Dog walkers
It's a perfect Saturday morning rain, steady and warm. I would put down my umbrella if I could, let the rain plaster my shirt to my skin, but I'm carrying a camera. Water pours through a tear in an eavestrough, races down the shining street, forming standing waves in the gutter and collects in a pool where leaves block the drain.
Down at the park, there are no dog walkers now. These people and their animals use the space for a different purpose. I suppose they enjoy the woods and river, but not the way I do. They are not intent on knowing its every mood, and this one in particular does not interest them.
In the woods the rain is louder. Nature carries on, not indifferent but with necessity. A tiny wasp hovers over a yellow flower. The red-eyed vireo sings tirelessly. Frogs rustle along the riverbank. Grasses bend and glisten. As I crouch there, the rain abates. Its presence vanishes like a sigh across the pond and the high maples on the dolostone ridge beyond the river.
Within seconds, a car door slams in the distant parking lot. The dogs and their owners arrive. As I turn homeward, they come streaming down the bicycle path, like water in the street a few minutes ago.
A lady of about 60, whom I have begun to recognize, waves at me. I don't know which is her pet because the dogs always mill in a gregarious circle, but I think it's a large dark mutt, not a typical middle-aged lady's dog. Yesterday she asked whether I had taken any good pictures.
These people see the park in a particular, focused way. They concentrate on managing their dogs' behaviour. They walk quickly, calling. They socialize with other dog walkers, exchanging their dogs' names but not their own.
I suppose they use nature the same way some religious folks use god: however suits their purpose. Spirituality tends to be a tool for people to feel better about themselves; they adopt beliefs that reach toward whatever they take for love. Some end up pissing and shitting on truth. A true mystic also is moved by necessity, but approaches nature without assumptions or expectations.
The problem with photography is it too filters perceptions. Every day I look for a good photograph. Certain textures of the woods, certain qualities of light and shadow, while remarkable, do not lend themselves to a dramatic rectangular image on paper or screen. I tend to pass them unceremoniously, as I do smells and sounds. This seems irresponsible, because often these are the very beauties I long to convey as an artist. My endeavour is limited by time and pragmatism.
Barry Lopez used to be both a professional landscape photographer and nature writer. He gave up photography in 1981 because he realized it prevented him from seeing too much.
I've considered this wisdom before, in fact occasionally I leave my equipment behind. It does not suit me to give up the camera altogether, because images convey ineffable details that matter to me. The visual is essential to how I express my adventure along the river. This journey of images compels and inspires me.
Still, carrying a camera narrows the vision, vastly so. It is unlike a dog: you can turn it off or leave it behind. But the photographer's eye will continue to bend a certain way, overlooking something.
