The Cat They Left Behind

Smoking a cigarette in Afghanistan, I rivet my eyes over the horizon. I am taking a drag of my cigarette in the process. I think about the different layers of life I’ve been navigating, and how I’ll ever try and recite to people the things. The invisible things—equity of outcomes to wager different lives.

In the evening, two cooks prepare meals for the Marines. It is a rudimentary process. Out here, everything is.

Dinners come prepackaged. They are lowered into a hot-water boiler and heated to a specific temperature for consumption. The water, often bubbling and boiling, must reach a certain temperature before the lid can close.

The two cooks one evening, accompanied by two other Marines, are having a cigarette. They pour water into the grill and set the prepackaged meals aside for preparation.

On the Forward Operating Base (FOB), feral cats run amok all along the sand-filled HESCO barriers. Giant squares filled with sand lying on top one another.

As the appliance heats up, the water begins to boil. One of the cooks prepares to drop the meals in for heating, when a cat vaults out from behind the tent curtain, falling feet first into the broiler.

The cooks and two other Marines, unable to do anything, listen to the cat scream and cry as it is boiled alive. Water kicking up in all directions. All they can do is watch, as they digest with their eyes the painful taking of an animal out of their control. When the screaming stops, they turn the machine off and wait for the water to cool. Retrieving the dead animal’s corpse, they pluck it into a black garbage bag.

“I’ve got an idea,” one of them says.

Tired from a night shift, I light a cigarette and look toward the morning sun. The sunrise helps alleviate a drifting mind. Putting at ease everything.

I make my way to my cot to grab something, a black trash bag lies on top. The bag, crumpled up, as if to remain closed to hold something inside. On top of the bag is a note. “A merry gift, for a merry Corporal,” it reads.

I sit next to the bag and start to peer inside. The plastic sticks together and makes it rather hard to pull apart. The friction of the plastic scratches the inside, creating an annoyingly familiar sound like the screeching sound of a potato chip bag.

Still sticking together, I have trouble attempting to pull it apart. I muscle my right hand hand in the bag to separate the sides. Out of vision, my hand contacts the mummified corpse of a broiled cat. The fur is greasy, slimy and hot. The feline’s teeth are exposed, giving it a menacing look. Eyes still wide open, looking directly at me. Looking up at me. The eyes, big and yellow, match the facial expression of a cornered and scared animal. The eyes, looking up at me. I slowly close the bag and stare at the floor. I stare at the floor, and decide not to move for quite some time.

Recently and newly promoted to Corporal, the joke was to preside a gift. At this turn in deployment, I work the night shift. The cat lay on the cot for hours, with no one knowing what was inside. Only a few were in on the joke, while the rest went about their normal duties. Men came and went, sleeping next to the corpse of an animal without realizing it. Without realizing the feline’s struggle. They wanted to play a joke, so they wrapped it in a plastic trash bag and left it on a cot. The animal’s story, coming to a halt, with only the face as a reflection of its final thoughts.

Brought to the attention of the others who slept in the vicinity of the dead animal, it is met with mixed opinions. Hilarity and frustration. Anger and sadness. Some thinking it an innocent prank.

I return to the cot to dispose of the animal. It hasn’t moved. Opening the bag, with those glaring yellow eyes reflecting my image. A live television screen. Those sun colored eyes, with the yellow rods and cones, reflecting my image. I wonder if the animal sees me?

With my bare hands, I grasp the torso. Still sticking to the trash bag, I force it free from the plastic. I lay it on the top for a moment to expose the corpse a final time. I start to review the different funerals I was absent. Funerals I did not attend. In my head, I say their names, while staring at the dead mummified corpse of the feline. The image, still broadcasting my image like a live television.

I pick the cat up from it’s stomach. The greasy fur, leaving a slimy residue on my hands like a slug.

I make my way to the burn pit. The place we dispose of our trash. Only 20 yards where I sleep. I carry the corpse by hand. Eyes still wide open, reflecting my image. I stand in the sea of garbage and trash knee-high. I light the animal on fire and watch it burn. It doesn’t make any sounds this time.

This time, it doesn’t make any sounds.

750 Words

I read over different strategies on how to improve my writing.

The internet states I must write every single day. 750 words to be precise. Contrasting opinions state that I must take a step away. Let the process unfold as it will. I’m not sure which one to believe.

Writing a book is troubling. It is an arduous task, trying to decipher so much information and ideas into a consolidated draft of words. I look at all of the different techniques and efforts that seasoned writers offer to people. I also see the trouble with trying to find a decent literary agent who might decline or refuse to help you in the pursuit of such an endeavor.

