The Myriad of Buttons and Tragedy A raindrop trickles aimlessly down the windshield. I trace its path in the glow of passing cars. The bright moving cityscape on the other side of the glass shifts into focus. The elements in the scene unite. The solitary streetlamp, the shimmering ground beneath, the garish neon sign that looms above the vacant parking lot. A stranger, quick-paced, passes under the lamp’s spotlight, illuminated and yet a silhouette. I need to seize this moment before it's lost. The camera’s viewfinder makes its way to my captive eye. It’s about to be mine. Snap. No. No. No. The ISO was set too high. The bleak overexposed image burns itself into my memory. After attending a summer school class for photography, I begged my parents for a “real” camera so I wouldn’t have to continue improvising with my iPod touch. I found a reasonably priced, secondhand Nikon D700 for sale and convinced them it would make the perfect Christmas gift. It was all I asked for. Wanting to encourage what they saw as an exceptional passion for someone my age, they agreed. Holding this camera for the first time I was holding my dreams. But, as an inexperienced enthusiast, the myriad of buttons and settings soon overwhelmed me. Perhaps I was too young and naive. I wasn’t ready for the commitment required to master such a special tool. I wasn’t equal to it. I felt foolish. So, for a time, I put my camera away and fulfilled my need to create through other mediums: drawing, watercolor, charcoal, and acrylic paints. But my wavering confidence only temporarily postponed the pursuit of my passion. Eventually, my tempered but never extinguished desire to capture my world through a lens bloomed anew. Lives were changed by the challenges of a once unimaginable year that began with the pandemic in early 2020. During the lockdown, it was my camera that supported my spirit. It buffered the immediate effects of the news but also added a dimension that helped me contextualize what we were going through. Paradoxically, the tragedy and isolation were opening me up to creative avenues I might never have considered. Our isolation hadn’t just begun with the pandemic and now I desperately wanted to explore and illuminate the stories of people out there. I wanted to see their worlds. There is so much beyond me, beyond my present experiences. When it succeeds, my imagery can tell not only my story but everyone’s story. It can drive a narrative. It can surprise and delight. It can fire emotions and direct passions without simply reflecting on this world. And as we’ve emerged from the pandemic I’m reaching out more, attempting to use my photography to help other people. I want to make them feel something. An artist picks up an instrument (a pencil, a brush, or a camera) and uses it to craft images that communicate and inspire. These images can influence people around the world and through generations. Exploring concepts, testing aesthetics, capturing moments in time, and sharing all of it through my creative efforts are everything to me. But it isn’t enough to just report my work; I want to add content and meaning through the lens of my own experiences. An indistinct figure, an empty, forlorn avenue, the suspense, the wonder. The glow of a lonely street light reminds one of the warmth of home perhaps far away. Seeing someone’s face react with joy, perplexity, or even consternation while viewing my work gives me a feeling I can’t describe. I’ve made contact.