The View from Here:
Life Lessons in Photography

Lynne K. Fukuda
Instructor, Institute of Biology, Hawaii Pacific University
lfukuda@hawaii.edu

Like a tired horse I droop my head, ready to cry, and then I go over to my closet to open my camera case. My eyes brighten with sudden happiness. I stroke my cameras, the lenses, and my tripod lovingly, like a man with his favorite car. I sigh. "We have to go out some time soon," I say to the dark metal pieces. My camera looks back at me like a favorite cat with its unblinking stare. My tripod seems posed as if to say, "Ready when you are." My lenses wait patiently to be changed and placed onto a camera body. I imagine the rolls of film in my fridge, once out of the confines of the shelves, undergoing a metamorphosis from solid pupae into a butterfly displaying its beauty.

You may think that I am a basket case from what you just read. Yet, many individuals live in a perpetual state of overload, believing that they need to be in the midst of humanity, that they need to be highly sociable 24-hours a day, or be buried in work and nothing else. Twenty, thirty, or forty years later, they suddenly fall ill or die of stress-related diseases. I count my blessings as a person with a lower threshold for stress, which forces me to run to a sanctuary and recover--the sanctuary of photography.

After a particularly bad week, I pack my bag with lunch and water, sunscreen, a hat, and dress in my long-sleeved shirt and jeans and head out the door. Driving out to scenic areas, my heart soars with the wind as my hair flutters wildly out of the car window. "At last--I'm free of people, work, responsibilities, and the screwy world," I say to myself while I stare at the beauty of nature. The misty mountains, the soft rain, and the thundering surf at the beach slowly take away my tiredness with life. I know I will be healed. I think of my photo trips as a therapy session. Just as a wild animal hides away when it is hurt or ill in order to heal, I hide away: a human alone in nature to renew my senses, to recover what is important in life, and to reflect on what is truly good.

I love the process of photography. It is a bit like fishing--you don't have to catch anything to enjoy it. You just have to be there doing it. I have countless rolls of "junk" film with obscure prints that are out of focus, too dark or too light, or just too boring. Yet, carrying the heavy equipment, which amounts to twenty pounds or so (a lot for a small woman) brings out a sweat and a refreshing wind into my tensed-up heart. "You must be crazy carrying all that stuff and going out at all times," some of my friends say. But I just reply, "I would become crazy if I didn't otherwise. I would be a member of an insane asylum if I remained with the creatures of my species night and day."

My philosophy pertaining to photography is to minimize, just as I do for life. Only put things that fit into the square and look at nothing else. Only place things of beauty into your life and eliminate all unpleasantness. As my kindergarten teacher says to her students, "Don't open your mouth if nothing nice comes out of it." Crop a good photo to emphasize the best. Have in your heart room to forgive and to forget. Be frugal in material things. I try to make every print count. After many years of mishaps with film, I have finally begun to take my time with each shot, composing, looking for extraneous distractions to eliminate, looking for true beauty in common things, and taking care with each movement to maximize what will be recorded and expressed in the film.

My darkroom experience is also a learning experience. Being in the darkroom is like mediation. It is good to hear the dripping of water in the rinse. The chemical smells add a bit of a high. The red light creates a moody flavor to the room. After seeing a blast of light, the paper is readied for printing. Four or five square baths of chemicals await the exposed paper. My heart beats like a child at Christmas to see the paper change color to reveal shapes. There are a few mishaps, but nevertheless, I feel a relentless need to continue processing. The results for the amateur are often disappointing, but the act of printing builds character and cultivates patience. Go into the dark and see what is truly there. Do not be afraid to bump yourself in the dark. Do not use your eyes to see, but use your hands, your feelings, and your thoughts. I take joy in the unpredictable.

Even the slightest change of temperature, the addition of too much or too little of any chemical, a slight carelessness in focus, or a leak of light warps the outcome. Yet, even the slightly blurred picture, the frame with a white piece of lint, the chemical-burned film, or the over-darkened or over-lightened print is lovable. It is lovable because I made it myself. Life, with all of its variables, also sometimes takes a path that one cannot predict. We all need a little forgiveness for our small imperfections. There is always beauty even in the flawed. There can only be appreciation and caring for an object that is loved. "If you like it, then it's perfect," my teacher remarked when I told him I liked my slightly darker prints. "It has mood," I said smiling, pleased with my work.

