Nearly every photo shoot I’m on, someone will invariably ask me “how did you become a photographer?” or “have you been a photographer long?” And every time they ask that kind of question I find myself at a loss for words. Not that I don’t have anything to say, heavens, I can talk extemporaneously for over an hour on several subjects, especially photography. No, it’s not that I have a shortage of words or thoughts on the subject; it’s just that photography has become such an integral part of me now and I really don’t know how to answer that question. I know, that probably sounds trite, the artist has feelings, that kind of thing. But seriously, I count myself very lucky to know why I am here on this earth and what I am suppose to do with the time allotted to me. In effect, this knowledge helps me get over the bad stuff life throws at me. Knowing this gives me an electric energy.
Anyway, I ramble, now to the meat of this story. When I was about 9 or 10 years old my family moved into a new housing subdivision and our house was the third one in the complex. That first week I scouted out the area and found another family who had just moved in and they had a boy my age, George. He and I took off and began to explore the new homes, most of which were just framed up with no roofing or walls. Well you can only imagine how much fun that was. We did what every self respecting ten year old boy would do, we got our dad’s hammers and began helping out the carpenters with their chores. Needless to say, we were quickly expelled and told not to come back. But wait, we could go back on Saturday when they weren’t around and finish what we started. And that is precisely what we did. About noon, as we were banging away on the wall studs, we heard a very deep voice ask, “what the heck are you boys doing to my house?” We turned and saw what we later found out, was the new owner of the home. We must have looked innocent enough because he asked us to come back once the house was competed and he would give us a tour.
A few weeks later, George and I showed up for our tour, only to find out that his house looked just like ours. I guess the disappointment showed, and he said “I tell you what, why don’t we go out in the back yard and I can take some pictures of you guys.” Well both George and I had seen the kinds of photos our parents produced and our faces must have said it all and we just told him, “no thanks, I guess we’ll just go home.” He then explained to us that he was a staff photographer for the Stockton Record and that his photos would be truly outstanding. He then suggested that we go round up all the kids in the neighborhood and we could recreate the battle of Little Big Horn. We didn’t know what that was, but it sounded too good to be true. So, George and I took off and found three other guys, and George’s brother to play the various parts.
This kind man began shooting and when he had completed his work, he asked us if we would like to see ‘how it all was done ?’ He then took us into his dark room and showed us the wonderful, magical science of photography, and there, right before our eyes, we could see the images come to life. It was at that precise moment in time, I knew I had to find a way to be part of the incredible journey we all call photography.
So there you have it, next time someone asks me “how did you become a photographer?” I can tell them, “hey, just go read my blog, because it just takes too much time to fully explain.”
If you like this, tell me how it all began for you. By the way, can you guess which kid I am? George is the one holding the American flag, and his little brother is the wounded soldier on the stretcher.
