Dipping A Brush in My Soul

Duke Ellington once said, “I merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues.” To me, that’s a pretty powerful statement of the channeling of hope, frustration, love, anger, and fear into an artistic endeavor. Be it performed on an instrument or painted on a canvas, art serves as a window to our souls.

On a recent Saturday morning, I ventured into McDonalds for breakfast. It was raining hard outside, and the restaurant was filled with very noisy customers. At a booth off to one side, I noticed an older man with papers spread out across a table. He was writing in a notebook in longhand. One of several books beside him was titled The Screenwriter’s Handbook.

Here among the pancakes and Egg McMuffins was a guy writing a screenplay in a spiral-bound notebook. Many questions came to mind... what was he writing about, why was he writing in this cacophony of distraction, why was he writing in longhand instead of on a computer, and most importantly, would his work ever see the big screen? Truthfully, the odds are against it. Regardless, I couldn’t help but be inspired.

This past Saturday, I photographed a “Meet Authors and Artists” event in my town of Gray. Two local businesses hosted cartoonists, painters, a photographer, and a number of authors. Save the cartoonist, who worked on Spiderman comicbooks, most of these artists had no chance of making a career from their art. But they shared their work with the world. And once again, I was inspired.

It was Henry Ward Beecher who in 1887 said, “Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.” Likewise, I feel that the stolen moments I have captured through my lens are both scenes of the unique way I see the world and also windows into my own soul.I don’t know how many of my images will be seen by the world. I don’t know that I will ever reach a point where I can pay all the bills with my art. And I don’t know that this is a worthy goal in the grand scheme of life. But like the Duke, I hope every day to turn the energy of the emotions of my life into an art of my own.

Seating for Two

Bleak days are not without promise. A tripod, a fast lens, and a slow shutter speed can find beauty, mystery, and intrique, even while dodging raindrops and puddles. (f2.8, 1/30, 70mm)

Edging Nearer the Deep End

So I got my hair cut today by someone different. Seems the lady who usually cuts it is out following surgery. So at the recommendation of a friend, I tried someone new. We talked a little bit about me, about how much I hate my hair and some ideas about what to do with it. She processed that info for a few seconds and then asked, “Are you having a midlife crisis?” How could she say that? Does she think I’m forty? Heck, I’ve got six months until I hit forty.

As I sat down to contemplate this observation from a learned source—let’s face it, hair stylists and bartenders are experienced therapists—I thought of Jimmy Buffet and A Pirate Looks at Forty. I’ve not lived the colorful life he describes. In fact, I think my life has been quite the opposite, void of risk, and I have come to wonder if that is an entirely good thing.

Photography is a passion for me. Seeing my world through a lens—capturing a moment— is therapeutic. That didn’t happen overnight. But in a few short years, it has come to consume much of my imagination, my creativity, and my dreams. And one of those dreams is to find success as a photographer.

Ironically, in the last two weeks, I have had been asked to shoot images for a local magazine, a book cover, and a wedding. My stock photography has done extremely well. Yet, the thought of really sticking my neck out there, of buying new equipment, insurance, and all the other things that come with owning a business sends butterflies rocketing around my belly. Why is it so hard to jump into the deep end of the pool? And in how many other areas in my life have I been cowering near the shallow end where it’s nice and safe—where I can’t get hurt?

A journalist and author from Chicago, Sydney Harris, once wrote. “Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.”

For what it’s worth, I’ve got a new hair style today. And I recently bought some new bootcut jeans that I think look quite good on me, especially for someone 39 years old. And I’ve been hanging out near the deep water, wondering if I can see the bottom—or if that matters.