Along the old slave road route from Lake Tanganyika to Zanzibar, Tanzania, 2007.Remember the days when everyone crowded around the camera to wait while the picture magically appeared? There are still times and places where that happens, and they don't have to be in a far away land.
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I have to develop the film from my grandfather’s old Brownies. Each "click" of the camera is thoughtful. Valuable. There are only 12 exposures. I debate whether I should try to develop them myself. I can't send a picture to the digital "trashcan" if the exposure is wrong. I can't show my nephew anything on the screen when pulls the camera towards him and says, "Let me see." We have to wait. And anticipate. And hope. And there is a kind of Christmas Eve magic in that.
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That word - "magic" - is part of wonder and joy of photography. The "magic" that happens when you place the paper in developing solution, or lean against the counter and pull the prints out of the envelope, or stand with family and friends and watch an image appear. Solidified in time and space as is. No “delete” option next to an LCD screen. No Photoshop or Apple laptop within the walls of one's clay and wattle made home.
The "hope" that this one turns out alright. The satisfaction when it finally does. The acceptance when it isn't perfect and it still has a place in a photo album or on the refrigerator door.
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The "magic" and "hope" of photography is somehow linked to the chance encounter with a meaningful moment. It is the difference between listening to your favorite song on your iPod, vs. hearing it on the radio. One is choreographed gratification. The other:
kismet.
Along the old slave road route from Lake Tanganyika to Zanzibar, Tanzania, 2007.
