Through a Lens Brightly
I used to love taking pictures.
Oh, I didn’t harbor any illusions that I was a photographer. But ages ago, back in college, I carried a camera with me wherever I went. At first it was a little point and shoot digicam. It had no zoom and image noise under low light, but I found myself a little bit in love with capturing the way the world looked, and the way the world looked to me.
But then my camera broke. I couldn’t afford a real camera back in those days–but I could afford a Holga. Holgas were plastic cameras that used square format film that had to be sent out for processing. They were made in China, cheap and poorly constructed. Light leaked in, streaking the film. Corners went dark. Images looked surreal.
Real photographers would probably tell you that these images were bad. Out of focus, exposed incorrectly. I didn’t care. I loved the way that this plastic camera, purchased on ebay from Hong Kong, forced me to see the dreamlike in the daily. I began to experiment with other weird cameras–like the plastic dollar store cam whose lens I coated with clear nail polish.
Eventually, I discovered the Olympus XA. It was the camera that the infamous Lomo-brand Russian camera was based upon, but despite its brand-name credit and clear, rangefinder focus, it sold for much, much cheaper. It was no bigger than my palm, and I carried it everywhere. Somehow, pictures taken with it looked like real life–only better.
But then but then but then I made the mistake of reading Susan Sontag. On Photography, specifically. It wasn’t entirely my choice–I was assigned her infamous essays as part of a school assignment. Sontag was very, very persuasive. By capturing an image of an experience, we were appropriating that experience. We were also forcing ourselves to be passive–a lens, rather than an actor. We were holding our camera between ourselves and our experiences, as a shield, of sorts, protecting ourselves from doing or feeling anything meaningful. We were recasting our experiences as interpretive acts, rather than events to be felt and had.
And I had to admit that, by this point, it was starting to feel very true. The Eckerd by my house had shut down, taking with it its photo lab with their precious and seemingly-rare matte printing. Carrying film was cumbersome. Sometimes, at parties, I felt like “a girl with the funny camera” rather than “a girl.”
So I stopped. Set my cameras aside for a time. Took a break.
In the years since, I’ve tried, on occasion, to pick up photography again. I had a few sub-par point and shoots. Their digital images were often blurry, off-color, wrong. I missed it sometimes–and so when I received a Nikon DSLR from some relatives as a very generous gift, I hoped my former love would be reinvigorated.
But carrying the Nikon was cumbersome. I still use it sometimes–and still will. But I couldn’t slip it into my pocket, much less my purse (what if the lens popped off, I worried, and was ruined?!). And honestly, I felt kind of foolish with it slung around my neck, like a huge and unwieldy albatross. Sontag was right, I thought. Cameras really do get in the way of our experiences with the world.
But lately something changed, shifted. I began to miss taking pictures something fierce. What I missed mostly was the sensation I had back in the days of my Olympus XA–that feeling of having a camera that’s an extension of your own eye, your own vision of the world. And I realized something.
When you’re a writer, you don’t need a camera to appropriate the universe. Just like a photographer, you’re always reinterpreting events around you, trying to make them fit some sort of narrative, trying to make randomness make some sort of cosmic sense.
So I gave myself permission. I bought a new camera–well, a new, used camera, a Lumix LX3. It came in the mail the other day. I took it out of its paper wrapping, looked at it skeptically. It had more heft and weight than I’d expected. Almost felt like it had been built in the 70s or 80s, like my old XA. Nervously, I went outside into the chilly day, and walked over to the cemetery across the street to take a few test shots.
I was very, very happy with the outcome.
I’m optimistic, excited about taking more pictures.This camera feels good in my hands, small and unobtrusive. It focuses quickly, takes clear pictures with little effort. I think, despite what Sontag said, that this is what cameras should be and do–a natural extension of one’s experience, rather than something that supplants it. It doesn’t just help you to see the world around you clearly, but it helps you to see the world around you better than your own naked eye ever could.
In that way, it’s a lot like writing.
Phoebe
Phoebe is a 20-something writer who lives in New York State with her husband and cat. She is a dork, not a geek or a nerd.
Her debut novel, Starglass, will be released from Simon and Schuster Books for Young Readers in Summer 2013.
17 comments
My friend Liz joined an on-line photo-a-day group about… four years ago? And her take on it is that she's looking at the world more eagerly now, instead of being completely folded into her own head all the time. It has turned her gaze outward, and she likes that.
I had a flickr friend do the same back in 2007 or so, and she later ended up going to grad school for photography! It had only been a hobby for her before.
I've considered doing something similar here on the blog, but wonder if it would be too naval gazey or odd. Hmm . . .
I had this issue with my kids– taking 200 pictures of an event because GOD FORBID one second of their lives go undocumented, and then feeling like I'd missed the entire thing afterward. I like your idea of the camera being an extension rather than supplanting.
Also it turns out "supplantion" is not a word.
Supplantion should definitely be a word.
Like all things, it's definitely about balance, I guess. I suspect iPhone photography has made it a lot easier for many parents to have photographer be an unobtrusive part of their lives.
Congrats on your new camera! Your post made me want to dust off my holga.
Ooh, yay, another Holga photog!
Made me feel a bit like that, too. Until I remembered how expensive medium format film was even back in 2005.
