. One great read, linked here: "How to Find Interesting Photo Subjects When There Are None" inspired me to go out on some local "photo safaris" rather than wishing for exotic locales.

So last Friday I decided to stalk some color on a gray February day. I ended up in the little Ohio River town of New Richmond. It was 38 degrees, with a stiff wind off the water and the occasional ice pellet, but amazingly, color abounded on the two-block long riverfront.

I did make sure to stay on the opposite side of the street from the sketchy guy wandering aimlessly and looking in windows. This little town is trying so hard, and it does have a few little shops and cafes, but many empty store fronts as well. I was struck by the soup kitchen in the middle of the block.

There were also a number of fronts that I guess were residences. Many were kind of sad, with sheets covering the windows, but I loved the monochrome browns of this one.

I couldn't resist this pink downspout; I loved the color and texture. It reminded me of my old friend Pinky the Elephant in Marquette, Iowa, where we used to camp at Bloody Run. But that's another story. And the electric meters lined up like little blue robots made me smile.

Just around the corner from the riverfront I was struck by the colors and contradictions of this scene: an attempt at cheer from last fall in the form of plastic leaves and a scarecrow, a scattering of kids' toys, and the peeling paint of a rundown house front. Across the street a young drifter rummaged through the dumpsters behind the buildings in search of food.

There was also color to be had down by the river. Down on the mud flats beyond the docks was a tiny shack. A man was doing something on the front porch. In the distance was the cooling tower from the Zimmer power plant, and a barge was taking a load of coal upriver. Overseeing it all was a lone seagull perched atop a tall pole. This scene really summed up for me life along the Ohio River for so many generations.

At that point, however, the ice pellets were coming harder, I could no longer feel my fingers, and I was feeling a little voyeuristic. I really need an invisibility cloak.

"It's a Dangerous Business,

Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." 

And so I'm off. When I first heard of blogs, my initial thought was, "Why would anyone want to do that?" But since then I've come to realize it may have a benefit. Journaling, they say, is good for the soul, but since my hand no longer seems made for holding a pen, any journaling I do will most likely be typed. As for photos, it seems that most of the sharing I do on Facebook these days is in the form of pictures, and I often find myself wanting to delve deeper into the "why" of the pictures than that forum encourages. 

While my own journey has been going on for 48 years, it seems to be taking more turns lately than it has in a while, with interesting possibilities popping up and seemingly endless choices before me. And the camera...well, there is always a camera attached. My kids will sometimes say "Mom, put your camera down and just enjoy the view!" For me, though, that is how I enjoy the view. Photography makes me see the world as light, composition, beauty, irony, and brings me to things I would otherwise pass by.

So off I go, without a pocket handkerchief, perhaps, but with my trusty new Pentax k-5ii, to see where the road leads...