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I often catch myself saying that I do photography as opposed to saying that I am a photographer. I am struggling with understanding why there is a part of me that refuses to acknowledge the fullness of my artistic talents.   Maybe it is because I was groomed into the business world and not that of an artist.  Or maybe it is because of a subconcious belief that my photography would never measure up to that of my father.  Or, it could be because that is not how I make my living and I therefore am not able to own the relationship with my camera as equal to those that can speak the technical jargon of seasoned photographers living their craft.  

I understand that the camera captures what the eye sees.  But I see an ability in others to create with the eye of the camera that which the mind sees.  I am in awe of that ability to invoke in me thoughts of dreams and emotional realities through the photojournalistic representation of “a day in the life of” whomever.  Yet, with each viewing of someone’s work I am so compelled to pick up my own camera and enjoy the capture of a moment and the creative eye with which I see simplicity that I transgress the creative boundaries placed by a combination of unknowns;  I am, in that moment, a photographer and I accept it even if only for a moment.

 

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