I attended a class today on plain language, where the lecturer suggested that everyone has the potential to be writers. It got me thinking that I still don’t normally call myself a photographer. Instead I tell people that I take photos when I talk about this hobby of mine. An age-old discussion, I know – when is it “allowed” to call oneself a photographer? What do you do?
I walked through the park on my way back – the sun shining on the golden leaves – and wished for my Polaroid camera, since it’s Polaroid Week and all. I forgot to bring it this morning. Yesterday I did bring it with me to work, but then the only film I had was the pack that was in it, expired Impossible Project film that hardly turned out at all.
Photographically speaking I’m also working on becoming acquainted with the 50 mm lens I got for my Leica as a birthday present. I mostly keep it on f/1,5; it is SO difficult to get the focus right and SO satisfying the few times when I manage. Never have I been as aware of the rightness of the advice to delete all the unsuccessful photos if not in the camera then at least once you get them transferred to a computer.
Life is such a whirlwind these days – work is moving back into the office, the classes I’m taking are off zoom and I am actually seeing a few people socially. It’s dizzying after such a long spell in lockdown, and at the back of my mind I have the niggling feeling that it cannot last (case numbers are rising again in spite of a decent vaccination rate …)
So I’ll try to enjoy this chaos while it lasts, remembering to keep breathing – through the lens, in my yoga practice – as I go.
~ Jenny G.