Beautiful post, Phoebe. I, too, miss the days of my cheep plastic cameras. We have some fancy digital affair that is supposed to take lovely pictures, but I just don't take pictures anymore because the camera is cumbersome.
Thank you, Michelle! It's a real problem, I think, when technology becomes so big and clumsy that we don't even want to utilize it.
Holgas are back in with pro photographers. Mostly all we use is the high end DSLRs for publications, so a lot more are using film for personal projects. I pick up some disposables from ebay every so often and just have at them. Super fun!
Oh, that's great! Back when I was into them there was still very much a split between toy camera enthusiasts and "real" photogs. Honestly, when I was buying the lx3, I very nearly bought a toy digital (this one), but then I realized that for around that price, it made more sense to go with a more flexible prosumer.
Yeah! I totally know what you mean about some cameras being quite unwieldy. I'm okay carrying my 5D around while travelling through Scotland. I tend to prefer it because it's weatherproofed, so if it rains, it would take a lot for the body to stop working.
But when I travel elsewhere, carrying around a camera of that size and weight gets tiring FAST. A lot of photographers have started picking up cameras like the Olympus Pen for vacations, because they're tiny and the image quality is still super great, and it has manual controls.
I think there's now a great deal of nostalgia for film cameras that's making them more popular. I'm seeing a lot of polaroids, pinhole cameras, and disposables being used. Even better if the film is expired or light leaks in to produce the authentic film affect.
The Pen seems like a great camera. I must admit that I'd totally get a digital rangefinder if I could afford one. Part of it is nostalgia, but I really did miss the build quality of film cams, and it seems like you can only get that from prosumer or higher quality cameras now a days.
Not so much that they help you to see the world, but that they encourage you to think about what you see. Same as writing does: you can't make anything interesting until you teach yourself to see the world as interesting, so if you want to be creative, you're forced to see the world as more of a wonderful thing.
The summer after my lousy freshman year, I carried a crappy cell phone camera around with me, snapping pictures of every little thing that happened, because I was depressed and needed to prove to myself that all those boring things I did every day without caring, those things constituted an actual life, which I was living regardless of whether or not I was aware of the fact. Taking pictures can make an experience out of the mundane.
I agree with Sontag, though, that when you're holding a camera you're a passive observer of a scene rather than an active participant. Many memories of concerts ruined by the effwads who shot pictures rather than danced. And people who I find dull because they feel the need to capture a memory of every little experience. So I only take photos now when they're of events long enough that a minute preparing a camera won't diminish the whole thing, and when the event itself is unusual enough that taking the picture is a document of the experience rather than an attempt to force an artistic vision upon the world.
(I find that theatrical observation is better than writerly or photographic observation as far as appreciating the world around you goes. Looking for the patterns in people's movements or thought, the way one idea triggers another on, the rhythms of movement in a single person or a group of people, helps me both to notice details I'd never take in as a writer or photographer, and it helps me to appreciate the complex beauty of even the simplest moments. Plus it allows me to participate here and now, rather than stepping back the way Sontag criticizes, and live my life while watching it too.)
Hey, Rory! I've missed you on g+ lately.
Honestly, I think it very much depends on the sort of person you are. Sontag's criticism is made under the assumption that one is already an active participant in life. This might sound terribly depressing, but as a writer I already am–and always will be–guilty of actions she thinks are passive and appropriating, camera or not. Quitting writing wouldn't help that; it's much more about one's inclination toward engagement with the world. Would those effwads have ever danced, or would they just have been the effwads at concerts who stand there with their arms crossed, nodding their heads and listening?
Because, look, I'm a shy person. I work from home. I exist very much in my own head most of the time. But when I got my camera in the mail, that got me to go out and take a walk. And I saw a pair of deer scampering away. The next day it snowed and I went out and took more pictures–and hey, look, there was a whole flock of geese sitting in my creek that I hadn't even noticed! I was still "passive," but I was more engaged with the world around me than I would have otherwise. And even though I was once "a girl with a funny camera" at parties, it was an excuse–an easy excuse–to be outgoing, to talk to people.
Some people don't need props. But I honestly feel that Sontag's argument privileges the the extroverted and the active in a way that might not be entirely fair. And I'm not sure that "people who feel the need to keep a photographic record seem dull to me" is sufficient an argument against it–there are people who dance who are dull, too. I think this was the blind spot in her argument: there are many ways to participate, to become a part of the world. I don't thin that taking pictures is any less valid than any other.
Aw, man. I've been looking to upgrade from my point-and-shoot for a month now, and I know it's silly, but it feels like every camera I want to buy keeps running further and further away from me. Ugh.
I know what you mean about cameras somehow taking you out of the experience and making you a casual observer. On a recent trip to India, I took enough photos to come back and look at some of them and wonder where *I* had been. All these amazing sights, and I felt like I hadn't been to about half of them. But the fact that I see so much more than I would without a camera kind of makes up for it. It's all about finding a happy balance. And I hope to do that as I get better and better at photography.
Your photos are lovely, Phoebe! The earlier ones didn't even need Photoshop to make them look creative!
Have you looked into the canon s90/s95/s100 and the lumixes? I ended up searching for like two weeks for just the right camera. I almost bought a digital elph, but for the same price i was able to get a 4 year old used lx3, which has a much better lens.
And you're right–it's all about balance. Thanks, Rida!
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