Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Let me begin by saying that I am not a photographer. In fact, it might be accurate to say that I am to photography what I am to surfing: I love it (especially thinking about it in the abstract), but in reality tend to step backwards off the board and end up swallowing a pint of seawater.
So this past winter when I inherited my grandfather’s camera, I enjoyed it for its aesthetic and nostalgic value, placed it on a shelf where I could enjoy it...and promptly ceased to touch it (I also tend to break things).
Then the other day I pulled it out, and curious to see if it still worked, I took it up to Ritz Camera. There, I met the nicest guy who spent about 45 minutes showing me how to work it (in an very rudimentary way).
Thus armed with new knowledge, a sunny day, and my bike, I tootled around, pulling out my light meter, adjusting the lens (the camera is entirely mechanical), and generally feeling very competent and tied to a larger tradition, one of art rather than science.
Then I got my film back.
*Ahem* it would seem that my self-important feelings of competence and aesthetic rigor were misplaced. Out of a roll of 24, 7 images came out...the others were so over/under exposed as to be unprintable. Of the 7, I can identify 3.
Though these 3 look like what they are--the artless, stumbling, trite efforts of a neophyte without even basic focusing skills--I still rather like them.
Now back to Ritz to figure out where/why I went wrong.