Here is a passage of a short story I wrote. It is about my initial discovery to photography when I was younger, and taking my first ‘good’ photograph. I no longer have the picture, but I remember taking it vividly.
I was firing off frames with a small point-and-shoot camera with a battery life that lasted as long as it takes to make a pizza. I walked along the wharf, empty of imagery. Or so I thought. Then I peered over the edge and saw three docks forming a puzzle-like structure. The narrow gaps between the planks of gray aged-wood served as diagonal contrasting shapes. The harbor water rippled smoothly, like fine blown-glass. I changed my settings and squeezed the small shutter button. Click. I was ecstatic, as if the picture was a gift to me. It was the moment when photographs made sense–they are the fractions of life that stimulate the eye, and that’s what I loved about this image. Looking back, that photograph was a random scene in my hometown, that gave me a conscious epiphany to make photographs. It was one of those moments where my cheeks genuinely lifted, a sign of my realization that I was smiling because of a new found creative hobby.
Often I go down to those docks and try to find that picture again. I never can. Just goes to show that some things really only happen once, and even if the picture is of objects, those objects can change, or disappear entirely. All of these pictures in this post I took in the same harbor just this week.
On a walk down to the harbor I ran into some children of a friend of mine, and took some pictures. The boy’s name is Brian. One of his hobbies is to speed around on his Strider bike–someday he will be an excellent cyclist.
All images © Eliot J. Grigo