The Photographer's Eye
I went walking one spring morning in the state park at the end of my street. As I tramped along, I was aware of an insistent refrain sounding in my head: What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? It is the question that brackets William Blake's poem, "The Tyger." I banished it from my mind and tramped on, only to realize a minute or so later that this refrain had again insinuated itself into my thoughts. It even took on the cadence of my gait, like march music, with each syllable sounding to my step: What-im-mor-tal-hand-or-eye-could-frame-thy-fear-ful-sym-me-try!
My thoughts turned to the camera slung by a strap over my shoulder. The camera is basically a framing device, a way of saying, Look at this! The camera itself sees nothing; it is the eye that sees. Something catches your eye, and your hand fiddles with the camera settings and then clicks the picture. There will be additional adjustments in the darkroom or, more likely these days, to the digital image that is uploaded to a computer. I have software that lets me crop the picture, adjust the exposure, heighten contrasts, correct the color, sharpen the image. All these refinements serve a single purpose: to produce an image capable of momentarily arresting one's attention from its ceaseless wandering. Here, look at this! And this! And This! Click! Click! Click! Even the most artful photograph is a poor substitute for the visual splendor that lies before at us every moment. Yet this poor image will have served its purpose if it can trick the eye into seeing.
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© Eric Rennie Photography