Cutting corners to turn a profit. Conforming to industry standards that preclude and censor certain types of art. Culling words to minimize thought, and keep the reader on track. All of these are necessary problems to be address while writing.

In self-reflection, two things stick out. Consistency with writing, and formulating an ending.

One strategy calls to brainstorm the entire manuscript from beginning to end. Look over the ebb and flow, and logically present them. Tradition demands a metaphor and literary context. Show, don’t tell.

Show, don’t tell. 

This one line made me revamp my manuscript. Currently, there are over three pages for the first chapter alone.

The subsections of each chapter paint a picture for the story while utilizing certain elements of fiction. What do I mean by fiction?

In creative writing, one of the paragons is a metaphor. I always love creating a scene that creates room for some level of interpretation. Articulating contentious ideas. In writing, the reader chooses their outcome.

In the movie “Arrival,” the audience sees the ending of the film, in the opening sequence. This defies most traditional story matrices. The plot of the story electrifies controversy.

The main character knows her future daughter will develop an ailment, which leads to the child’s demise. The mother, the lead protagonist, is armed with the knowledge of the future. By her own choice, she deems it necessary to still have the child, even though she knows her child will pass away.

If armed with the same knowledge, what would you decide? Would you still deem it worthy? Experiencing all the good, all the heartache, that comes with losing our offspring? Even though the future is already predetermined, would you still go through with it?

This is why stories like “Arrival” are so great and get so overlooked. People are encumbered through superficial writers in Hollywood science fiction. There are so many deep, beautiful layers to the entire plot. I understand, that the more complex a story, the harder it is for an audience to follow.

Through my own story, I’m trying to find the balance between writing an amount that beckons the normal reader. At the same time, also pandering to the dramatic themes that insightful readers need.

The “x” and “y” axis of controversy, decision, plot, flow, and event.

I need to structure my story that contains the correct elements of struggle, ethical dilemma, controversy, and redemption. What does this all resemble?

Composition. The structure of any novel or photograph. The framework for keeping our ideas and mind in check. While this helps to keep things in check, rules are also meant to be broken.

Rational Fear

I contain a rational fear. A fear that engulfs.

Underneath all I am is the fear of failure.

I’m not aware if people even read these journal entries?

I observe my writing tonality from above and see it as if I’m always writing in front of an audience. Writing on a stage like an orchestra. Performing different chords, different historical pieces by Beethoven and Mozart. Theatrics that are genuine, and alive.

Standing on a stage, I wait for a standing ovation. The audience rises, clapping their hands. I remove my cylindrical top hat and present them a bow.

The theater curtains slowly close in. The stage lighting above dims to darkness. I recover from a bowed stance, standing in silence. In this specific moment, I am an artist. Shrouded from the crowd and their critique.

They applaud a performance that exists only on the surface, the true art lies beneath. In truth, self-expression is confidential.

In self-contemplation, the fear strikes like a drum. Afraid of what other people will think.

Afraid of what people will have to say about my own story. Afraid to be judged, and scared to put in the work. A fear of too many words and thinking too big. A story that won’t articulate easy from mind to paper.

Failure eats away in more than just one way. Scouring the internet for suggestions on how to continue writing, I encounter all the complicated feelings. Invigorating insecurities. Revealing the demonic emotions that are enigmatic with their chastising words of doubt.

In the next few months, I’ll try to remain quiet about my project. Not granting myself the satisfaction that it is already done. A project that is deeply personal. I don’t care for the acceptance or recognition of others.

I care to tell a story.

I burden to tell this story.

This perplexity of trying to structure paragraphs of a past. A past that often eludes.

An Air of Empty Space

I remember the first time confronting death, absent through natural causes. No DNA sequence limiting our age through the compound structure of a telomere.

Habbaniyah, Iraq. In the early morning hours, I leave my room to shave my face before a patrol. Sunlight peaks over the horizon, signaling the start of a new day. Walking through the breezeway to the bathroom, the ringing echo of a gunshot tears through the landscape. What was once a human body, containing the indomitable mortal spirit, is now an empty vessel. What was once the culmination of mortality, is all but removed. The definition of struggle, suffering, and identity. The individual, freeing themselves from all of this.

I wonder if the Marine who took his life will visit Charon, the ferryman to the underworld for Hades? Will his spirit travel across the river Styx? To join all of our brothers that have died in battle? When he stands before the different ancestral clergymen to be judged, will he be absolved of his sins? Will, and can, he be forgiven?

Will he reside in the Nordic Belief of Valhalla? Will the Valkyries carry him, only to see his frailty and offer him penance for taking his life? Should I feel sorry for a man who took his life, and chastise him for conditions I can’t understand?

