La Macchina Fotografica

I saw three big cameras at the farmer’s market this weekend. It seemed to make the photographers imposing and separate from the life of the market. Lenses are getting longer and bulkier. It used to be that a zoom lens was an extravagance—it was most certainly a tradeoff in quality. Back in my youth, most serious photographers used prime lenses because zooms were so unsharp. Now everyone seems to use a zoom lens. I do, though with ambivalence.

While zoom lenses are enormously helpful, they do tend to keep us away from our subjects. It’s so much easier to zoom in than it is to move in. But, moving in is where the action is. Moving in takes interaction and courage. There is nothing worse than a portfolio of people images, all photographed with a long-focal-length lens. The detachment and sterility are palpable.

Move in. I remind myself of this constantly. Sometimes I do, other times I succumb to the shyness and laziness of staying back letting the lens to the work. Moving in forces an interaction between camera and subject. The camera becomes part of the stage, the unseen actor that provokes reaction.

One of the best-known encounters with camera is exhibited in the famous photo of Joseph Goebbels by Alfred Eisenstaedt. Shot in Geneva in 1933, Goebbels glares at Eisenstaedt as the photographer moves in with his camera. It is chilling preview of Nazi horrors to come. Eisenstaedt, a Jew, courageously intruded into Goebbels personal space to evoke the hidden veracity of the Nazi regime. A long lens would have yielded nothing more than a tabloid-style throw-away image. Instead, we see truth.

This weekend at the market I tried to move in whenever possible. The result is today’s image of one of the market workers as he looked up at me for a spit second. For that moment we saw each other, interacted, and acknowledged each other’s existence. I don’t think it’s a deep photo, but it does have power—thanks to moving in.

There are times in a photographer’s life when the light is so exquisitely right that it aches. When the right light combines with a compelling subject one can feel an alchemical change occurring. Clicking the shutter becomes an intoxication, something we must do. Endorphins rush into the brain. It’s heady stuff.

Regardless of where we are or what we are doing, it always starts with the light. We photographers are the sentinals of electromagnetic radiation as it dances around the universe. It is wrong to think, however, that photographers are simply observers of light. We know from the study of quantum physics that the observer never merely observes. She changes the nature of the observed. Pull out a camera and it changes everything. I have spent most of my life pondering whether this is a good or bad thing. I suspect it is neither, simply a fact that needs to be recognized.

The very nature of capturing something and freezing it forever is unnatural. It is toying with space and time. Photographers are tricksters. If we’d been alive during the Inquisition we’d have been burned at the stake for heresy. There are so many photographs on the planet now that we’ve become numb to their power. Yet, our unconsciousness is unfortunate. Not only do we alter reality with our camera, the photos we make come back around and alter us. They change our perception of everything.

Standing still at the farmer’s market last weekend I was struck by the light as it passed through the morning fog. I began to feel the rush of the moment. Light and subject were converging. A family walked by. I made an image of a sublime moment that might now last forever.

Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still. – Dorothea Lange

I stand there with my big, nerdy camera and they look up at me—straight at me. Their glare goes right through the lens and then right through me. I shiver. It’s my least favorite aspect about photography. I am probably the shyest, most self-conscious photographer in the world.

The frustrating thing is that I love photographing people. However, most people hate having their picture taken, at least when a stranger comes poking around with a big, black camera and lens. If only I were invisible or in a bubble. Shyness is a curse.

I’ve gotten more skillful over the years at being unobtrusive yet respectful (at least in my mind) about photographing in public. Sometimes people notice me, the stare back, smile, or stiffen up. That, actually, can result in marvelous images. Other times they go about their business, ignorant of me in every way. Life being lived.

Serious cameras are just too big and obtrusive. They separate us photographers from the world and turn us into skulking paparazzi. There are too many buttons, beeps, clicks, whirrs, and protruding appendages. More times than not I feel more like a dork than an artist. It’s like those well-past-middle-age guys you see driving the hot Porsches—somehow there is a disconnect. They (we) are trying too hard. It isn’t about cars and cameras.

