Prompt: You get back to your studio to develop pictures from the hour you just spent in the park. All of the pictures turn out well, except for a select few. In six photographs, there is a man in the frame. Something seems slightly off, and rather strange about each picture. Who is he and what is weird about the photographs?
I stared down at the proofs I’d just developed and frowned. There was nothing wrong with them, but they weren’t what I wanted. While working as a freelance photographer could be rewarding, it could also be very frustrating.
I cut the power to my light board and sat back with a sigh. Of the twenty-four pictures, probably twenty of them could be used as stock photos. And let’s face it, stock photos were my bread and butter. Taking pictures of the ordinary, the mundane, was big business.
Too bad I couldn’t be content with that. I wanted something spectacular, something different, something that set me apart from the crowd. That’s why I was using a film camera when everyone else was making the switch to digital.
The others can have their photo shop and digital manipulations, I’d stick to my dark room and chemical washes, my light board and enlarger. I enjoyed the hands on process of developing the film, transferring the photos to the paper in the chemical bath, hanging them on a line to dry. It was fulfilling in a way digital couldn’t hope to be.
With digital you can take as many pictures as you want, without having to worry about wasting film. Or worse, running out of it. The processing is all done electronically. No worries about making sure the developer did its job correctly, no fear of the chemicals becoming tainted and ruining a roll of film. Digital pictures can be manipulated and tweeked online. There was no art to it. No soul.
I made myself a sandwich, one of the perks of working at home, and sat on the couch to think while I ate. When I was a kid, I was fascinated by the pictures in the National Geographic magazine my father subscribed to. I loved the pictures. The city streets that showed the light and movement, a slice of life in the fast lane. The sweeping panoramic swath of a desert, the sand shifting in the wind that swept across the top of the dunes.
Then there was the shot of a redwood, taken from the ground and looking up into the canopy, the sun dappling through the leaves. The tropical rainforests with its denizens lurking within. The full page of a snarling tiger with its fierce eyes and aggressive attitude. The shots of the stars filling a night sky, the moon so bright.
But my favorite pictures were those of the people. The child on the tundra, sleeping with its head resting against a caribou. The face of the coal miner, streaked black with coal dust. The old woman on the Isle of Skye, hanging out her laundry in a brisk wind. The smiling, coffee skinned girl, shyly offering a handful of hand made jewelry. The sheik looking out of place in a high rise office.
My childhood dream had been to become a great photographer and go to work for National Geographic. My first camera was a simple point and click I received for Christmas one year. Every penny of my allowance went to film and film processing. When I started high school I was given my first standard reflex lens camera, a Nikon that became my prized possession. I joined the camera club and learned how to develop film. I got a part time job in a department store photo department.
I took chemistry in high school to better understand the developing process of my films. And then I won a scholarship so I could pursue my dream to become a professional photography. I learned about F-stops and spectrums and shutter speeds. I learned theory and composition. I learned about what settings to use for which situations. But the one thing I didn’t learn, was my niche.
This was getting me no where. I got up and brushed the crumbs away. Maybe I’d try my luck at that park near the cemetery. The park was small, but picturesque, and it attracted a variety of people. I’d take a handful of release forms, just in case.
I started with some general shots – the fountain, the dark space in the trees where the path along the river started, the playground, currently empty. I found a cluster of daffodils and took close-ups of them from many different angles. Flowers were always a big seller.
I spent over an hour at the park. I felt like I got a few good shots, but not the shot I was looking for. I was discouraged enough that I waited until the following day before developing the film. I put the negatives up on my light board and used the magnifying glass to look at each shot in turn.
As stock photos went, most of them were perfect. The daffodils in particular stood out for me. I’d have no problem at all selling them. I looked at the ones of the fountain and frowned. Most of them were fine, but two of them had some kind of white smudge on them. I didn’t think it was a glare from the sun, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I found the same kind of smudge on a couple of shots of the entrance to the path, and on the playground. Very strange.
I wasn’t able to make out much detail with just the magnifying glass, so I took the film to my dark room for printing. For now, I only printed the six pictures with the smudge on them. I wanted a chance to examine them more closely.
While I waited for the prints to dry, I tried to think of what that smudge might be. A wisp of smoke? But then why didn’t it show up in the rest of the pictures, and how was it the same in all six pictures with their different locations? That reasoning ruled out a glare of sunlight as well. Sunlight would have looked different in the different places. And I doubted very much it was a fault in the lens. The rest of the pictures were clear.
The timer went off and I picked up the prints and took them out to where the light was better. The smudges were more distinct, vaguely man shaped. I stared at them in astonishment. They looked . . . for all the world they looked like ghosts.
I sat back and thought about this. I didn’t understand it, but it was what I called a happy accident. Maybe it was the proximity to the cemetery that caused this phenomenon. What if I’d actually taken pictures of real ghosts?
Next time, I’d go to the cemetery itself. Maybe I’ve found my niche at last.
No comments:
Post a Comment