Should I instead, offer him our forgiveness?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. Under the conditions of death, and the circumstances surrounding each and everyone, it is difficult to explain the next journey. Many religious texts have tried explaining something that is far from thought. When we meet death face-to-face, either through the first-person, or someone we once knew or know; it is turbulent and treacherous.

Over the past month, I’ve been processing the death of Brad Gobright, a very prominent and figurative climber who died in Mexico.

I receive the word and draw a blank. I feel nothing at first, trying to concoct the situation. Painting different outcomes. I can’t draw up a thought, put words to paper, or even realize that he is gone. I sit in silence, only to hear nothing from within. No guiding hand telling me what to do. No mentor or parental figure helps. As I stare outside my window, I see the snowfall hitting the ground, and wonder where is the next step?

My immediate reaction is to at first take-up arms against something I don’t understand. Go for a run, head to the gym. Go climb outside, play a video game. Make the thoughts stop. Cease the coalescing process and high-energy. Rid me of this uneasy feeling.

The process unfolds, and find me somewhere up on the top of a mountain. Unaware of what time of day it is. I’m here by myself because I am helpless to the natural process of death. The temperature hovers somewhere around -5 degrees Fahrenheit. I am cold, and feel it on the surface of my body and skin, a temporary level of punishment and pain I can connect within a healthy manner. I feel slightly better, but I am nowhere closer to finding Mr. Gobright here. I just need to feel some form of pain, some way to connect with this feeling I can’t describe. Most athletes go through it, and our primal nature reveals that pain is a natural process that everyone must experience. Physical and mental. Everyone must experience it to both grow and maintain a healthy relationship with the self.

I’ve been here many times over. This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with a death of this magnitude. I often struggle to try to find the words to encapsulate how I feel. I often struggle trying to relate to the people around me. I decide that the best course of action is to shut them out. To let me process his death on my terms.

Over the past 10 years, I’ve lost about 20 different people. Suicide, drinking and driving, war, falling from the skies in airplanes, drug deals gone bad. Each one having a significant impact on my outlook on life. Each one, each soul, an infinitesimal amount of potential and prospect. Each one was somehow deeply meaningful to me. 20 times, have I taken to heart with me the impact of life.

When I first left the military, I felt a reticent disconnect with the average civilian. I sensed a disconnect in my life experiences over theirs. It was as if I gained 30 years in a short period. I labored every night trying to capitalize on my mental progress, waiting for there to be an answer to the difficulties beset upon me. As time went on, I gained strategies on how to better deal with my emotions and that lingering disconnect. Shutting it off completely though is something I feel will never go away. It’s been 10 years, and I still connect deeply with people that have also experienced some level of trauma. I feel that through my experiences, I’m able to relate to a variety of different people from all walks of life. While I sit and meditate, I understand that all life is surrounded in a struggle. All life is fortified in suffering. The more we try to deny this, the more it eats away and tears at us. Surrendering to ourselves is only the first step.

The depth of any story can take me to the center of the Earth and back again. I interact with people, but at the same time want to maintain a vestigial distance. I have grown scared of relationships. I have grown scared of forging long-lasting friendships for the fear that they will be taken from me. I fear that I’ll revisit my past, watching the weeping widows and the fatherless and motherless children wonder why they aren’t coming home. I’ll watch the tears on their face. I’ll watch them cry. Standing before their parent's picture. I’ll see the varying degree of emotional intelligence play out. The 2-year old that just stands there silently. The 8-year old who holds her mother’s hand, crying during the eulogy. The teenager, trying to stay invincible, with vanishing emotion. Crying only behind closed doors, because this is all so new. I’ll tell myself that the best way to live my life is to be the best version of myself that I can at all times. I’ll tell myself that I must be strong. I must maintain a rigid spiritual structure for others. A metaphysical foundation of answers.

When I got into climbing, I see a scary similarity between those in the infantry and those that climb. Infantry is required to push it to the absolute edge of physical and mental endurance. Opting for a life of immense suffering, forfeit of luxury. The same is said for people within the climbing community.

Those in the infantry, have a quarrelsome relationship with death. People are puzzled by this? We are keenly aware that the line of work involves dying and killing. We don’t immediately want to take our own lives, but if it came for us to rush a hill knowing that we would most potentially vacate our host body, then that is what is required. This is a dangerous game to play with the psyche. Living at the absolute mental limit of existence. Between each footstep, every breath. Sensible that each small movement separates you from life and death. Living on the sharp brink of existence with each second. This is a necessary tool, used to understand the pursuit of living out our lives.