No, it isn’t about cameras but next camera is going to be small and simple. Then, rather than being the painfully-shy photographer with the big, nerdy camera, I’ll become the painfully-shy photographer with the small, weenie camera.

It was raining peacefully on Sunday morning. The streets were washed clean by a storm that had hit the day before. The road shimmered in the weak light, twinkling with each drop from the sky. On a tempestuous Friday before the storm, I’d been hit between the eyes by a hurtful comment from a friend. It left me reeling. Sunday’s gray drizzle seemed appropriate.

Despite the rain and the winter season I went early to the farmer’s market. I was thinking of a baguette. And maybe a wedge of cheese. I wanted to talk to the chili man. And ask the asparagus guy when spring would arrive. I needed the farmers just then. So, I bundled up and went to the market.

This time of year it’s easy to park at the farmer’s market. The fair-weather marketers are long gone, waiting now for their tomatoes and sweet corn and warm summer breezes. Rain doesn’t help bring in the crowd but it does enhance a quiet market day for a man with a bruised soul.

Alone with my baskets I pulled up my collar. I was still grumbling to myself about Friday. But, some Swiss chard caught my eye. Pulling out two dollars for a nice bunch of it, I overheard a conversation at the next stand.

“How is the most lovely jewel of the universe today?” a man with a European accent asked a smiling woman. The woman had been alone at her booth. Before the man with the accent arrived she hadn’t been smiling. I looked at the young woman who had just sold me the chard and we both laughed. One comment brought three smiles—the best market deal of the day. With a spark of renewal I went to see the chili man.

“I want you to know that I sent some of your chili sauce to my friend in Chicago. He said it was the best he’d ever tasted,” I said to him.

“Well, of course!” the chili man replied. He is nothing if not self-assured of his chili-sauce prowess. “I just made some new mash. Try this.”

Down the way, the asparagus man had nothing but potatoes. “The asparagus will be here in about four weeks,” he pronounced. The first day of spring had now been declared. “Are you getting any good pictures today?”

The egg couple saw me coming from their mountain of egg cartons. They had a dozen, extra-large, brown, organic eggs waiting for me. Just the kind I like.

“I had to get my eggs at Safeway last week,” I said. They both groaned. “They were watery. Stale,” I added.

“We have you spoiled,” the man of the couple said, looking up from his stack of a billion eggs. “See you next week.”

The young woman who usually sells me my baguette wasn’t there. I got one anyway from a girl I’d never met. Then I got a small salami from the French charcuterie guy and asked for his advice on sausages. At that point I realized that my basket was overflowing and I needed to stop.

On the way out there was another man with an overflowing basket. Like me, he’d bought his baguette. After making a photo of him I realized that we are all the same. Every one of us can be made just a little happier with a baguette in our basket and a trip to farmer’s market.

The fog lifted today. I could tell before I even opened my eyes. It was the garbage men that gave it away. The fog muffles the sound of the Tuesday-morning garbage truck and this morning I could hear it loud and clear. The men were shouting and the truck’s hydraulics were howling. Right then at 5:00 AM I knew the fog was gone.

A rain storm blew out the fog and stale wood smoke. It brought back some sparkle to the afternoon light. Right now, in the dark, I can hear the rain sing in the downspouts, which tells me a second storm is now in and that means the fog won’t back for awhile.

The stillness at the farmer’s market on Sunday was a sign that something was brewing. The air hung low. Hardly anyone was there. A lot of the vendors have been gone since Christmas and we won’t see them until the new crops come up. Right now just about all we have is some winter lettuce and bitter greens. The market seemed eery like everyone was waiting for the storm to come in.

