I learned photography before I understood what I was learning. My dad was a photographer, and some of my earliest memories are of being with him in his darkroom in the basement. At first, my being there had nothing to do with photography. I was a kid and he was my dad, and the darkroom was just this cool place in the basement where he developed pictures.
I remember the radio playing in the darkness and the conversations we had while he put rolls of film in the developing canisters, placed negatives in the enlarger to expose prints, and timed the chemical baths and water washes. Maybe the first job he ever gave me in that darkroom was when he asked me if I wanted to agitate the fixer tray. I had seen him agitate the tray before, and he told me more than once why the tray needed to be gently rocked back and forth — that ensured an even flow and contact of fresh hypo over the surface of the print. At the risk of going too deep here, hypo removes the unexposed silver halide crystals from film or photographic paper after development, thus ending the light sensitivity of the paper. That made the print stable and permanent.
My dad learned photography in the Army Air Corps. He was an aircraft mechanic during World War II and was stationed on Guam, in the South Pacific. There was a thing called USAFI — the United States Armed Forces Institute — and my dad signed up for the photography course. He did that on a whim, I think, because there just wasn’t much to do in his spare time on Guam in 1944.
The correspondence course eventually found its way to my dad’s tent. It was a book, a box camera, and several rolls of film. That’s all I know, except I also know that if not for Guam, USAFI, boredom, and my dad’s understanding of what he studied in that course, I would not be writing this post today; but I am, so now I will tell my story.
My dad was primarily a wedding and portrait photographer. He booked some weddings on his own, but he preferred shooting weddings for studios. He mainly worked for Vinny Weston Studio, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Mr. Weston was highly regarded and well known. I remember, as a young boy, visiting the studio and marveling at the very tall and plush curtain-like backdrops that hung ceiling to floor in that big, sprawling room. That was all those years ago, but when I think of a photography studio today, that big, light brown hanging backdrop is still the first thing to come to mind.
Visits to that studio, a film lab called Photo Sales, and a camera store called Len’s Camera all played a role in what was going to be a deciding factor in my life as a photographer.
In each of these businesses, I was the kid standing quietly nearby while the men talked. At the time, I probably did not understand half of what I was hearing, but I understood that the talk mattered. These were photographers, lab men, studio owners, and camera people, and they talked about pictures as if pictures were serious things — something to be carefully crafted by a special group of people who understood the process. They talked about film, cameras, lenses, lighting, paper, exposure, clients, weddings, portraits, mistakes, successes, repairs, and the business of making a buck.
A lot can be learned from listening quietly. I often think about how much younger photographers are missing because of the lack of such businesses today. Back then, there was at least one professional camera store, photo lab, and photography studio in every community. It was like belonging to a club.
I learned that photography was not just a matter of pressing a shutter. It was a combination of judgment, timing, craft, materials, patience, and problem solving. It was also a way of carrying yourself around people and learning that different people required different treatment if expression, movement, lighting, and composition were to be properly incorporated. You had to know what you were doing, but you also had to know when to be quiet, when to wait, and when to pay attention. Mostly, you needed to understand that when photographing people, how you relate to them is as important as how you light them. And you needed to understand that every person you will ever point a lens at will look back at you with their own set of expectations. They often will also bring to the mix fear, hesitation, excitement, their own ideas, and unique personalities. In the end, it is the responsibility of the portrait photographer to capture a bit of every one of those variables in the final image.