I remember the people I met in Afghanistan. They had very little in the avenue of material possessions. Houses made from the natural landscape, some with nothing but mud and water. Every day a matter of survival. Between the different warring factions, and the power vacuum after the Global War on Terror, there is little in the hopes that they look forward to “The Golden Years,” which most Americans can afford.

If I was allowed to sit down and speak with the Afghan people, I’d collect their stories that would be enough for 20 lifetimes. I’d sit with a notebook in hand, writing all day, of their profound and disturbing stories. Their struggles, their traumas, their detrimental and troublesome world. Most try to make it to their next meal, their next cup of tea. Living on the edge of existence, one breath at a time. One small footstep, one small movement.

In the movie Black Hawk Down, an exchange of words takes place between Michael Durant (a captive U.S. pilot) and a Somali militiaman.

Durant, who was shot down, is the sole survivor of his aircraft. Two U.S. Army Delta Force Soldiers monitoring the situation above in their helo, opt to aid in his rescue. They requested to insert themselves at a drop zone not too far from where Durant’s chopper went down.

Before the insertion, the Delta Soldiers could see crowds numbering into the 100’s. Descending onto Durant’s chopper. AK-47’s and various small arms fire at Durant as he fights to regain consciousness and composure after surviving a helicopter crash.

Amidst the chaos, civilians were killed, along with many Somalians. Bullets whizzing like mosquitoes looking for blood. The two Soldiers did not know Durant on a deeply personal level but aided in his rescue anyway. Offering to secure the crash site until further ground forces could reinforce and evacuate and/or recover the bodies of the dead Americans. They were well aware of the severity, and the small chance they would make it out alive. They were aware that they were going to die.

They were keenly aware that they were going to die. They never had the opportunity to say goodbye to their loved ones. They weren’t allowed to lie gracefully in a bed surrounded by their loved ones and relive all of their lifelong accomplishments. Fading in and out of consciousness, only to meet their end through natural causes.

“My daughter was born this year.”

“My son was born this year.”

“I remember the first time that I fell in love. We married 50 years ago.”

There is so much potential and measurement in all of these sayings.

The two Delta Soldiers did not survive the engagement with the Somali militia. Durant was captured and taken hostage.

In the depiction of the movie, Durant is played by Ron Eldard. Badly battered and beaten from the angst of numerous Somalis.

“Michael. Michel, Durant?” One of the Somali soldiers reads Durant’s dog tag back for the correct enunciation. The militiaman asks Durant if he is one of the rangers responsible for killing his people. Durant replies no.

“I’m not a ranger. I’m a pilot.” Durant replies.

The militiaman motions his arm outward to offer Durant a cigarette, to which he declines.

“That’s right. None of the Americans smoke anymore.” The militiaman lights the cigarette with a Zippo-like lighter, inhaling the smoke. “You all live long. Dull. Uninteresting lives.”

I think of the deeply woven significance of this saying. Is he saying Americans struggle to live? Even from the perspective of a Somali militiaman, he can see the bigger picture. How do we carry out the correct actions to live a fulfilling life? Two different men, with two different world views, separated by oceans and deserts, hold a conversation and highlight to me the perpetual and colossal problem. Fighting as enemies, but understanding one another more so, than most Americans understand each other. Sometimes we understand our enemies more than we understand ourselves.

To live a significant life is something I struggle with almost every day. I want the people around me to be happy, almost at the expense of my own. I wish that they have children, get married, and live a long, fulfilling existence.

It’s not always that easy. The indomitable power of the human spirit brings people up to the snowy voids of Mount Everest. Across the barren wastelands of Antarctica. To the Moon and back, with no idea, if they will survive. The bigger, larger message? No one will ever know if they are living a significant life. There is no governing body. There is no organization or group of infinite wisdom that will grant you this question. The idea of living a fulfilling, determinate existence is one of nothing but speculation and subjectivity. Every decision you make can be a cloud of doubt and uncertainty. Every outcome, every future decision, starts with an uneasy feeling.

When I think of the idea of starting a family, it plagues me to my core. I have experienced a loving, fulfilling relationship before. I see the frailty people experience when in the presence of a caring significant other. I place my perspective in the future, and wonder what I would feel?

I feel my heart start to elevate. My erratic, uncoordinated breathing cycles come to my attention. My head starts to hurt, and I can’t even scrounge up a word to explain my thoughts. Grief, bubbling its way to the surface, hiding behind the mask of humor. I try to contain my emotions, but it becomes so labor intensified by the maelstrom of thoughts I can’t begin to maneuver in my head.

