snapshots_june

July 16, 2021

I purchased a tripod last month so I’ve been out and about capturing scenes and recording timelapses.

I also recorded my first ever Let’s Play.

Flat Battery

February 16, 2021

I was drawn out into the ice today. Ice because that's what it was. We hoped for snow but got a constant drizzle of diminutive hail.

I went out with my camera, many layers, and hiking boots. I snapped pictures of sights I rarely see, took video clips, watched the Cardinals play.

I thought of a radio tower down the road. I wondered how it looked against the icefall. So I hazarded the climb up the hill out of my apartment complex. Up the winding road, past the abandoned cars failed in their ascent, out to the main road haphazardly plowed.

I trudged through the brown ice drifts kicked onto the sidewalk. At least, what I thought was the sidewalk. I took photos and video along the way and tucked my camera inside my jacket to keep the battery from freezing.

I arrived at my destination about half a mile away. The tower stood dark against the falling ice crystals, their gentle tumble making its sharp frame hazy. I pulled my camera from its warm shelter and framed the shot. And the screen went dark. Red letters flashed twice: flat battery.

On the cold walk back, I turned down another route for different scenery. But I stopped abruptly. Before me was a wide, pure expanse of fallen ice. An unbroken plane of marble that curved out of sight. Unmarked by footprints or tire tracks. The translucent white crystals caught the streetlight and shone with a luminous gold.

I hesitated, then stepped back from that sacred field and retreated to the path I had already trod. My boots stomped through the muddied drifts beside the road, already churned up by my passage half an hour before.

I imagined what my boots would have done to that gilded surface, the rubber treads tearing into that peaceful crystal field leaving pockmarked scars in my wake.

But I wonder.

Did I heed a holy warning, or flee a divine invitation?

Childish Things

February 12, 2021

I was given my first digital camera around age 11. The Kodak MC3 took photos at a resolution of 640x480 and recorded video half that resolution at a maximum of 20 fps to a CF card with a whopping 64MB of memory. It was also an mp3 player.

I thought the MC3 was awesome. When we went on trips all I needed to pack was my GameBoy and that camera/iPod Frankenstein. I’d fill up the card with pixelated pictures and video clips, delete them, and fill it up again. One day I asked my dad if there was a way to rearrange the video clips and combine them into one thing. He took me over to our iMac G3 and showed me iMovie.

I outgrew the MC3 and upgraded to a Lumix compact digital camera in high school. Then bought a Canon T3i DSLR in college. I adored the T3i. It was no 5D, but it produced excellent photos and video. Inevitably, I outgrew the T3i as well.

Post-graduation, I was doing freelance video work and it made more sense to rent gear anyway. This freed me to tailor the equipment to the job and gave me the chance to try out different cameras. But I had to return them at the end of production. I missed having a camera that was mine. A tool laying around, waiting for the urge to create to strike me so I could scoop it up and make something.

I wanted a swiss army knife. My camera needed to enable me both as a photographer and a cinematographer. It couldn’t be too big because I wanted to travel with it. It needed to be full-frame to take full advantage of my antique lenses. Nothing caught my eye. Everything had tradeoffs I couldn’t live with. Then the Sigma fp was announced. And that was it. What I'd been waiting for.

It’s hard to explain the joy of having the proper tool at hand. The feeling of seeing a photo and knowing you can capture it because a capable camera is in your bag. The feeling of wanting to record a pointless vignette and realizing you can because a camera waits on your desk. The feeling of writing a script with the knowledge that once you’re done you can just shoot it.

It’s a kind of creative relief. The comfort of clay in the potter’s hand, or a brush in the painter’s. A conduit of potential. A reassurance that you can go out and make.

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