When I set out for my morning walk the sky was overcast and it was foggy; not the kind of morning most people consider good for photography. But I learned long ago that there is no perfect day for photography, every day and kind of light presents potential.
As I walked the path alongside the Grand River everything was blanketed in grey and dark saturated greens. It had rained earlier and the grass and foliage was wet. Nothing jumped out begging to have its picture taken. Then, as I happened to look down, in the grass at the edge of the concrete, I saw the unmistakable yellow flowers of moth mullein, (Verbascum blattaria) a flowering herb named for the resemblance of its stamen to the antennae of a moth. I walked on, but after a few steps I turned around and returned to those two points of bright color, and holding my camera at ground level I took their portrait.
The result is not my finest photograph but it is satisfying nonetheless, and proof that the most inauspicious surrounding offers potential to the photographer who remains open and attentive.
T.S. Eliot wrote that “April is the cruelest month.” and indeed this April is cruel. Yet it is also offering renewal and beauty. Here are some examples I photographed this past Sunday (April 19). I hope they will bring you some comfort and reassurance in this time of uncertainty and fear.
PhotoMart was not a place Architectural Digest would have featured. It was dilapidated, dingy and stunk of chemicals. Its paneled walls were unadorned except for a wall clock and a couple of photographs. A rack of sundry photo supplies and accessories stood against one wall and just inside the front door and below the big plate glass windows there was a long, wall-mounted light box and two chairs that once belonged to a cheap dining room set. Between the chairs sat a single wastebasket, invariably overflowing with discarded transparencies, film canisters, and pickup envelopes.
By the late 1980s I had become serious about my photography and would no longer entrust the processing of my film to a drugstore. I began searching for alternatives. PhotoMart became my favorite.
Whenever I came to claim my images I was eager to tear open the sealed envelopes knowing that each held a plastic box with 24 or 36 fresh 35 mm transparencies—Kodachrome or Fujichrome testaments to my vision or the lack of it. I hoped I’d be surprised but always I worried that I’d have nothing in the batch worth saving. And if I had done the shoot for a client I was doubly concerned. So I’d take a seat at the light box and before leaving I’d contribute my share of discards to the basket. For the serious photographer the rule of thumb was that only 2 to 4 images out of every 36 would be worth keeping. Shooting film was an expensive process.
Sometimes, Marty Kies, the owner, or his son, would greet me at the counter saying, “you got some nice ones this time.” That was always a pleasure. Even more satisfying was talking with them and the other photographers who happened to be there holding forth on techniques, film characteristics, composition, lighting, and working with various photography subjects and clients. There was in this a sense of community.
PhotoMart is now long gone. Today I photograph with digital cameras and do most of my own printing. It is an isolated process. I go from shooting the subject matter to immediately seeing the results on the camera back and I can archive a file or delete it with the push of a button—no mess. The final sorting process is done at a computer monitor. And because I shoot raw files I can adjust them in Photoshop and save images that would never have been salvageable on film. I appreciate all of this and I would not want to go back to the costs and waste of film. But, I greatly miss the community I found at the PhotoMart, and I miss the anticipation, waiting to discover what would appear in those transparencies and negatives.