I look at the empty chair during dinner. The dangling, empty rope in the climbing gym. The empty bloodied uniform of an infantryman. The weathering, aging car being battered by the elements. I look at all of these spaces, and wonder where Brad Gobright would be? I wonder what space the infantryman would occupy, and what they would be doing? I think of all the kinships they forged. The community of personal relationships they cultivated, and wonder if their empty presence will be felt?

Every Christmas and family holiday, I listen to the quiet conversation taking place around me. I listen to everything all at once, without even realizing it. I’m not present here, and rarely am. I’m feeling all of the memories being planted. I’m seeing the seeds of growth and potential around me. A cousin with a good job. The aunt who is renovating a house. The friend who is moving onto a new job. All of these decisions, all of these beautiful potentialities. Every moment, a different concurrence of moment and memory.

I can’t explain the problem I have. As I engage in small conversation, it only lasts for a little while. I step in another room alone, to take a second to stop drifting in my mind. Revisiting the empty chair, the empty uniform. Standing in the room I see all the faces of sacrifice. At first, I wonder if I’m hallucinating? I glance over at the empty chair where Brad Gobright now sits. I engage in a conversation. A conversation that never takes place.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say.

“That depends,” the illusion replies. “I’m not currently here, the only conversation you’ll have is with yourself.”

“What are you?”

“I’m the reflection of what once was. A manifestation of your thoughts. I’m neither spirit, nor demon, but merely a spatial awareness of regret. A level of regret you have, not for me, but yourself. You fill this empty chair with the contrition you feel.” The illusion states.

“You believe me to be a specter? You are wrong. What you see and feel is the embodiment of emotional connection mortals experience through the tribulations of life. The beauty, and profound tenderness we experience through excitement and zest. Through adventure, you experience intimacy on a different scale than most humans can quantify. A love that is substantial as it is significant. Authentic as it is platonic.”

The illusion disappears. I look out the window but still hear the voice inside.

“What you experience is the withdrawal of their existence. That space you feel in your heart is not regret, it is a lamentation. The voice you now hear is your consciousness. Attempting to navigate and explain the way to move forward. The illusion you see before you are the positive qualities you gained through the different shared experiences.”

A Marine in dress blues stands in the corner of the room. I don’t see his face, because his back is turned to me.

“You feel sustenance when in the presence of such affirming energy. You know what it is to stand on the top of the mountains. At the zenith of existence, with an element of crisis and instability. The precipice of our primordial ancestors. Through combat, through climbing, you harvest a parallel connection lost to the ages very few humans can experience in our modern world.”

I turn in the direction of the Marine. He too, has disappeared but still hear the echoing voice.

“The words you hear now to explain a situation so convoluted, so tortuous, requires interpretation and expression. Before we continue, you must promise me one thing.”

Both voices simultaneously speak in conjunction.

“You must rid yourself of penance. That space in your heart, the withdrawal, is not regretted. It is not sorrow.”

I turn to the window and see the reflection of a hand resting on my shoulder, with the aberration of a figure standing behind me.

“It is love.” The voices echo in the distance, as they begin to dissolve deeper into the subconscious. Whispering a final sentence.

“Love once removed.”

General Conversation

Sitting in a room with eight other people, I drift off for a quick moment as I offload my Nikon camera. To my immediate right is the commander of the administrative (S-1) section. A major, with a cautionary presence.

I’m putting together a photographic caption from a recent assignment. We are in Germany participating in Operation Dynamic Front. A multinational exercise of partner nations and allies. I’m the public affairs section leader, fulfilling both officer and enlisted responsibilities.

“Spc. Boisvert, I hear you are a prior infantry Marine?” She asks me.

“Yes, Ma’am. I was.” I reply.

“That’s — different. I didn’t expect that, coming from you. Why did you leave?”

I stop typing and stare off into space as I formulate a response. It takes a few seconds as I try to navigate those dark spaces. Those memories — buried deep underneath. All of the emotions flood to the surface. I experience them all at once. Grief, regret, anger, and sadness. I look at the reflection of my face on my tablet. As the emotions carry themselves out, they remain locked away.

“Well, ma’am,” I pause for a second and think of how I want, or should, word this.

3 or 4 seconds pass as she continues typing on her computer.

“I got tired of seeing my friends get killed.”

She stops typing. Digesting what I said. Although it was only for a moment, she glances over at me and I can see her in my periphery. I see the so-called threatening persona vanish, and she remains silent. Struggling to formulate a response, only met with silence.

After this exchange, she was always very personable with me. I intended to never disrespect her as a person, nor did I ever want to garnish sympathy from her. I never wanted to masquerade my accomplishments as a Marine, nor embellish or scrutinize the smallest of details. I just gave a response, and I think she understands my story — my response.

