Last year I came across a book called Photographs Not Taken, edited by Will Steacy; it’s a collection of essays by photographers about images they, for one reason or another, didn’t make. Sometimes it was as simple as not having their camera or forgetting the film. Occasionally it was because the photographer felt there was a moral or ethical reason not to make the image. In my favorite essay a father describes a fleeting moment watching his young son stop in a beam of sunlight that was filtering through the smoke at a backyard barbecue, lifting his hand up into he air to watch the way the rays seemed to go between his fingers; knowing that he probably couldn’t retrieve his camera and capture the image in time he chose instead to simply be present and bear witness to such a magical moment, capturing it only in his mind.
But finding the book had me thinking about what moment I could write about; wondering what photos I had missed. I know there are dozens of them, from small moments I choose not to pick the camera up for, to larger ones where fear stands in my way. I let fear talk me out of way too many photos. Fear of being thought too weird keeps me from turning the car around and standing on the side of the road to capture a scene. Fear of being thought a pain in the ass keeps me from asking whoever I’m with to wait. Fear of being yelled at keeps me from capturing street scenes, and fear of rejection keeps me from asking someone if I can make their photo. Most all of my missed photos are born from fear. But of all the photos I know I’ve missed, because I can remember the times I’ve conversed with fear, I couldn’t remember a single image.
I had been thinking about this a lot over the summer in particular. Getting ready to move and have a new - and very interesting - city with new places to explore had me dreaming of all the photographic possibilities that lie ahead. And so I promised myself that I would be braver, that I would conquer those fears. But my first real opportunity to do so didn’t come until October when I was in St. Augustine.
We had taken the boys to the old part of the city to roam around and grab some lunch. As we walked from one end of St. George Street to the other we passed a long yellow wall at a short cross street, and against it sat a man weaving roses from the blades of dried palm fronds, taking tips and selling them as souvenirs. There was something about the man that was captivating. He didn’t exactly look homeless, but he also didn’t exactly look not-homeless; fairly clean but also pretty unkempt, messy hair and beard, slightly worn out clothes. He displayed the roses he’d already made in an old 5 gallon bucket, which he sat beside diligently braiding blades together. His bike was leaned against the wall behind him, and both he and the bike looked like they had seen more than a few miles. But his weathered face was soft and his expression kind. Immediately I wanted to know his story. And before I had finished having that thought I had another; I wanted to photograph him.
I debated going to talk to him. I could buy a rose, I thought, ask him how he learned to make them, and maybe he would let me take his picture. It wouldn't be that hard, would it? But I couldn’t make myself stop. We continued walking and I began to enumerate in my head all of the reasons that I shouldn’t go back. Other people might be there. The light isn’t the best. And what if he says no? Or worse, what if I offend him? The scene probably wasn’t really that compelling anyway. After arguing with myself for what seemed like an eternity but was really only about three blocks, I decided I would just stroll back by and reassess. As I passed again I noticed that the scene was indeed compelling. And the light wasn’t really even all that bad. A few paces past I mustered my courage and turned back around.
As I came to the cross street a group of about five tourists had apparently materialized out of thin air and stood talking to the man, watching him work. And the introvert in me, who had just barely by the skin of her teeth gathered the courage to even approach him in the first place, sure as hell wasn’t prepared to do so with an audience. Damn. See?! I knew this photo wasn’t meant to be. I gave up and went on my way.
But I couldn’t get the whole thing out of my head. All the way down St. George Street it tugged at me. We found a patio and ordered some lunch and all through lunch it tugged at me more. The thing is, it wasn’t just the scene or the light or the crowd or rejection; it felt like there was something else holding me back. But I had promised myself I was going to learn to be brave and this was my chance. As soon as I finished lunch I ran back to where he’d been.
As I neared the little intersection my heart began to race. And then I saw. He was gone. No bicycle, no bucket of roses, no trace of him at all. I stood there for a moment, feeling a flood of both disappointment and relief. I put the camera to my eye and snapped an image of the empty spot.
Sitting on the beach that afternoon I kept replaying the whole thing in my head over and over. I thought through what the nagging feeling was bugging me at lunch about the idea of going back. The thing is, I see photos like the one I wanted to make all the time and don’t think anything of them, of how they were made or whether there was anything wrong with taking them. However, when I consider making one, I can’t help but feel like it’s exploitative, at least a little bit. The man stood to gain nothing from the photo; I on the other hand did. And that hardly seemed fair given the circumstances. And I’m not sure asking his permission would have solved it for me in this case; would he have even felt like he had the option to say no? In moments like these even when I know that my intentions are good, I also can’t help but to question them. When it comes down to it, when I ask myself why I want to take the photo, I can’t ever produce a good enough answer. To be fair, I’m a pretty tough judge to appease. But I can never seem to make taking the photo feel right.
After thinking it through I was actually quite happy that I didn’t make the picture. Leaving without it felt like I was being true to me, and to who I am as both a person and a photographer.
Two days later I was back downtown on St. George Street. Curiosity got the best of me so I decided to make a quick detour to see if the man was back. He was. But this time I just walked by and said hello, and let my camera hang at my side where in that moment I knew it belonged.
