I am surrounded by photographers. My friend, Jen L. is a college photography teacher. Morgan, Andria, Stacie, Jen H., Jen D. (get a blog, Dawkins), Gin, and Deirdre are hobby photographers. And they are good. Real good. They talk about things like “creative expression” in their pictures and they talk about camera settings by spouting off numbers and they make jokes about how expensive lenses are and stuff.
They are big time.
I never have Ridley’s arms in focus. My camera is always in the auto setting. The only reason a few of my pictures are good is because Husbanks bought that camera that Ashton Kutcher uses in his commercials. And because James taught Husbanks his photography secret. I’ll never tell. Oh, and because my three subjects are beautiful. Hollis’ beauty is an acquired taste.
I know nothing about photography, but my mother is a photographer. And she took a lot of pictures of me when I was little. I remember the overcast weather that would spur her desire to drag me outside to take pictures. And now when I see that weather peering through my old aluminum windows, a warm, childhood Pavlovian response floods my tummy and spurs me to get outside with my baby. Because I’m the mommy now. It’s a bittersweet and blessed feeling to be behind the camera. I’ve entered into the responsibility of the middle generation.