For this operation, there is no clear indication of my importance for being here. As a public affairs specialist, I am a powerful asset to any military commander. Most combat arms commanders have no idea how to employ public affairs. They simply believe that we cover stories and tell the military story. Frankly, that is only the silver lining.

During the operation, higher-ups from the 29 different participating nations will show up. They will walk through, speak with their service members and learn the value of conducting an exercise of this magnitude. There is a problem: 29 different nations, 29 different entourages, 29 different crowds all thrown together in a small four-by-four room. All visiting at the same time and same place. As the acting public affairs liaison, I am overwhelmed by all of the scheduling conflicts taking place. If that isn’t the worst of it, the crowds are already making me nervous.

During the visit, people scurry in and out of all the different hallways and corridors throughout the building. It’s difficult trying to concentrate on building a photographic caption with the white noise of multiple conversations going on. I think to myself that I would like to put in headphones to drown out the silence, but realize that it would look unprofessional. I decide against it, and just let the noise fester in the background. I sense my autonomic nervous system activates. My stress starts to heighten and match the echo of proxy conversations all around me. I try to drown it out by working at my work station, but the large crowds of strangers only exacerbate my symptoms.

I speak with one of the medics about my past. I tell them about walking through the streets of Afghanistan, and why large crowds can actuate certain memories. I tell them it’s nothing personal against people. it’s only the mechanism behind it that gets me. They recommend I take a few short breaks outside from time-to-time. I was already going to do this anyway, but nonetheless just needed to let someone know. I feel secure knowing that people are aware of my shortcomings.

As I step outside for my first mental break, half of my unit is already here. It’s reassuring to know they understand me.

“Hey, Boisvert. What’s up? Had to take a step away? Me too.” A uniformed fellow says to me.

Strength in numbers.

During the visit, everything thing runs smoothly, but I am elsewhere. I revisit memories throughout the day. One moment, I’m walking through the streets of Afghanistan, with all eyes on me. The next I’m listening to the countrymen whisper to each other in their turbans and long dresses, and I wonder if they are plotting? Plotting to take us out, as if we are nothing but ants on a hill.

I don’t hate the Afghans for looking at me. I don’t hate them for seeing me other than a mere man. I just hate the unfortunate circumstance we each find ourselves in, even though I volunteered.

Back at my computer, I finish the caption for my photograph. A picture that has four different uniform patterns working in tandem. A photograph that communicates proper teamwork. They point at a computer screen as if solving some sort of math problem collaboratively. According to doctrine, I can’t speak of what is on the computer, or even what they are doing. It would violate national security procedures.

My work station is flanked by a long corridor hallway. I see everyone that walks by, and they see me. Our commanding officer lies at the end. The military brass is constantly walking up and down during the visit. I get very acquainted with the varying degree of faces which trace the black and white tiled floor.

As the visit dies down, I hear less and fewer footsteps shuffling across the corridor hallway. The time is around 4:30 p.m. I don’t always have problems with obsessive-compulsive disorder, but this is heightened whenever white tile becomes involved. Service members, with their combat boots, track in all sorts of things. It’s a never-ending fight during the day to keep the floor spotless, but it still requires upkeep.

While I’m working, I decided to take a quick mental break by shifting my focus to something easy — sweeping. I always found it rather odd that some people in the military find it demoralizing if they have to clean. To me, it was always an act of drifting away and performing a meditative form of work. I can think of something else, while just sweeping something along the ground.

I vacate my workstation and adventure off to find the nearest broom. I a thin bristled one down the hallway and begin sweeping the erratic layers of sand on the floor. Left-to-right, left-to-right, I sweep the dirt in small piles.

I start drifting away again and visiting memories. Captioning each one, for a tailored situation. A memory lapsed in time. During the operation, people will see a different side to me. They will see a person who takes their work very seriously, while also revealing my humanity. Exposing my deepest motivations, always trying to do my best. It’s not without shortcomings, though. I remain forever critical of myself. A weakness and a strength.

The Major walks out of our work station area and sees me sweeping.

“Boisvert, have you ever thought of going to Officer Candidate School?” She says to me.

“I have, ma’am. I’m just not sure.” I reply.

No one told me to sweep, I just started doing it because the movement is a welcome state of my existence.

The major displays a soft smile and walks out of the corridor hallway.

“You know there is a bigger broom to sweep the hallway?” I hear a coarse, experienced voice behind me. General Conway, a towering man with a large command presence. Grayed hair, from a lifetime in the infantry himself. An American flag on one shoulder, while a ranger and special forces line the other.

“Yes, sir. I just like this smaller broom. I can grab the corners easier.” I reply.

“I understand that. It’s like painting with a different array of brushes.” He says.

After a few seconds, he lets out a big sigh.

