A Gratitude Letter to Photography
Take a moment to appreciate about how amazing modern digital photography is.
You look through a viewfinder, press the shutter button half way down and your subject is instantly in focus. As if that wasn’t impressive enough, the moment you press that shutter button all the way down the camera sensor captures the photons hitting it, converts them into an electrical signal and then — in some manner of magic or wizardry — produces a static image of the very live scene you’d just experienced.
Before you have a chance to blink, you’ve produced a visual artifact of a moment in time that can be referenced in perpetuity.
In 2013, I went to Taiwan equipped with one of these slick, modern photographic tools — a Fuji X-Pro 1. I had some sense that taking photographs might be something cool to do, but strangely enough the long term redeeming value of the endeavor wasn’t remotely clear. I knew I wanted to take photos but to what end?
As a second generation Taiwanese-American I had the privilege of occasionally going back to Taiwan to visit family. My fondest memories are of skillfully contorting in what sometimes felt like acrobatics to get through densely packed street markets, burning incense at temples flooding my olfaction, and the breathtaking aesthetics offered equally by the city and country side.
My trip in 2013 started as simply yet another opportunity to revisit and find joy in the unique combination of sights, smells and sensations that so beautifully defined these experiences.
That is until my family went to Hualien (花蓮市).
Cue an aura of mystery and wonder imparted by the sounds of wind blowing and bells chiming in the distance!
During an overnight stay at a beach-facing hotel in Hualien a small but sufficiently jarring earthquake woke my mom, brother and me up at 4AM. We noticed that the sun was about to begin rising so instead of going back to sleep we chose to come to terms with our feelings of fatigue, seize the moment, and take a walk on the beach while watching the sun rise — camera in hand of course.
A month or so must’ve gone by — long after returning from Taiwan — before I finally reviewed the photos from that morning. One particular photo that seemed worth previewing was of a fisherman slowly approaching the ocean with a large fishing pole and what looked like a small container to carry the day’s catch:
Upon opening the photo I felt what is best described a superficial pleasure.
‘Oh, what a cool shot’.
It wasn’t until I gazed for a few moments longer that a beautiful fugue between the visceral and emotional sensations that comprised my experience of that early-morning stroll in the beach began to take place. Everything from the blinding orange glow of the rising sun and cool breeze brushing against the hairs of my skin to the deep feelings of joy being with my family that morning.
I see now. What a profound feeling.
It was at this moment that the functional value of photography, the answer to to what end, became evident.
Photos are not identical replicas of the experiences they capture — they can’t be — but they appear to contain enough salient information that upon viewing them they can summon an experience just long enough for you to gently cup it and embrace almost all that the moment once had to offer. To that end, they’re brilliant, portable containers capable of gently holding and releasing the essence of their subjects.
The significance of this truth only grew as I started taking portraits of loved ones. No words can describe the immense feeling of joy and gratitude I had when I discovered the almost supernatural degree to which images of loved ones can carefully preserve their unique, complex, and beautiful spirits.
Every time I view this photo of my grandfather, I can hear the sound of his voice and feel the energy gleefully radiating from his smile. Continued observation only continues to give by way of a detailed film reel containing priceless memories, laughs and lessons that I’ve had the good fortune of sharing with him in this life.
A photograph that can breathe life into something you cherish dearly makes it just as much a matter of the present as it does the past. And to the extent that it remind’s one of life’s beauty, brutality and inherent randomness, it also serves as a guide on how to live moving forward.
It is for all of these things afforded by photography that I am incredibly grateful.
This letter is dedicated to Michael — because of whom I am. And to whom I owe everything.
