My Lens is Bigger Than Yours
I’ve always enjoyed photography, although I haven’t always had the necessary equipment. When I took a photojournalism class in college, I fancied myself a younger, less depressing Ansel Adams, and that I was just two-hundredths of a second away from shooting dramatic news photos for the Associated Press in foreign locales.
I had one serious problem though: my eyesight.
My eyesight, even with the latest and greatest optical correction technology, cannot be restored to 20/20 vision. As a result, whenever I would take a picture, I focused to what looked good to me, rather than what was actually clear and sharp. The only photojournalism work I could do was taking blurry pictures of aliens shaking hands with the President.
“What’s this amorphous blob?” my instructor would ask.
“That’s a few of my teammates at soccer practice,” I would answer.
“Then what’s this amorphous blob?”
“That’s a fire truck racing to a fire.”
“Then what are all these scattered and mangled blobs?”
“The truck took a wrong turn and ended up on the soccer field.”
Of course, there was no pleasing this guy. No matter what photo anyone took, there was always something wrong with it. Always. My friend Joel had this class a year later and managed to take pictures of a huge house fire near campus, and got one published in the school paper.
His photo received a B because he wasn’t able to take some photos from a higher point of view, like from a firefighter’s ladder.
When the semester ended, my dreams of being a great photojournalist died, because my instructor had squashed any hopes I had. That and it was my dad’s camera, so I had to return it.
But finally after 16 years of wondering “what if,” my patience was rewarded with a brand-new 35 millimeter single-lens reflex camera for my birthday.
It’s a macho, manly camera with interchangeable zoom lenses and detachable flash (each sold separately), unlike the sissy girly camera with a fixed lens and built-in flash my wife used for family photos.
Before anyone writes me angry letters saying “Hey, you jerk! I own a camera with a fixed lens and built-in flash!” let me explain.
As a Guy, I tend to put things into two groups. If I own it, it’s macho and manly. If I don’t, it’s sissy and girly. This is true whether we’re talking about my 14-volt cordless power drill, my 32-oz framing hammer, or my 26-year-old complete collection of macho and manly “Little House on the Prairie” books. It was also true when I owned a 1978 Toyota Celica hatchback and Joel owned a 1968 Ford Mustang GT. My Toyota was macho and manly, and his Mustang was sissy and girly.
But best of all, my camera is an auto-focus, so I don’t take pictures of blobs anymore.
Me: Honey, look at all the great pictures I took at the beach from our vacation. See, no amorphous blobs!
My wife: How nice. The photos of all these bikini-clad women are in sharp focus.
I was recently at a family gathering where I had a chance to use my new camera. Unfortunately — and without naming names — there are certain members of my family who hate having their picture taken, regardless of the occasion.
“I hate having my picture taken!” they explain. “I look awful.”
Of course, that’s because the only way to take their picture is to sneak up, say their name, and snap the picture as soon as they turn around. And as one would expect, the people in question look surprised, angry, and mortified at having been tricked yet again in the game that’s lasted over 30 years. And nearly all of their photos look this way.
I sometimes wonder if their driver’s license photos look like this.
Police officer: This photo looks nothing like you.
My family members: Hold up a camera and startle me.
Police officer: Okay, I see it now!
I’ve never understood what all the fuss is about. We all know pictures can’t steal a person’s soul (video cameras are another story altogether). And the photos will never be seen except by other family members or visitors who make the mistake of asking if we have any photo albums.
My philosophy is to not worry about it. Photographs are a way of preserving memories. They bring our personal histories back to life. We can recall the smells and sounds from those all-too-brief moments, and remember what made them special enough to take the pictures in the first place.
At least that’s what I feel in my macho, manly sensitive side.