“I’m glad the dog and pony show is finally over.” The general says.

For a moment he fails to remain present. He looks off into space, getting lost in a distant memory. Comparing and contrasting a time between past and present. Looking for some level of normalcy. I see something different in him, something that I also see in myself. Over the years I realize that most infantrymen turn out this way. Locking ourselves between time zones.

“Yes sir, I am too,” I reply. I don’t want things to get too personal at all here, but I find that I’m a conversationalist with anything.

“Is this the first time you’ve ever been to Germany?” The general asks

“Well, sir, technically, yes. I came through here twice when I was younger,” I reply.

“What were you doing over here?” He asks. At first, I remain reluctant to expand on the subject. I’m not so privy to opening up. It only opens up more doorways for them to ask questions. I feel helpless, as the memories attached to those intermittent travel periods make me frantic.

I respect this man, though. A well and esteemed career working in special forces. I feel as if my story wouldn’t measure up, and that I don’t want to bother him with my small story. My small experience which probably, pales in comparison to his own.

This is what I think in my mind, but it is never truly like this.

“I was wearing a different uniform then, sir,” I reply.

“Really? What were you doing?” He asks.

“Well, sir. I was only here in passing. I was on my way to Afghanistan. I guess that’s why I have trouble with crowds.” He seems to take notice of my body language and facial expressions. Mirroring and reciprocating the same mannerisms he was just displaying himself.

“I understand that,” he replies.

“Yes, sir. I’m just wary of an unfortunate circumstance. I get a little uneasy in large crowds sometimes. It’s not the people themselves, it’s just the mechanism behind it.”

The general stares into space once more, then visibly pulls himself back.

“I hope that that hasn’t affected you for the majority of your life.” He says, expressing a deep concern.

“Sir, honestly it’s getting better. I’ve surmised I’m not the only one who goes through it. There’s comfort in numbers. Realizing that I’m not alone. I find that being outside, and climbing and photography are a catalyst for something more. A catharsis of sorts.”

“You climb?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply

“Have you seen that movie with that guy that free solos? Alex Honnold, I think his name is?” He says.

I laugh, “Yes sir. He isn’t just a mystery to the masses. He’s a bit of a mystery to climbers.” I reply.

I explain to the general, a personal opinion on the enigma that is Alex Honnold. A climber who moves upward with no equipment. A daredevil who defies all the odds. I go over details of my life, and how I started my passion for photography and climbing. I speak about a spirit forged through grit and vulnerability. Mapping out the displeasures of failure. I tell him of my adventures, to which he reciprocates with his. We talk for what seems like an hour but it is only about 20 minutes.

“I don’t want to hold you from your work,” he says after we finish our talking points.

“Thank you for the conversation,” he says. “I enjoyed it.”

Strength in numbers.

Photography vs. Writing

In New Hampshire, Autumn constructs a beautiful array of colors. The thick overgrowth during the summer transforms into blissful orange, red, and yellow pockets of different hues. As the leaves begin to fall, the landscape reveals different apertures of painted leaves. In the season’s natural beauty, time seems to slip away faster than we realize.

I’ve always been someone who remains equally grounded, but with their head lost in thought. Lately, I find myself focusing on different prospective projects that take a lot out of me. While photography is very superficial and immediate, these other projects are not.

These new projects are rooted in discipline and consistency. I’m drafting something I never thought I could stomach. It is the transcription of ideas. The culmination of so many different experiences coalesced into a square box made from the material of a tree. It has not been an easy undertaking for me: monitoring flow, tonality, and word choice. Writing may be easy for some; for me, it requires so much more.

As I contrast and compare photography and writing, one is rooted in immediacy while the other is rooted in tact. Photography is a gateway to our natural world. The creativity involved might somehow lack imagination. Our external world is revealed to be accurate; nothing goes to the inner sense. We are in the same plane of existence, our unified experience, and the image preserves it. Ultimately, utterly different than writing.

The concept of communicating an idea through text is so groundbreaking. Think about that for a second. We can deliver our experiences in life through some form of the numeral or etch on a piece of paper for others to collect. It’s both an art, but also completely necessary. Everything is rooted in writing — our technology, the very car that we drive. The planes we see in the sky. Everything, rooted in the transference of idea. Calligraphy.

A story with two different faces: earnest and humor. (Note the second picture’s backdrop is refined from the first. Focusing on the subject’s face to foster a different connection through the use of visual information)

Writing is thousands of years old, while photography has only been around for a fraction of that time. Thought presents an array of difficulty and anxiety. While writing something of importance, from the heart and passion, there is no perfect combination of words. There is no secret formula that one can pull out of their back pocket to save them. Writing is the bane for some, while it is redemption for others. It is one of the most subjective, requiring an intricate toolbox of secrets and experience through numerous and repeated failures.

