Who takes the Photograph?

      It would be nice to believe that I have taken all of the photographs that have come out of the camera in my hands. After all, I chose the film, the lens, the f-stop, the shutter speed. I aimed the camera and composed the photo. In fact, didn’t I do everything to make the picture? Of course it’s my photo. Or is it?

      I’ve also written lyrics, and have a very clear memory of looking at one of them some time ago, months after it was written, and not being able to comprehend that it was mine. It was a love song, and the expression of love was so beautiful and pure and poetic that I knew I couldn’t possibly have written it, though, in fact, I had. I’d been trained as a lawyer, and knew I could write legal briefs. I also saw myself as being a little stiff and withholding in the area of emotions. And, yet, here were these words that very openly and eloquently spoke of an emotion I wasn’t really comfortable talking about in my life.

     

     So who wrote the words, and who takes the photographs? I’ve spoken to friends who are artists – painters, photographers, writers – and they all describe the same experience: It’s as if they are simply conduits. The brush moves on the canvas, the words are written on the page, by some force coming through them. It’s an unconscious thing. It doesn’t always happen, but it’s very good when it does. It’s being “in the zone,” and it’s an exhilarating experience. In that place, art creates itself effortlessly, without thought. It’s an ineffable, powerful magic.

      When I write a lyric, I’ve found that the best way for me to get there is to lie down, close my eyes, and let myself drift. If I try to force the words, they won’t come, or, perhaps worse, they come but sound like a legal brief. But often, when I’m in that state between awake and sleep, the words are suddenly there, clean, honest, unadorned by any calculation, compromise or cleverness. Similarly, there are times I need to shoot, so I load the camera with film and walk out onto the streets of, say, New York. But I can’t shoot.The camera is just a weight, a burden, because I feel empty of any thought or ideas. It’s frustrating to feel stupid and untalented, and those self-judgments make it even harder. Then I remind myself to relax, just let the judgments and expectations go, and enjoy the walk. Breath the air, watch people being people – to use a cliché, just be in the moment. And that’s when, very often, the alchemy will begin to happen. The camera almost lifts itself as that force inside connects with something outside of me – the way the light falls on something, an emotion exchanged between two people, the transformation of a functional object into a graphic shape. In fact, it is probably in that transformation that the creative impulse is happening -- when what is seen becomes the essence of what is seen. It’s so hard to describe without sounding pretentious, and that is why I so often dislike discussions of art and the creative process.
      What I know is that I’m not doing this alone. Is God speaking through me? I don’t know. But it’s as good an explanation as I can think of.