I looked around and knew we were in for some wet days so I went to the guy who has my favorite bitter greens. There’s nothing like slow-cooked bitter greens on a cold day. Winter tempers the bitterness and the slow cooking brings out their inherent sweetness. I never feel like cooking anything slowly in summer but winter’s quiet makes me want to cook all day. In a world of gray, the bright green on the table reminds me that spring is close.

The winter market makes for good photography. The summer market vibrates with energy and contrast. It’s a tricky thing to negotiate with a camera. The winter market, on the other hand, is a giant still life. I can stare at the bitter greens and have them to myself. It’s not like fighting with the old ladies over the tomatoes—something I hate to do. No one stands in line for bitter greens. It’s just me and the greens. And a little fog and rain.

As I write this, winter is, technically, three weeks away from us. I’ve always felt that the official designation of season is slightly out of sync with how things actually feel. The labels are about a month behind the tangibles. Right now it feels like winter and no meteorologist can tell me otherwise.

Mornings are as heavy as a woolen, winter blanket—darkened atmosphere laden with mist, stale wood smoke, and inversion. The sun reflects its amber light against Mt. Tamalpais which announces dawn to our bedroom. Eyes open more slowly in winter. Awakening feels like a long, delicious reentry into a obscured world.

The deep shadows of winter herald a deeper kind of creativity, shrouded in mystery. When the sun finally lifts itself from its stupor, it dances carefully around the house, turning it into a chiaroscuro stage. Everything can be photographed. Everything should be photographed. The simplest of objects are transformed into winter still life.

Last week at the farmer’s market I found three pumpkins. Rich with autumnal color, they seemed destined for the kitchen. Returning from the market I emptied my basket onto the breakfast table. The pumpkins have been there since. I haven’t had the heart to take a knife to them yet. They have added much to my mornings and are more optimistic than the writings in the newspaper. So, I stare at them instead of reading the daily drivel that passes for news.

Within a week or two I will come to the realization that my pumpkins are past their prime and ready to be transformed into stuffed pasta or gnocchi. It will be their final act in the drama. Until then, my winter’s still life will remind me of the simple pleasures of winter on Planet Earth.

Hot-house tomatoes come to market early in spring. This is too early for a tomato. Tomatoes herald the beginning of summer—real summer, not some fabrication designed to hurry along a year before its time. Hot-house tomatoes remind me of Christmas decorations that show up before Thanksgiving. Sadly, too many patrons of the farmer’s market succumb to the temptation. “Look!” they say. “Tomatoes!!!!!” And they go buy the mealy, half-green half-real approximations of the real thing.

But then, one day, one does see the real thing. Real, vine-ripened, grown-in-dirt-outside-where-they-were-meant-to-be-grown tomatoes show up at the market. There is a reverence to picking out the perfect tomato. It is different than stuffing one’s bag with string beans or broccoli. The tomato is so seductive, so anticipatory, and its color is the most beautiful of reds.

Tomatoes can be photographed and painted forever and they remain the most perfect of still-life subjects (with apologies to Edward Weston and his peppers). Just writing about them compels me to buy some, put them on a table and shine a light onto them. But, it is only late June and I am still wary. Why rush it? There is nothing worse than buying what looks like the perfect tomato and then having it taste like cotton. I’d rather stick with brussels sprouts a few weeks longer.

Hands are the most fascinating part of a farmer’s market. This is a recent discovery of mine, thanks to the telephoto lens. I started watching the rummaging hands of market shoppers only a few weeks ago when I zoomed in to reveal a few paws hard at work searching through tomatoes—a show that I’d never noticed before. The hands are like puppet shows. Young, old, deliberate, or frantic, they dart around with anthropomorphic personality. Hands search for the perfect tomato. They grope for the reddest of cherries. Some remind me of the giant claws that grasp for treasure in those old arcade machines at amusement parks. Hovering over the green beans, they plunge down into the center of a huge pile of them. Up come the hands, dropping half their load as they maneuver the lode into plastic bags. Then they repeat the cycle, seemingly insatiable in their appetite for more.

