I’ve noticed that a photograph never really looks the same to two people. There’s a certain charm that photographs capture. In my experience, it seems the person who gains the most from photography is the artist behind the camera. To look at something beautiful that I, myself composed, fills me with joy. Even around harsh critics, I love to create photos that actually capture the scene’s essence. When I can actually relive that moment with all the emotions and people vividly inside a photo I feel an immense pride that can’t help but show in my smile. But cameras also cage another quintessence. Something only the person who created the photo can fully understand.
When I was younger I really didn’t care, pictures were pointless unless I was in them, I find now that I might have been just a tiny bit selfish (just a little). One day I was sitting in the back of my mother’s car when I saw a book turned over. The book was a collection of portraits from National Geographic that had been ‘dearly loved’ some of the pages were obviously torn out and then rearranged without care. I had great fun looking at all of the pictures of little kids in odd make-up from India, Bosnia, Ethiopia, and so many other locations, I then stopped when I came to a certain photo of a naked baby in Bombay. The baby was crying and reaching out for something that had evaded the camera’s line of sight. The look on that child’s face somehow tore at my heart strings. I remember thinking that I wanted to be able to capture that kind of dynamic emotion in a single picture with no embellishments or tweaking…just something that was real. It was a kind of plague that consumed my being for so many years and for many to come. I always hope my passion shows through my pictures, for I believe that cameras not only open up the emotions of the scene they portray but also they convey the inner feeling of the artist.
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