The Contemplative Photographer

I left Duluth at 5 a.m. that spring day,
at the end of a long, lonely conference.
Although the journey up had taken twelve hours,
I planned to return in eleven.
I wanted to be home.
Three hours later, somewhere in Wisconsin’s midsection,
the morning mist began to transform before me.
It turned into an unquestionable fog.
I slowed my driving, for safety’s sake,
but also to enjoy the beauty
of the shrouded countryside.
It was more than lovely.
I said to myself,
“There are things more important than travel time.”
Then I turned off the interstate
and found a county road that was heading
in the same southerly direction.
I wanted to be able to pause,
if pausing was called for.
I drove for a few miles in the quiet.
Then a place on the left beckoned.
A stream, a few trees, the shifting fog,
and there in the middle of it all,
the sun wrapped in haze,
dropping its reflection in the water below.
I took my time setting up tripod and camera,
breathing in the quietude that was everywhere around.
After making a handful of images,
I stood there for some time,
witnessing the fog as it crawled gently away.
It goes without saying
that I did not save an hour
getting home that day.
Or did I?

Most cathedrals did not stand alone
when they were originally constructed.
They were one part of a larger monastery complex.
The other parts included the monks’ residences,
a dining room and kitchen facilities,
meeting rooms and storerooms.
In the middle of this compound, uniting it all, was the cloister.
Usually this was a four-sided, semi-enclosed structure,
built around an open garden.
The cloister helped keep the monks secluded from the world,
while giving them access
to a bit of the natural world.
The cloister also protected them from the elements
as they moved from one part of the monastery to another.
Not uncommonly monks used this space for quiet contemplation.
This photograph shows one corner of the cloister
at the cathedral in Norwich, England,
its windowed door opening out.
The original door would have been very heavy,
made of thick, solid wood,
serving to both protect and isolate this area inside,
as well as whoever used this area.
What are we to make of today’s flimsy door?
Is it designed to let the outside in?
Or is it readily releasing what’s inside
so it can infuse the world?
I hold that if you gaze into this photograph long enough,
you’ll know.

I happened upon a small Catholic church
in the Italian village of Panzano.
I was taken with its design immediately.
A series of rounded arches appeared both left and right,
receding into the near distance.
I returned to the large front door
to see if there was a sign prohibiting photography.
There was none.
So I proceeded to photograph those arches,
slowly, carefully, all alone in the silence.
An hour or so later,
feeling I had exposed all the images I knew to expose,
I sat in one of the wooden pews,
my camera nestled beside me.
I took in whatever was there
as I sat with my eyes closed.
The front door opened and closed.
I heard footsteps to my left.
A man walked, then stopped, then stood still.
When I looked up, he was staring at me.
I looked away, and he moved on.
Ten minutes later, as I departed,
this same man was waiting outside.
He was the priest of this church,
and he was not happy.
“Why did you photograph inside my church?”
I’m sure he was saying,
but I knew no Italian, and he, no English.
He spoke loudly;
his face reddened;
he waved his arms dramatically.
I tried to explain that I was sorry,
that I saw no sign prohibiting photography,
but I could tell he didn’t understand.
I stood there wondering what I should do.
I considered removing the roll of film from my camera
and placing it in one of his fast-moving hands.
But I just couldn’t do that.
I kept remembering this image that was stored there,
this image that said so much to me,
this image that captured no sacred artwork,
no holy treasures, no precious antiquities.
It was just a series of arches.
I stood there in the afternoon sun
and gave him a weak smile,
shrugged my American shoulders,
offered my meek English apology,
and shuffled down the steps.
When I looked back, he was still watching me.
I’ve since made my peace with having kept the film.
I cannot speak for the priest.

Its scientific name is Dicentra Spectabilis.
Di means “two,” centra means “spurs,”
and spectabilis means, not surprisingly, “spectacular.”
We who are not scientists
refer to this flower as a bleeding heart.
Its shape is that of a heart
that has been split open at the bottom.
Something resembling a teardrop dangles from inside.
And within that whiteness lies a smaller drop of red,
hinting, some say, of blood.
In referring to this winsome flower,
writers of gardening books
turn to adjectives like this:
“enchanting,” “magical,” “graceful,” and “dainty.”
Personally I think the scientific name is more accurate:
spectabilis.
Spectacular.
Spectacular in its design.
How did that amazing shape ever come to be,
and to be repeated time after time?
Spectacular in its appearance.
How did it assume those wonderfully vibrant colors,
that lacey texture?
Spectacular in its being.
Why did such a glorious thing
ever come to grace this planet
so I could behold in a garden park one morning in May?
This image reminds me
that I’m still waiting for my answers.
Well, not waiting exactly.
I’m photographing my way to the answers.
I’m not sure I’ll ever quite arrive.
I’m not sure I want to.

My good friend Charles sent me a note yesterday.
He had printed the card himself,
placing appropriately one of his photographs
on the outside.
His image, made a year ago,
is quite reminiscent of one of mine,
made last month.
We share an appreciation for meadow salsify.
He had taken the time to write his reflective thoughts
in his careful handwriting,
pure black on pure white.
In part, this is what he wrote:
“Your writing and your photography
are a perfect match.
You find your way into poetry very much, I think,
as you find your way into a photograph.
There lurks in a corner of my mind
a passage in Robert Frost
that seems a commentary on the way
your work relates to your life.
Yes, here it is:

But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes are one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future’s sakes.”

I would like to think
that I am living my way
into my friend’s kind words.
In the meantime I’ll hold on to his thoughts
as I tramp that field
just south of here.

The proper response
to the world
is applause.
William Carlos Williams

I like that.
But more I believe it.
A fitting response?
Not a long-winded tribute.
Not a well-crafted sonnet.
Not a blog with words and photographs.
Not even a melodious psalm.
Applause.
Vigorous handclapping.
A standing ovation,
   one that might last
     the better part of our lifetime on earth.
At which time
   we would cease doing the clapping
      and then become the clapping.

Don’t think,
look.
Ludwig Wittgenstein

I don’t know the exact context
   in which the Austrian philosopher
      composed these words.
Odd that a man of thought
   would eschew thought.
And yet isn’t that the mantra
   that brings into being every photograph
      that is contemplative in nature?
Isn’t that the inner voice
   that is heard when such photographs
   are about to come into being?
Don’t think—
   look.
Don’t study—
   see.
Don’t try to reason it all out—
   go with your God-given intuition.
Don’t stay in your mind—
   let go of it
      and allow it to let go of you.
Dare to be in your eyes
   and see with your soul
      and live with whatever results.