Earlier this month would have been my mothers birthday. Each year I try and write a little something to keep my mind at ease. The whole idea of writing is something that came about as sort of a cathartic way to cope with the eleventh of September, and has sort of morphed into an even further form of catharsis.
I'm not a writer by nature, I'm a photographer, as well as a kind and gentle lover, or so i've been told by...well no one. But maybe that lucky someone will say it. More then likely she'll say, "what are you doing? you do know this isn't Showtime After Dark right?"
But yes, I'm a photographer. People sometimes ask me, "Luke, how many batteries did you lick as a kid?" followed by, "Why do you stick with photography when you should be doing anything else?" After informing them it was only 15 batteries and that they were only triple A's....I get to answer the other question, and i've come up with this answer; Photography for me is utterly freeing which is a bit...interesting, in that i'm essentially freezing a moment forever. If that sounds a bit oxymoronic, it is, but bear with me.
Photography is a beautiful thing. When I have a camera in my hands, I instantly feel better about the world. I won't say all problems disappear, but they seem further away. I feel like i'm in my element, like its where I belong. From the feeling of a shutter click to the smell of a darkroom, from the euphoria of a shoot gone well, to the weary happiness at the end of a long edit...it all just feels right. Thats what I love about photography. But lately it seems as though it's not good enough for the world.
No one cares if you are passionate about something it seems. You're simply looked upon as some kind of obsessive lunatic who doesn't know how to, "grow up." as they say.
My mother wouldn't have stood for that. She didn't. She did things her own way. She dreamed, just like I do. Today, twenty nine years ago, seven others followed their dreams on the backs of legends, and though they took a different path, and their ride to Valhalla, like my mothers, ended far too soon, I am here to pick up the reins.
I am here because I am too damn stubborn to quit. It's hard, life has always been that way, especially lately, but through every time I cry, I somehow hope to gain a little strength from it. I don't know how...Inspiration is a fickle thing, but when it does strike, it carries me further and further each time. One day its photographing book biting girls, the next its capturing the moment that pie goes -SPLAT!- in someones face.
Everyone finds their own inspiration, be it through photography, cooking, acting, etc., I just hope that people stay with their chosen passion and not let too much reality take it away. As the great Robin Williams once said, "You are only given a little spark of madness, you mustn't lose it."