My Romance with Photography
For me, it was always the black-and-white version.
My husband and I traveled a great deal, with him taking snapshots of every place we visited. Our first trip was a seven-week European tour during my first pregnancy. But the pregnancy story is for another day.
Today, it's about taking pictures and creating images instead of snapshots. Wherever we went, hubby was right there with his camera.
"Why not get yourself a camera?" I finally asked myself. The answer was a decisive YES; no reason not to. So, I signed up for a beginner's course in black-and-white photography at the International Center of Photography in uptown Manhattan. Now it's moved downtown.
I loved it from the minute I walked in. My aim was purity — in other words, I wanted complete control of my images, nothing automated. They suggested which camera to buy, an Olympus 1, because it was completely manual, and they instructed me about its use and how to develop and print a black-and-white image.
We had assignments given to us at each class and critiqued at the next. For example, we had to create images of whole white eggs on a white background or take twenty-five or more views of a single object, like a chair, each shot from a different perspective. All challenging.
Sometimes, our assignments were our choice. Things went a little too far when a male classmate photographed each thing he did upon awakening. And he included a view of his penis, urinating, taken by holding his camera under his chin and pointing it downward.
I became an expert and set up a darkroom in the basement of our large house. I rolled my film, developed images, and printed them. I wanted blacks to look deep and whites to glow, and I adjusted all the in-betweens grays as needed.
During these years, I wasn't working at a full-time job. However, as my divorce was looming, I needed to find work. I found a job and continued my photography, but modified it.
One summer, my kids were all at sleep-away camps, and I had a week's vacation from my job. I was alone and found a photography school in Maine, The Maine Media Workshops in Rockport, Maine. I submitted samples of my work and was excited to be accepted. I flew to Boston and then took a tiny plane to Rockport. So, no car. I was in my late forties.
I brought equipment I thought I would need, making my suitcase unbearably heavy. I chose to stay in their dormitory, not knowing it was about a mile up the road from the main buildings and classrooms. Also, I didn't think I was supposed to bring sheets, pillowcases, and towels. So, when I arrived and found my assigned private room, I was greeted by a naked bed and pillow and a few hangers on a portable clothing rack. It felt as bare as I did, being all alone.
I had brought a darkroom towel — a piece of terry cloth, about 12" 12". The following day, after my shower, that's what I used to dry myself.
I was astonished when I noticed a luscious, juicy-red beefsteak tomato on the room's window sill. It was the only color besides the blue and white striped ticking on the naked mattress. I couldn't imagine why a red tomato was on the windowsill. What was it doing there? I was grateful to see it since it took my mind off my lack of linens and towels and thrust it back to creating images.
So, I spent the night in the dorm, but the next day, I tried finding a motel in town, but they were all booked up. Being alone and feeling desperate to find new lodgings, with none available, I started to cry. I couldn't picture myself spending the rest of the week in the dorm and thought I might have to go home.
One of my classmates, a handsome twenty-one-year-old, noticed me crying, sitting on the sidewalk with my feet in the gutter. He was so kind; I immediately fell in love with him. He asked what was wrong and said he would help me. He went to management, pleaded my case, and I was offered a room (with linens and towels) in the main house, next to the classrooms, darkroom, and dining room. And he helped me move. We remained as friends throughout the week. I later learned my classmates, including him, all in their twenties, spent every night in each other's room, having sex and smoking pot.
The classes were terrific; I couldn't have asked for more. We were given assignments and went on field trips. On the last day, we each displayed our week's work, which the students and faculty critiqued. My classmates and teacher told me my images were elegant and creative. I was so delighted that I felt returning to my mundane job would be near impossible.
Shortly after that summer, I met a man who became my second husband, and guess what? He was a photographer. He did close-up views of flowers, of course in color, had them developed, and mounted them in simple frames on which he wrote the date and location of the image. They were engaging on many levels; the clarity, the colors, and the varieties were alluring, just as he was.
A black-and-white photographer takes photos alone and is committed to solitary hours developing and printing. My relationship with this man grew, and I found less and less time to pursue my photography hobby. So, I compromised and switched my methodology to his — color.
Color photographs, in those days, were never developed at home. That meant we could spend time traveling together, taking photos without homework by sending our images to a lab. We traveled to several national parks, me carrying two cameras. One was loaded with black-and-white film, the other with color film. However, they hurt my neck and were too bulky to lug around, and I finally gave up dreams of becoming a renowned black-and-white photographer.
All this took place in the days before cell phones or digital cameras. When that happened, I moved on. I never owned a digital camera. Fast forward to today — occasionally, I take snapshots of events on my iPhone.
It's OK; the iPhone photos are of excellent quality. However, the experience offered me nowhere near the fun and creativity I soaked up while participating in black-and-white photography's technical and creative aspects.