Saturday, September 24, 2011

-36 and Not Much Else-

I love photography. I love the world it allows me to experience. I love the fact that it allows me to share that world with others. I love the view points it forces me to consider. I love the fact that it totally freaks out certain family members and causes them to ask my mother if I've happened to have "fallen in wit dem devil worshipers and such." I love it. Truly.

But in between all the high fiving demons and terrorizing the Faithful, I've become increasingly aware of the stigma of "The Photog" and thusly, become increasingly uncomfortable at times with owning the fact that eight years ago I was bit by the shutterbug and never looked back. There's that little glaze you see in people's eyes sometimes when you mention what you work in, and realize you somehow just lost credibility. You're suddenly Some Chick with a Camera and not the Ass Busting Artist you damned well know you are.

The validation photography has always sought as a medium of art is nothing new. From the beginning it's had to bob and weave the dismissive comments that it's a lesser and, somehow, easier art and when there isn't in-fighting between the digitals and the analogs, even now there is flack to dodge from the painters and sculptors and people who shit corn cobs into glass bowls for a living.

Now when anyone with a cell phone app or a pirated copy of PhotoShop can style themselves as a photographer, it makes that weird, squishy struggle for legitimacy that more strange. It's the same elitism the cute girl at GameStop gets whenever a guy asks her "Yeah, but are you really a gamer?" Instead it becomes, "Yeah, but are you really an artist?"

It's easy to press a shutter release. It's not easy to know your equipment well enough to truly command it. That said, I'd by lying and flying if I said some of my favorite pieces weren't complete accidents that I have positively no hope of ever recreating. Hell, even some of my favorite pieces by others were the result of cellphone captures, or came out of the dreaded Whimsy Land- Hipster- requisite Holga/Diana/Lomo/What the hells ever.

So whatever, be an indie fuck messing with your white balance. Be a hyper technician calibrating every mirror in your principle body to the point that you forget to bother with actual composition. Just have fun with what you're doing, damnit.

Me? I'm just happy my fan page has 36 members. And none of them are my mother.

No comments:

Post a Comment