As I walked into my youngest son’s apartment, I knew that he had made an effort to prepare for his mother’s visit. He had swept the floors, stuffed garbage into bags and cleaned the toilet. I also knew that I would have to fumigate the bathtub before I would take a shower. The grease and grime on the bottom of the tub looked like my oven. Ah ha, he is a chef! I have no desire to step into my oven or his tub unless drastic measures are taken.
It has been a year since my last visit and little has changed. The silverware is still unopened on top of the refrigerator, the jar of flax seed and the cereal are still unused and there is NO food in the refrigerator. My son is a typical single young man. He works hard, he plays hard and the last thing that he thinks about is his apartment. So, I take on the role of sergeant /general and give orders on what needs to be done to sanitize, sterilize and fumigate his space so that I won’t take any infectious diseases home.
This weekend away, visiting my son is calm before the storm. With spring comes an influx of business and now it is time for me to get in high gear, get super charged, energized, revitalized and invigorated. I am getting excited about the promise of creative juices flowing. How can I orchestrate successful images for my clients? What can I add to these portraits? What direction can I offer to make a successful, memorable image? How can I portray my subjects’ character? How do I tell the story that is waiting to be told? There is much to think about in photography and I sincerely need to listen to my clients to learn about their lives. It is only through connecting with my clients that I can successfully tell their story. It is only through relationship that my clients relax enough to let their spirit show. It is only through appreciation and respect that the lens of my camera can capture the moment of connection, communication and community. It is my privilege to step into my client’s life, if only for an instant, to tell their story.
As I prepare to head home, I realize that I do, indeed, want to carry home an infection. Not a microbe infection from sleeping on cushions on the floor at my son’s apartment but an infection about life and those in my life. I think it is called love.
Until then