Dad’s Lessons about Photography and Life

We just crossed Dad’s second birthday since we lost him. This post is me trying to process part of that loss. Dad was my first photo buddy. And, as is so often the case, it took me twenty years to realize the lessons he taught me along the way. So much of what I love about photography - the parts I’m most passionate about - started with him. During our time camping and shooting together around Mount Rainier and the Oregon Coast, he shared simple nuggets of wisdom that I am only now realizing he passed on to me.

Getting the shot is worth it

Dad had the most cumbersome camera bag I have seen to date. It was heavy, uncomfortable, and perpetually overflowing. He never let that bag deter him. He sherpa’d the thing all over every family adventure we attempted. And we were adventurous! He was shameless about making us hold still as long as it took to get the photo. We complained and rolled our eyes incessantly - these were the days of manual focus, and it was not quick. He didn’t care. Turns out, he was right. I cannot count how many photo books are passed around as gifts in my family. Photo displays, slideshows, and photo walls are often the centerpiece of our celebrations. That photo of us crammed into the trunk of a hollow tree at Grove of the Patriarchs is priceless. He climbed on top of boulders, waded into oceans with his shoes on, or laid down on his belly on the forest floor. He didn’t care. The moment of being uncomfortable was worth preserving the memory.

Enjoy the moment

Photography, at it’s base, was a meditation for Dad. He was happy to stand on the beach and watch the surf for hours. Occasionally, he would look right at you and ask (rather rhetorically), “do you hear that?” At our vacant expressions, he answered: “The phone’s not ringing!” With a grin a mile wide. That fact alone was enough to send him outdoors as often as he could possibly escape. He loved to hike, camp, kayak - all the things. But most of all, he just loved being there. He sat among the trees to quietly watch and listen. Taking pictures was often his way of interacting with the places he loved, and I think most of all, this is what I gained from him. He never even pulled a single photo off one of his memory cards, to my knowledge. My sister and I had to heist them away from him to get the photos we wanted to use. We still find old rolls of undeveloped film. He just loved experiencing the place, and interacting with it in his own way.

Never stop learning

Dad made lists. His life was covered in them. Sticky notes, notebooks, backs of envelopes from the mail. Some of them are absolutely unintelligible to us. Others are clear. We found a list of chores to make mom’s day better once. Most often, he made lists of things he wanted to learn anew or brush up on. The photography bucket lists had me dissolving in tears every time I came across them for the first year. He listed new skills he wanted to learn, and every time we got together, I showed him something new so he could check it off the list. My last night with Daddy was a photo trip to the beach to learn silhouettes. Dad was never more thrilled than the moment he tried something new, and it worked. Those bucket lists were hard to discover. There were so many things we never got to. But, as I go through my photos, I see many memories that we did make, too. Silhouettes and macro flowers; action shots, and night lights under the bridge. These were the one-on-one times I had with dad as an adult, and they are precious to me. Now I make lists, too.

Know when to quit

Know when to put the camera down and be in the moment. As often as I remember Dad holding a camera to his eye, there are an equal number of times I found him with the camera hanging at his waist, his hands in his pockets, just watching the scene unfold. He understood the balance that I still struggle to find. My kids don’t actually remember Papa as a photographer. They remember him playing with them. He understood that you take the shot, then you go play with the grandkids. Have a meaningful conversation with your kids. Take a walk with someone dear to you. He filled every moment with something meaningful. Today, as much as we miss him, there is nothing to regret. No time was wasted with Dad.