THE STORY OF (M)Y(OUR) LIFE – 01
For ages I’ve been wanting to share a little bit about capturing this life we live. I think the why is pretty important – the need to leave a legacy, the blessing of teaching our children and those around us how to remember things, and the gratitude that comes along with it when we choose the way we want to see the world.
But to do it effectively, the how becomes pretty important too. I want to give you a few easy tools to help you create beautiful images. It is none of it rocket science, but I thought I’d start a little series that looks at what I’ve found to be a few key elements to keep in the back of your mind when you’re trying to use your photographs to tell your story.
Where you are. The bigger picture. Zoomed out. Wide angle.
I have such a desire for things to be right. To be ordered. I want pretty and picturesque. I fall asleep dreaming of perfection. I mostly wake to a fuzzy reality, because: life.
She gave it to me like a gift, held out in two open hands and eyes that looked me straight on: the pressure is off. With all of her effortless beauty, so uncontrived. The need for all of it to be perfect isn’t really a need, and it’s more important for my life and my photographs to be authentic. Let what I live and what I write and what I photograph all be the same.
It’s especially true of context when your dreams haven’t yet met with reality and the todo list on your recently acquired and renovated home seems long… Context. I am where I am for a reason and the truth is: I love it.
There’s time and place for the details. It’s ok to stop to smell and capture the roses along the way. But know that it isn’t the full story, and it’s the full story that shows the true story.
The solution: Stop. Take a step back, and then another and another. Zoom out. Change your lens and go with the ultra wide angle. Put on your eyes of wonder and become a tourist in your own village. See your home and your life again for the first time.
Show the kitchen in a mess, and the carpet with the stains, and the spilt milk. Show the potholes and the dust. Chances are that won’t be your context for forever, and you will live to know the days when you miss where you are now. You’ll want to remember the smells and the tastes. You’ll long for the comfort of the currently-less-than-perfect. You’ll want to know this familiar horizon.