The produce is the star of the market so the hands are somewhat invisible as they do their thing. Like the curtain pages at the opera, the hands do the necessary work to keep the show going, but with all the glorious shapes and colors and distractions, they are generally nothing but a blur. Yet, they reveal a truth.

It is through the observation of market hands that I have come to realize that we are taking our markets more seriously as of late. It’s obvious that the Sunday market has been getting more crowded. It’s getting harder to park. The pressure has been building to get there earlier and earlier. Yet, I didn’t realize the passion people were developing for their produce until I really, truly began watching their hands.

Hands motion to a lover to come see an artichoke. Elder hands guide the soft hands of a child towards the knowingness of ripeness. A nimble hand can judge roundness by rolling a round fruit around inside a palm. A quick hand can separate out the good from the mediocre with lightning speed. An analytical hand can feel the weight of a bag with uncanny accuracy by employing a deliberate up-and-down motion. A sly hand sneaks a berry for tasting, like a nervous bird that pecks at seed in a feeder.

Photography is a wonderful way for us to find gems of life such as these. Normally they remain undetected, so obvious that we take them for granted. Then, along comes a photo that reveals the miracle and turns the quotidian into something profound. It all came before me in a moment, when looking at my life through a lens.

We encounter other souls all the time. I barely know myself while the complex world passes me by. It doesn’t stop me from wondering. Who are they? What is their story?

I notice it mostly when at the Sunday farmer’s market. It is said that ego separation is an illusion, that we are all connected in ways too profound to fathom. Yet, I walk in a bubble through the market, making assumptions about this person or that. Often, a person will remind me of someone else, another remote encounter from another time. The connection is made. My mind plays games, I make photographs.

Photography puts a frame around these impressions and puts them to a test. It turns the whole experience into flat abstraction. Suddenly the swirling activity is silenced. A kind of truth is found. Souls seem lost in their own world, peering through eyes from the capsules of their bodies. Everyone seems to be on a similar path. We all keep moving.

Do those people look at me and make their own assumptions? I wonder of whom I remind them. Do I look like someone’s father? Or son? Or lost brother? Occasionally, someone stares. Sometimes I stare at them and forget that I am doing so. It’s all a silly game, a game of making the connection—of searching for some kind of truth. Units with chattering minds, we make things up as we go.

My camera protects me. It makes it seem that my bubble is secure. I look, analyze, click the shutter. Then I go home and look to see what the crystal lens glass has revealed. The mystery is never solved.

Returning from the farmer’s market on Sunday, I felt a moment of great abundance as I laid out the booty from my expedition. A kitchen glows when fresh produce arrives. It is a moment of great anticipation.

I’d brought my camera with me to the market, hoping to find an expression of the spring season at its peak. Artichokes, asparagus, strawberries, and peas screamed out to me that the seasons had emphatically changed. They teased me with their colors and shapes. Yet, the one photo that said it all had eluded me. It just wasn’t there.

Later in the day, I decided to make carciofi alla romana, Roman Artichokes, with my collection of tasty thistles. In a quiet moment of collection, I laid out the vegetables, preparing myself for the task at hand. A lovely still life formed, something that cannot be contrived in the studio. Sometimes it just happens. There before me was what, to me, the expression of spring—artichokes awaiting their cleaning and transformation into a timeless and glorious dish.

The culinary world calls it mise en place, the placement, preparation, and organization of ingredients before cooking begins. It is a time when the cook, more than anything else, organizes thought and intentions. Sloppy preparation results is stress, and a dish that is muddied in concept and execution. Mise en place is a sacred time where the ingredients are first introduced to one another—a communion of essence, color, flavor, and nutrition.

In the past I’d never thought to photograph my own cooking process. But, the artichokes were too beautiful to resist. Within minutes they’d be cleaned and transformed. But, for a peaceful moment they were there to be appreciated for what they were.