Just as in our daily lives, we must take care in making our pictures, with the details, leave out nothing, and keep everything neat and orderly; even small problems like lint on the lens can become larger and more prominent if not treated quickly. The lint, the scratch, the small detail that seems miniscule becomes magnified as life gets larger. Sad as it is, sometimes we cannot undo some of our mistakes. The unkind word hangs in the air between friends; the lack of love between lovers creates scars. Some steps need to be taken slowly and carefully. I must try to be meticulous in my dealings with others as I must be with picture processing. The scratches, the blotches, and the obliterated areas are not imperfections that are part of my personality, but merely the small neglects, laziness, and abuses that humans do to each other.

I often look at my photography portfolio, which spans nearly twenty years. It is very amateurish. I believe that no professional cares to comment on it because I would be hurt by some truthful words. My photography teacher kindly calls me an avant-garde photographer. But the pictures are there merely for me to look at, a record of my adult life. My very first pictures were made with a point-and-shoot camera that even kindergarteners could use. I look at them: the sea turtles hatching out of the nest and heading for the ocean; others are betters, done with a manual SLR that I learned to use as those who drive use a stick shift. It was harder to learn but now it is second nature: the rhesus monkeys grooming each other in the forest (there is a prominent piece of lint in the background). I fell on my chin and covered myself with dirt to take that shot. I have black-and-white prints of my baby nephew who I took care of for a year, and many festivals, special events, and wedding photos of friends. Now I have photos of the hula dancers and Native American dancers, and angelic kindergarteners in action.

This portfolio is a slice of my life. It chronicles my accomplishments, life experiences, and passions. When a mistaken diagnosis of a brain tumor threatened to rob me of my young life, I was filled with a sudden desire to take photos of the things I loved most, as if I were trying to burn the precious memories of the beautiful world around me into the recesses of my mind (just as the photo pigments imprinted the essence of objects that I focused on) with the passionate desperation of a dying person. I am still filled with the fire to seize the camera and to find beauty in all things no matter how horrible, ugly, or mundane. I have found enlightenment with my camera, no longer a detached bystander, but as a participant; like a rider mounted on a horse, my camera and I are one. I travel the world recording the echoes of life.

Although reclusive and shy, I have found a way to channel my creative skills to my surrounding community. Although photographing is an anti-social act, it reaches out to many individuals as a form of connection. It is a forgiving activity where even the most misanthropic can participate in an artistic endeavor. It brings together individuals of all cultures and beliefs to share with one another their passion for the lens. Even as a certain kind of misanthrope, I feel at once normal and accepted. I proudly display my work. I remain anonymous, and yet, well known.

I wish to show those who cannot travel, I want those who are too sick to leave their beds to go in their minds to a remote place, idealized, manipulated, and yet, perfected. I often lay in my bed during bouts of illness to look at my photo albums and re-live the pleasure. I hope that someday, photos that I send over the Web will allow others to share the simple pleasure of traveling where they otherwise cannot go.

I dream of owning a specialized digital camera to create educational multimedia and bring the joy of learning the sciences to my students. I want them to experience learning as if they were out in nature as I had been from childhood, discovering the wonders of life. Instead of boring volumes of text and faded photographs, my digital photos would explode on the web, delighting the senses of adults and children all over the world.

I wonder what the future holds for the camera. Most likely my SLRs, my Zeiss Ikona and my YashikaMat and RolleiFlex will be nearly extinct, while I sweat and stick to the old processes of focusing and developing in the darkroom to make their prints. But my digitals will be pouring out images like the blossoms of spring.

And if someday I am sitting in a padded cell of the local funny farm without a camera, I will hold up my fingers to form a square and find a pleasant scene in my mind to record. "Click, click," I will say, and store it on the film of my memory, always a camera freak to the core.

Academic Exchange Extra invites reader responses to any writings in this issue--especially articles advancing the scholarly debate of issues raised.

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