Capturing Community: The Business of a Would-Be Professional Photog

When I started out on this enterprise I would never have guessed at the twists and turns that I would have to navigate through my community.  I balk at the expression “twists and turns” slightly, because it seems to denote a measure of negativity; yet I stand firm with it, for this maze has proved to simply be an enthralling challenge.

My adventure with the camera began as a simple hobby; it was fueled with the desire for a creative outlet, a way to cope with things as simple and convoluted as anxiety.  My photography also began as a deeply personal thing, and still is when I’m pursuing “amateur” endeavours.  As a novice who’s pushed himself into the realm of the professional, I sometimes fear that I’ll lose the amateur in me.  The word “amateur,” of French derivation, simply means a “lover of.”  I think for most photographers—indeed, most humans engaged in any sort of creative activity—the journey starts there.  And for those of us who dream of earning a living from our photographic sensibilities, we merge this love with necessity—with simply making ends meet.  But what happens at this crucial turn?  Lots of strange things, let me tell you.

For the amateur, making frames under the pain of “performance” is abhorrent.  That’s the essential and defining quality of the amateur.  The amateur finds the pressure of professionalism appalling because amateur creation suffers and grows under each photographer’s individual judgment, free of the cold hands of strangers’ criticism.  Granted, it is assisted along the way by friends and mentors, but the aesethic unique to the amateur is fragile, and certainly cannot cope with the raw criticism demanded of dollar bills.  A dollar or any “value” attached to photographic services places a strain on the naturally acquired ease of the amateur.  Aside what transpires within a photographer’s mind when she examines a subject, the artistry of most endeavours is largely consigned to the wasteheap of opinion.  Academic criticism is at once exhaustive and rare in this day and age.  Only the photographer really cares about his personal work; at the most, he invites trusted friends into this circle of criticism.  Cameras are everywhere nowadays, and photographs in overwhelming abundance for this very reason.  It’s tough to stand out, in the professional world and amateur alike.

Forging new creativity is a nearly impossible task, left to the auteurs, the greats.  Yet, once in a while, our photographs speak to others, and in these moments of cosmic blessedness, we are grateful and flattered—and connected in a way that is transcendent.  However, more often than not, our favourite photographs remain unnoticed by others, a fact that simultaneously affirms and affronts our work.  This is the crux upon which a professional photographer (especially, though surely not limited to) finds success or failure: his or her ability to infuse love with work—to slingshot past the crippling singularity of human judgment.  Brandishing a talent that is cultivated in the fertile practice of love in order to pay the bills is daunting, if only because we, simply put, are not the center of the universe when we make photographs for other people.  We’re just half of it.  This is the only inherent difference between the professional and amateur.

The thing that strikes me as the most terrifying concept in all of this is the potential loss of love.  I, for one, do not want to lose the joy of creating photographs.  If you’re making photographs for money, then you’re going to sacrifice some of your creativity.  It’s just the way things go, it’s inevitable.  The photographer’s vision becomes narrowed by workflow, time constraints and demand.  The world makes no room for utter creative control, unless you belong to that elite few.  Even Annie Leibovitz and Joe McNally have had to make creative concessions in order to get the job done.  The world is simply too big for an artist’s singularly selfish apprehension.  Aligning my aesthetic sensibilities with the myriad of the world is impossible in some cases; in others, totally inappropriate.  Portraits are the most awesome example of collaborative work that a photographer can engage in, and only here, in the subtle direction and unveiling that occurs between a photographer and his subject, does the light of artistic glory find its way past professional judgment, illuminating a shared experience, where judgment rests on both photographer and subject.  Humans being as difficult as they are, it is a wondrous and precious thing, not to be taken for granted.

I’ve found part of the secret to coping with all of this, though.  In keeping with logical business sense, I’ve begun a small and ever-increasing interaction with my community.  The participation in community injects love and enthusiasm back into photography in a way that is profound, gratifying, and unexpected. There’s a growing sense of pride within me—a feeling of completion—that is quite different from the feeling I get after creating an amateur frame.  From a personal perspective (and a business one, too) it makes sense.  Sometimes I just want to branch out and ‘witness’ the community with my camera; attend to it, document it.  It sounds strange to word it like that, but I’ve come to look on these kinds of connections as self-sustaining and value-adding.  They position you within a group of “special” humans, special in the sense that you belong to them, and they, to you.  I hope to explore the seas of community and one day, help define it.  For now, I shall simply ride the waves of my community’s vastness with my eyes on the horizon, camera in hand.

Here’s a mix of imagery of the past work that has defined the first three months of my work here in London, ON, both volunteering and business-related.