Une Photo Parfaite
It’s easy to find sexy photos in a European town this well preserved and maintained. It is a trap, though. One that captures so many of us photographers.
We are drawn to search for the perfect shot to impress our followers: a cliché shot of the market, the sun dropping behind a mountain range or the always reliable long exposure shots of rushing water.
I find myself scrambling for a cool photo, rather than honouring what I am seeing and following my curiosity. Which is sad as there is so much I am curious about.
On the weekend, the old town of Annecy is rampant with tourists. Families claim the early afternoon and then give up the evening to the young men and women who drink themselves into joyous rapture.
On Monday, most of the shops in the the old city are shuttered. It becomes a new city, quiet and almost deserted.
Tuesday it is alive and kicking. The streets are filled with market stalls and vendors who come to sell their fruits, cheeses, olives and meats. There is a line out the door of the best boulangeries and shopkeepers shout greetings and enticements to the sea of people drifting past.
If you slip between the stalls, you will find the locals sitting in their favourite cafes, drinking espresso and talking loudly.
It is the people I wish to photograph. I am attracted to their souls, their eyes, the wrinkles and the history in their faces.
This is where my curiosity has led me.
So I urged Eli to jot down a few key phrases. And I began to mutter them to myself as I headed out from the cafe.
I was on a mission to capture a portrait. A close-up of a face.
I wandered the streets, mumbling and bumbling my French phrases as I went, but only to myself. I could not bring myself to engage a single soul.
I returned to our flat over an hour later to sulk and eat a block of cheese with olives and bread. I was distraught. I had not spoken to a single soul. Hell, I’d have been happy with even a gesture with my camera. The universal, “May I?”
I find it hard to explain the concept of failure in this regard. People who aren’t artists don’t always understand.
It is one thing to write something that is drek. This is not failure. This is how we learn and build our skill. It is only through the doing that we can advance our craft.
To not write a single word. To avoid the easel. To hide from the people we wish to photograph. This is what I speak of. There is a shame in this, because I know what must be done. I have counseled many a friend on how to get back into their studios or on with their work. To write gibberish, to work with a friend, to just take a smaller risk and get moving again.
And yet I am fallow. Halted by my fears and uncertainties.
For how long? That is the painful question. Will I ever manage to take a photo? Will I ever be able to approach a stranger?
This is made even more difficult by the realization that I have yet to find my way with photography. I am early in my growth and yet I fear that I have already plateaued or that I am unfit and am simply chasing someone else’s dream.
It’s one thing to lack the strength or conviction to do my work, it’s another to doubt my very approach and purpose.
So what to do?
I wasn’t sure, but I managed to muster my courage for another foray.
It would take me another two hours to manage three requests. Two were quickly declined. The last I made after attempting to talk to a lovely man who is travelling across France on foot. To be honest, I only said, “Bonjour!” and he responded with a lovely monologue about the mountains and the lake, or so I assume from his gestures.
The language barrier made it difficult to know more than his name, Jean Claude, and that he has been to more cities in France than I could have named.
We laughed and shook hands and then he graciously stood for a photograph.
Bonne Journée, my new friend! Bonne Journée.
