Behind the Lens: Are You Going to Take the Picture?

There is a scene from The Secret Life of Walter Mitty that keeps finding its way back to me.

A photographer has spent an incredible amount of time searching for a snow leopard.

And finally...

There it is.

The moment he's been waiting for.

The camera is ready.

The animal is right in front of him.

But he doesn't take the picture.

Walter is confused.

After everything it took to get there, why wouldn't you take the photograph?

The photographer explains that sometimes, when he really likes a moment, he doesn't want the camera to distract him from it.

He just wants to stay in it.

I've seen that scene before.

But lately, it has been hitting me differently.

Because I've spent so much time talking about the importance of taking the photograph.

I've written about how photography preserves moments.

I've written about how a photograph can hold onto a fraction of a second that we'll never experience exactly the same way again.

I've spent countless hours waiting for that fraction of a second.

Waiting for wildlife to appear.

Waiting for an osprey to dive.

Waiting for a deer to step out from behind the trees.

Waiting for a great blue heron to take flight.

Waiting for the sun to break through the clouds.

Waiting for morning light to hit the trees just right.

Watching the water.

Watching the sky.

Watching the light change.

Checking my settings.

Shutter speed.

Aperture.

ISO.

Focus.

Waiting for everything to come together so that when the moment happens...

I'm ready.

Sometimes that moment lasts only 1/3200 of a second.

An animal suddenly looking directly toward me.

Water exploding around an osprey.

A heron's wings opening.

A deer disappearing between the trees.

A drop of water falling from a feather.

An expression that disappears almost as quickly as it appeared.

That's what I love about photography.

For 1/3200 of a second, I can preserve something that will never happen exactly that way again.

And when that moment happens, my instinct is almost always the same.

Raise the camera.

Find the subject.

Focus.

Press the shutter.

Sometimes hundreds of times.

Because I don't want to miss it.

But lately I've started wondering...

What exactly am I afraid of missing?

The photograph?

Or the moment?

Because those aren't always the same thing.

There have been times when I've been so focused on capturing something that I realized afterward that I experienced almost all of it through the viewfinder.

I have hundreds of photographs proving I was there.

But how much of it did I actually experience with my own eyes?

That's a strange question for a photographer to ask.

My entire passion is built around capturing moments.

But maybe there's another lesson photography is trying to teach me.

Life happens in all the seconds between the photographs, too.

I've watched wildlife move through places most people walk straight past.

I've watched deer quietly disappear into the trees.

I've watched ospreys glide over the water.

I've watched four young great blue herons grow from tiny heads peeking over a nest into birds strong enough to leave it behind.

I've watched rabbits freeze in the grass, hoping I hadn't noticed them.

I've watched tiny birds move through branches so quickly that sometimes all I could do was laugh and lower the camera.

I've stood beside water and watched reflections change as the wind moved across the surface.

I've watched sunlight break through the trees early in the morning.

I've watched clouds change the entire feeling of a landscape in a matter of seconds.

I've listened to wind moving through leaves.

Water hitting the shoreline.

Birds calling somewhere beyond where I could see them.

I've stood completely still because an animal was close enough that moving didn't feel right.

And I've spent plenty of time outside when absolutely nothing happened.

No dramatic wildlife encounter.

No perfect light.

No photograph worth posting.

Just me...

standing somewhere beautiful.

And maybe those moments matter too.

I've seen moments where everything inside me screamed...

Take the picture.

And I did.

I'm glad I did.

Those photographs mean something to me.

But not every beautiful moment needs 1/3200 of a second to prove that it happened.

Some moments deserve the photograph.

Others deserve my complete attention.

And sometimes...

I can have both.

Maybe that's one of the greatest gifts photography has given me.

The camera gave me a reason to go looking.

It got me outside.

It made me curious.

It taught me to look up.

And down.

And behind me.

It taught me to notice movement between the trees.

Ripples across the water.

Tracks in the dirt.

A change in the wind.

The way light moves across a landscape.

The sound of wildlife before I ever see it.

It taught me that sometimes the most interesting thing isn't directly in front of me.

Sometimes it's above me.

Sometimes it's hiding beneath the leaves.

