Books

Reading Alone

Who buys paper books these days? Certainly, not me. I’ve gone purely electronic, for an Amazon Kindle with ten books fits nicely in your jacket pocket, but try to do that with paper books. It just won’t work. Paper books are chunky, unruly, lack build-in dictionaries, and demand a separate bag for storage. So, why not declare them dead once and for all and be done with it? Well, not so fast. From what I can see during my photographic roamings around major cities, paper books seem to be alive and well, and for one reason or another, lately I’ve begun to miss them. Looking through my photos I also discovered that while I tend to photograph lots of people reading books, I have yet to take a photo of anyone reading an electronic book reader. Why is that?

For starters, nothing beats the tactile feeling of holding a book. Their physical presence, while usually cumbersome, is also what keeps us engaged with its contents. We feel its weight on our hands, we see it, we judge it by its thickness, and we must actively secure it with one hand while the other gently waves its pages with a sweeping motion reminiscent of a professional harpist. And when we open a book, we experience that unmistakable exhilaration that comes from opening a window into a great view, a quickening of the senses driven by anticipation. The sweet perfume of a freshly printed book, a lonely title sitting prominently by itself on on a main page, and a first sentence to prepare us for the story that’s about to come. Yes, that first sentence that author Jhumpa Lahiri aptly described as “… a handshake, perhaps an embrace.” All of this I miss when holding my electronic reader. And every now and then, when nostalgia becomes too hard to bear, I too go out and buy a paper book, if anything to experience that warm embrace that never left my imagination. A feeling that has become collateral damage in a world consumed by technology, but one that hopefully will never die.

 

Finding Meaning In Fractions Of A Second

Circle Lovers

Why is it that we search for more meaning in a photo after we have taken it than at the time the photo is being captured? I’m sure that there are many explanations for this, but for me, it all has to do with frame counts. Let me explain. In the process of acquiring a particular photo, we observe the world as a continuous video, a sequence of fast-moving frames that get processed inside our brains with a refresh rate that mimics the speed of light (or so it seems). If we watch a person walking, we don’t particularly remember the uniqueness of any particular step, or gesture, or scene complexity. It just flows from one side to the other in a perpetual motion, and at the end we kind of remember the overall occurrence of having seen someone walking. It is a factual story that in all its generosity, allows our imaginations to rest without bother.

Photographs, on the other hand, disrupt our imagination’s slumber and literally compel us to “fill in the blanks” of the story. In true Sherlock Holmes fashion, it makes us leap from that frozen fraction of a second into all sorts of directions and plots. A delayed reaction from the moment of capture, for sure, but perhaps the essence of why we capture images in the first place. That is not to say that seeing life as a moving video is any less rewarding, but rather that just like we tend to remember particular scenes in a movie, photographs are the particular scenes of our visual movies. They anchor us to a place and time like no moving object can, and feed that which is the essence of us all: our imaginations. That is why in the photo above I simply do not want to know more about this couple, for it is more fun to “imagine” lovers on a sunny day reading from her latest writings and oblivious to the passing of time. Reality? Perhaps not, but as long as I look at that photo, I’ll pretend that it is.

 

Mornings

Everyone has a morning ritual, but lingering by a river at daybreak has to be near the top.
Everyone has a morning ritual, but lingering by a river at daybreak with a cup of coffee has to be near the top.

I am here today to defend the proposition that there is no better part of the day than the early morning hours of a day.  That’s right, I am taking a stand.  And yes, this is a subject that is much ignored by most folks, but in the name of the pursuit of happiness, I feel that it is my duty to openly declare that those fleeting hours when the sun begins to appear over the horizon are about as close to heaven as we will get on this earth.  They are poetry incarnate, manifesting a choreographed rhythm replete with rituals, lights, beginnings, and discovery.  When we wake up (and no matter our speed of movement), we tend to do the same things every day, even if during the rest of the day we proudly profess not to be the victims of routine.  It is those little things we do without fail that make morning so special.  Eyes opening with the first light, setting those same eyes on a loved one, laboring in the kitchen, and going through our mental checklist for the day.  It is busy time, but busy with new beginnings and the hope that today will be better than yesterday.  So there you have it: I’m officially issuing the “morning is best” edict, so we all better start enjoying them a little bit more.  Still skeptical? Just ask the fella sitting at that bench.

A Reading Room Like No Other

Girl quietly reading by a lone lamp at the Main Reading Room of the Library of Congress.
Girl quietly reading by a lone lamp at the Main Reading Room of the Library of Congress.
Long, winding reading tables dot the main floor of the Reading Room and contribute to its scholastic atmosphere.
Long, winding reading tables dot the main floor of the Reading Room and contribute to its scholastic atmosphere.
One of the beautifully private research alcoves right off the Main Reading Room at the Thomas Jefferson Building.
One of the beautifully private research alcoves right off the Main Reading Room at the Thomas Jefferson Building.
The majestic dome stands way up high in solemn guard above the famous research room and the researchers quietly toiling below.
The majestic dome stands way up high in solemn guard above the famous research room and the researchers quietly toiling below.
The entrance hall to the Thomas Jefferson Building is commonly described as Beaux Arts architecture at its finest.
The entrance hall to the Thomas Jefferson Building is commonly described as Beaux Arts architecture at its finest.
A child, and perhaps a future researcher, has already mastered the ability to ignore the noise around him in the pursuit of knowledge.
A child, and perhaps a future researcher, has already mastered the ability to ignore the noise around him in the pursuit of knowledge.

It is a rare moment when the largest library institution in the world, the Library of Congress, opens the doors to its Main Reading Room at the Thomas Jefferson Building to the general public.  In fact, it only happens a couple of times a year, but most people (including myself) generally miss it because the news surrounding these rare events tends to be about as low-keyed as you can get.  After all, these library folks are not the kind of folks you will generally encounter down in Rio de Janeiro letting loose during Mardi Gras.  So when I received an early-morning text from a great photographer friend yesterday asking if I was interested in heading up to Capitol Hill with our cameras, the offer was impossible to resist.  Low light, no tripods allowed, and surely lots of folks ready to photo-bomb your shots. No problem, and away we went.

To say that the the Main Reading Room is an impressive place would be a gross understatement.  Entering this imposing Beaux Arts room with its incredibly ornamented dome rising about 160 feet from the ground is quite an event in-an-of-itself.  It is reminiscent to the experience of entering a Renaissance church in Florence and suddenly been overtaken by a magnificent view you could not have foreseen prior to entering the building.  But as beautiful as the scene was, photographing the place was to prove a bit of a challenge.  There were people, and photographers of all kinds, all over the place. No one (including yours truly) wanted to miss out on this rare opportunity, and at times it was as if photographers and visitors were engaging in a hastily choreographed, chaotic dance without a dance director.  In this environment, timing, patience, and a steady hand to compensate for the lack of a tripod (generally forbidden, but possible to get permission if you plan way ahead and are willing to grow old in the process) were key to getting a decent photograph.

And then there was the low light, which for a Leica rangefinder shooter trying to focus manually in a darkish room does not lead to a match made in heaven.  So out came the external Leica EVF adapter, and just like that, I could suddenly focus in the dark.  I suddenly felt better about having had to sell an organ to pay for the darn contraption.  Now I just have to work on developing the smooth breathing rhythm of a zen monk in deep meditation before I press that shutter release.  No doubt this is easier said than done.