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Been making photographs for a very long time. Since I was 12. I have the evidence.
But, evidently, I still don’t know what I’m doing on some days. Had a conversation yesterday about missed photographs. Moments that disappeared before I could get the car parked, turned around, or the door open. Moments when I went left and the subject went right. Moments when I hesitated.
Moments that I chose to make the photograph with a certain set of tools and they were the wrong choice. Wrong shutter speed, f-stop, lens choice, and location, all wrong in the aggregate or individually. Still wrong.
That conversation yesterday? It was with myself. Someone who is both sympathetic to my situation and someone who gives me no quarter when I complain.
I don’t keep a mental registry of having made correct choices. The photos tell that.
Memory is strange in the way it curates failures.
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