Sometimes it's a hundred yards away.

And sometimes...

there isn't anything to photograph at all.

Photography taught me how to notice things I probably would have walked past before.

But maybe the next lesson is learning when to lower the camera.

I've spent a lot of my life thinking about what comes next.

What needs to be done.

Where I need to be.

Who needs me.

What problem needs to be solved.

Even photography can become another version of that if I'm not careful.

Find something.

Get the shot.

Go home.

Import it.

Edit it.

Post it.

Print it.

Sell it.

Move on to the next one.

Something that started because it made me feel alive can slowly become another list of things I'm supposed to accomplish.

I don't want that.

Because sometimes I don't want to accomplish anything.

Sometimes I want to disappear into the woods for a few days with my camera.

No schedule.

No expectations.

No photograph I need to come home with.

Just trees.

Mountains.

Water.

Wildlife.

Weather.

Silence.

And whatever nature decides to give me that day.

Knowing me, I'd probably still come home with a memory card begging for mercy.

But maybe that's not the point.

Maybe I could also come home with something that never touched the memory card.

A moment that belongs only to me.

No Lightroom edit.

No Facebook post.

No print.

No website.

No proof that it happened.

Just a memory.

That's difficult for me.

Because photography has taught me how fragile moments are.

And life taught me that long before I ever understood a camera.

Seasons change.

Landscapes change.

Children grow.

Animals move on.

Nests become empty.

People we love become memories.

Even the places we think will always look the same eventually change.

I've experienced enough life to understand how quickly an ordinary moment can become something you desperately wish you could experience one more time.

Maybe that's part of why I've become so obsessed with photographs.

I know what it feels like to wish I had one more.

One more picture.

One more conversation.

One more ordinary moment that didn't seem important until it was gone.

So when something beautiful happens now, part of me wants to preserve it.

I want proof.

I want something I can look at years from now and say...

This happened.

I was there.

There's nothing wrong with that.

It's part of why I love photography.

But I'm beginning to understand that preserving a moment and experiencing a moment don't have to compete with each other.

There can be a balance.

Take the photograph.

Then lower the camera.

Look with my own eyes.

Listen.

Breathe.

Feel the wind.

Listen to the water.

Watch what happens after the shutter closes.

Let the moment continue without asking anything else from it.

No perfect composition.

No perfect light.

No perfect exposure.

No wondering whether anyone else will like the photograph.

Just being there.

Maybe someday I'll be sitting somewhere far from home.

Deep in the woods.

Beside a lake.

On the side of a mountain.

Maybe wildlife will appear.

Maybe the light will be perfect.

Maybe the entire landscape in front of me will look like something I spent my whole life waiting to see.

And maybe everything I've ever learned about photography will tell me...

Take the shot.

And I probably will.

1/3200 of a second.

One press of the shutter.

One tiny piece of time preserved forever.

But then maybe I'll lower the camera.

I'll look around.

Listen to the wind moving through the trees.

Hear whatever is calling somewhere in the distance.

Feel the ground beneath me.

Watch the light change.

And remember why I came there in the first place.

Not for the memory card.

Not for the website.

Not for the business.

Not even for the photograph.

I came because I wanted to be there.

I've spent so much time trying to preserve moments because I know how quickly they disappear.

Photography has given me a way to hold onto some of them.

And I will never stop loving that.

There is still wildlife I want to photograph.

Animals I've never seen.

Places I haven't explored.

Mountains I haven't climbed.

Forests I haven't walked through.

Sunrises I haven't watched.

Storms I haven't stood beneath.

Thousands, maybe millions, of photographs I haven't taken yet.

I want all of that.

But I don't want to become so focused on remembering my life that I forget to live it.

A photograph doesn't stop time.

Nothing can.

But for 1/3200 of a second, it reminds me that this moment mattered.

What I'm beginning to understand is that all the time surrounding that 1/3200 of a second matters, too.

The journey there.

The waiting.

The watching.

The listening.

The silence.

The unexpected encounters.

The moments when nothing happens at all.

The feeling of actually being there.

Maybe that's the lesson I'm still learning.

Take the photograph.

But don't forget to live the moment you're trying so hard to remember.