I loved taking pictures when I was younger. I took roll after roll on cheap cameras as a kid and pre-teen. Back when I had to take them to the negatives to the local drugstore to be sent off and magically return as pictures. Most of which weren't great, but I treasured them.
In high school I was incredibly lucky to have a graphic arts program. I used my dad's old SLR camera to capture black and white pictures. Only this time I got to develop the negatives and prints myself. It still felt like magic, standing in a tiny dark room lit only by red light and watching the picture slowly emerge. I even matted and framed a print as a gift for my Grandpa Rene, who had loved photography as well.
And then I went to University. I didn't have access to a dark room so my SLR got abandoned. I did have a cheap digital camera, and I was the friend who always took pictures but never appeared in them. At one point I started to worry that if I died, there would be no pictures for my funeral because I only experienced photography from behind the camera.
I didn't let myself love photography. I met so many people who were passionate about it and had fancy cameras and were talented. I convinced myself that it is just something everyone likes but that you had to be amazing and special to dedicate time to it. I itched to get a better camera and take pictures, but instead I listened to the part of me that said it wasn't worth it. Only those special people deserved good cameras. I would never be one of them, so why bother trying? I took pictures when I traveled, using my cheapy camera or eventually my phone, but pretended I wasn't craving more. I told myself over and over that I didn't have anything to say. That I was just taking the same pictures everyone else took. That it was a waste of time.
I don't know what changed this summer. I don't know if it was watching Kyle buy the bike he had wanted for years. Or if the part of me that wants to create became desperate enough to be heard. Or maybe I just knew that I needed to find some source of joy because I was already struggling. But I listened to some spark of impulse and decided to buy a "proper" camera. I took my savings that were intended to eventually replace my phone (whenever it dies) and bought a basic DSLR. I broke it in in the badlands, getting pictures of sunsets over ancient rocks and abandoned farm structures under the noon sun. When we got home, I planned some day trips to take pictures in nearby parks. I learned how to play with the pictures after the fact - shift the tone slightly, pull a colour forward, make them shine. I stopped worrying that I was just taking the same picture that thousands of other people had probably taken. I realized it was still going to be unique, because it was capturing a specific moment that only I was there for. I started to find my visual voice that I had been ignoring.
I can say things through my photos. And right now, by capturing the light of the winter sun over my odd little neighborhood, I'm telling myself a story of perspective and light and the resilience of a sun that keeps rising and setting. I'm not completely sure where the story will lead, but I'm enjoying telling it one photo at a time.
