I have been in a dry spell. If I was a writer I’d say that I’ve had writer’s block. It wasn’t that I couldn’t take pictures, or “make images” to be highfalutin about it. It was more a matter of motivation. Why bother? Why take photographs? If pressed I’d say that my motivation to photograph began to wan when I decided to get off mainstream social media. As a photographer this was not an easy decision. I had a substantial following on Instagram, as well as Facebook. Suffice it to say, those platforms, and a couple of others, despite my attempt to manage them in a beneficial fashion, did not serve my psyche well. Ultimately, I felt compelled to remove myself, and my work, from that environment. Secondly, with the advent of Covid, independent galleries had, for the most part, disappeared. I was not by any means a big dog in the world of gallery exhibits, but I did enjoy a number of them over the years, ranging from single image group exhibits to solo exhibitions.
Who are we if we cannot share our work? It rings of the old adage, if a tree falls in an empty forest is there a noise? If a photographer makes an image and it never leaves the SD card, or the negative is never printed, is there a photograph? (An old-school photographer friend used to say, “It’s not a photograph until it’s printed, matted, and framed.”) These are not rhetorical questions. Most creative people have a strong compulsion to share their efforts. Very few make work a’la Emily Dickinson. Dickinson, if you’re not aware, only published 10 poems in her lifetime, leaving behind a trove of over 1800 poems, many of them works of brilliant genius. Rare is the creative life that does not seek some fashion recognition. In getting off social media and the gallery closures of Covid, I found myself without an avenue of recognition and as a result, grew unmotivated and disinterested in my lifelong photographic practice. I started traveling without a camera. I lost contact with photographer friends and supporters. In essence, I ceased being a photographer by most measures. It was not pleasant and consequently my world outlook took a dark turn, which sadly these days is not all that difficult to succumb to.
I have been taking photographs for many decades. My father was an ardent amateur photographer, as was my uncle, who also worked in the industry. My cousin made a good living as a professional commercial photographer. It is in my genes, so to speak. I grew up thinking I was born to be a writer, and over the years I have, off and on, published works of fiction and non-fiction. That life, the life of me as a writer, was always in question, however. But my life with a camera was never a question. It was simply part of who I was. That said, my photography, like life, was subject to moods, periods of productivity, fallow periods and everything in between. And it was, during this recent dark period, lacking in enthusiasm, reflecting on the years of ups and down, that I began to make my way out of the creative wasteland. It is called perspective, that effort to zoom out from 28mm to 125mm (funny metaphor from a fixed lens guy!). The common cliché is the view from 30,000 feet. It was realizing that the creative life is not a constant, that one needs to bring discipline to the task, one needs to practice the craft, but when all is said and done, there are simply some things that cannot be forced by willing it so. Sometimes you just have to wait as the well refills. Nature must take its course. Reflecting on past fallow periods gave me a bit of badly needed perspective. I took comfort in the thought that, indeed, despite all evidence to the contrary, I am, always have been, and always will be a photographer, even if an extensive unproductive period is in play.
Perspective was the first step to getting traction towards my goal of renewed motivation. The second step came from a shared bit of wisdom.
Aside from a long-standing and successful marriage, the two constants in my adult life have been, as noted, photography, as well as travel. I took my first trip abroad as a college sophomore. I carried two Minolta SLRs on that trip, one loaded with Kodachrome, the other with Tri-X. That trip set the hook. I was going to do everything I could to continue to explore the world, take pictures, and have adventures, or so the young man I was then thought. I have been very fortunate, and although I never became the photojournalist I thought I’d become, or the travel photographer/writer I imagined, I have had the good fortune to travel extensively, to take a lot of photographs, and have some adventures along the way. And it was during recent travels that the bit of wisdom I mention above was shared with me. My wife and I had rented a house on the Greek island of Syros. Our house had a grand room with french doors that opened onto a view of the harbor. I picked up a photo book that was in the house and went to the balcony to enjoy the view and page through the book. I was surprised to find myself immediately connecting to the photographs. They were black and white, full of rich darkness, sharp contrasts, and subjects simple and intimate. It was as if the Greek muse Calliope, goddess of inspiration, had put it in my hands. I took a closer look. It was a monograph of images by none other than my landlord, the owner of the house I’d rented, Katerina Papoutsi (katerinapapoutsi.com). I had already established a communication with her and immediately dropped her a note, identifying myself as a photographer and expressing my delight in discovering her work. We corresponded extensively over the next several days, sharing images and web sites. In the process she mentioned that her teacher, Platon Ricallis (rivellis.gr), had instilled in her the joy of taking photos for the “pleasure in photography exceeding any concern for the final product.” That wisdom resonated deeply. I realized that I had given myself over to such concern for the final product that I’d lost the joy of the very process, the joy that had set the creative course my life.
That sent me into a period of deep introspection. What, I wondered, is the most joyful aspect of the craft for me? Looking back over the decades, what has brought me the most photographic joy? There was a period of my life when I worked as a photographer, doing odd editorial projects, a period when I did pro-bono work abroad to support NGOs I believed in; I did landscape, portraiture, “fine-art” photography and so on. All of that was enjoyable in degrees, simply because I was working with a camera; I was seeing with attention and intention. But the purest form of photographic joy I’ve experienced has been the simple act of walking around a city with my camera. The closest I get to being Dickinsonian, photographically speaking, is contained in that act—what comes after, that is, “the final product,” seems far less consequential than the act itself. Simone Weil wrote that attention is akin to prayer. When I walk the streets of a bustling city, attention is my prayer, the street my edifice. To paraphrase Weil, attention is joy. The act of holding a camera is a call to attention and an anticipation of joy.
To be less esoteric and more practical, I realized that I am a photographer who travels. I am not a travel photographer, I am a traveler who photographs. The two, travel and photography, are so deeply intertwined in my life experience that they cannot be separated. My introspection afforded me a clear perspective and I began to outline the course ahead. I made small plans, like going into the city for an afternoon of walking around with my camera. I made big plans, like my wife and I finally doing what we’ve not dared doing for years, live abroad. Granted, this big decision is the result of many factors, but feeding my creative life is indeed one of them. The notion of living elsewhere, of having a new photographic pallet, is creatively energizing. I am fortunate to be at a stage in life when I can pursue matters in this fashion. I do not take that for granted. That said, I don’t believe such a grand gesture is absolutely necessary for my creative recovery. But since it is a viable option and I choose to execute it.
And what of the need to share my effort? To be honest, that desire of course is still a part of the practice of photography for me. However, when I feel that need creeping too close to center stage, when I start to over-anticipate the notice an image might get, I take a breath and return to the practice of the joy. There is nothing wrong with the need for validation. Indeed, validation is important. It is usually (not always, however) confirmation that we are headed in the right direction. However, recognition and validation must follow, not lead, the act of creating. That said, I have a virtual community where I share the results of my efforts. You can find me on Glass (@dpbruns), and I am exploring other avenues of photographic support at Reddit, Mastodon, and Bluesky.
The take-away, as they say, of this recent experience is that photography brings me joy. I’ve always carried this knowledge, but like so many things taken for granted, I’d forgotten to nurture it. I simply love the process and it is the best of all experiences to do the thing you love.
