The Art of Focusing

I was a kid who drew pictures. I was good at it. I had an ability to see something on paper before I even picked up the pencil. Oh, there were kids who were better at it than I was, but I was pretty good.  I recall getting a sketch pad and charcoal drawing pencils for Christmas eve when I was about twelve.  While the grown-ups talked and laughed and drank wine, I could be found sketching a cat with my new pad and pencils.  Then, when I finished the cat, I drew a horse.  And I'm not even an animal lover.

I took an art class in seventh grade.  The teacher's name was Mr. Shaber.  He was a miserable, grumpy man who didn't seem to know how to smile, which I found odd for an art teacher.  He wore pointy-toed cowboy boots and cheap Sansabelt slacks that flared at the bottom.  The class was a general introduction to various art mediums.  One week we made pottery.  Then we tooled leather.  The next week we were taught about perspective drawings.  I learned a lot in that class.  But I got the underlying impression that he wished he would have done something else with his life.  I was old enough to know that he didn't make a very good living.  I suppose I drew the conclusion that all artists are poor and don't have any marketable skills. So, they they struggle to sell their artwork to pay their bills, or they become underpaid art teachers.  Either way didn't seem like a great life plan to me.

Fast forward to my college years.  I continued to believe that artists were people who went through life without any real drive to be successful, which was in sharp contrast to what I wanted for myself.  I openly admit that I wanted to make money.  So, I did what many people do when they aren't exactly sure what they want to do:  I became a business major.  Most of the required business curriculum -- accounting, finance, management, statistics -- was awful.  Throughout all of it, I heard a nagging little voice:  You don't like this stuff.  Do something you genuinely enjoy.  Although I don't remember how or when, I began to develop an interest in photography.  One day my grandmother was nice enough to buy me a Canon EOS Rebel camera, which I began teaching myself how to use when I wasn't at the library doing accounting homework or studying business law.  Taking pictures became a way of satisfying the part of me that was starved for something creative.  On a few occasions, I visited the communications school on campus and spoke with photojournalism or photography professors.  They were so much different than Mr. Shaber.  They were actually happy, and they openly discussed any questions I had about my camera or about photography.  I contemplated changing my major to photojournalism.  But again, I let the practical side win, and I remained a student of business.

Now I'm 40 years old.  I haven't pursued photography at all.  Instead, I've pursued other things with all my force.  But that little voice still nags at me:  When are you going to get on with it?  I gave in a bit when I finally replaced my old Canon EOS Rebel 35 mm camera, which was covered with a layer of dust, with a new Nikon D3000 digital SLR.  I've made the quiet, personal commitment to become a really good photographer.  Unlike my other endeavors in life, learning to take great photos doesn't require expensive training or licenses or exams.  I just take the lens cover off, click on the camera and shoot.  If I don't like the shot, I push the delete button.

I still hear the practical voice asking Why are you wasting your time and energy on that?  You know you can't make a living that way.  But this time, I tell that voice to cram it.

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Visit my Flickr photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/jjcone/