Photography and writing are very much rooted in the same discipline, failures, and experiences. Equally subjective, equally relative. One person will hate the way you write, while another will fall in love with it. One person will hate the way your photographic process or approach is, while another will show affection and appreciation. There is nothing but chaos, which is valid for all forms of art.

Through the past three years, I realized writing took the backseat of my life. I abandoned it in pursuit of interpreting my natural world through the lens of a camera. Photography involves a level of intricacy, much like writing.

There is more involved in capturing a single image. Most people nowadays take pictures with their smartphones. There is more going on beneath the surface. Learning these technical details was so breathtakingly addictive, that I was abandoning a core component of my identity: writing.

I learned something, something within, through the process of photography. I can collect my thoughts and ideas; resonate with them physically rather than artificially. I can, in fact, hold out my hand and see the byproduct of our existence through the use of our ocular perspective. Writing, although very similar, is not always like this. While holding a camera in hand, you remain very much connected to the world around you. You affix to the idea of a passing moment as art. Photography is still very much the transference of intentions, only through a different medium. Controversial in some ways, but yet communicative as writing.

As I continue to press forward, I realize that I can combine both of these disciplines to create a story. There is nothing more rooted in life than fostering a connection of people through visual information, guided with a narrative voice.

One Camera to Rule Them All

Eric (E.T.) photographing the Milky Way atop Cannon Cliff, New Hampshire, July, 2019. Light pollution from the southern portion of New Hampshire can be seen competing with the Milky Way for the night sky.

Eric (E.T.) photographing the Milky Way atop Cannon Cliff, New Hampshire, July, 2019. Light pollution from the southern portion of New Hampshire can be seen competing with the Milky Way for the night sky.

Sitting atop Cannon Cliff in Franconia Notch, New Hampshire, we gaze at the valley below around 1 a.m. On this night, the moon remains absent. Otherwise invisible to the eye, the Milky Way stands out prominently. Unfortunately for us, the widespread light pollution creates quite a stir as we face the South.

“I love my 24-70 lens; I just hate carrying the thing around all the time,” Jared, an adventurous climbing friend of mine, says. “I’d rather change my kit and get a few primes. Ease up on the weight.”

In my photographic approach, I try not to stress much about gear. It’s tough to ignore, though, within a discipline that relies so heavily on external equipment, its a contributing factor.

I look at my array of overly-used camera equipment, somewhat outdated by today’s standards, still holds up pretty well. If I had to complain about one thing, it would be that I have too many cameras.

Currently, I possess four digital single-lens reflex (DSLR) cameras, each with a unique ability. The one with the most battle scars, my Nikon D810. This blessed beauty has been dropped in water, covered in sand particles, absorbed the cold weather, navigated dangerous terrain while hiking, and even fought off pine martens in the White Mountains. It’s interesting to think where my camera has been, especially its proven durability.

I started on Nikon. Over the years, I’ve shot this brand primarily while out on assignment; it still has some drawbacks: Weight.

A full-frame Nikon or Canon DSLR weighs more than a mirrorless setup. This video helps to keep you up-to-date on the hype between the two.

As I look at my aging setup, I get wrapped up in the fascination of purchasing new gear. I like to stay in the loop about the new and emerging technologies, but with that same token, don’t feel that I should. It’s like people that always need the latest and greatest iPhone. Do I need the latest and greatest if it still does all of the functions I need it too?

A few months back, I took a beautiful image while out in Germany. I decided to submit it to a photographic competition. The talent among other photographers was pretty intimidating. Unfortunately, my photograph didn’t cut it. Underneath everything, I thought genuinely about how photography can shape our lives. I had an emotional connection and a story behind the image I captured. Technology, as impressive it can be, doesn’t know much about human connection or emotion.

In February and March of 2019, I was a participant in Operation Dynamic Front. A multinational live-fire exercise. A culmination of a partner nation’s test of resolve, endurance, and strategic thinking. Coordination involving large-scale combined arms in a simulated combative environment. Organic to an artillery unit, my immediate job was somewhat translucent. I had vague instructions as to the mission but decided to create my own. I was flying solo for this one (which I usually do anyway).

Every night, we were allowed to leave the main base and go out. We would hit up different restaurants or places of interest in the German countryside. I was amazed at the beauty of the German landscape and how the historical energy felt. It was like stepping back in time. The small densely packed villages, slow pace, and friendly people didn’t exactly make it an easy place to leave. From my standpoint, it feels like I could spend an eternity here.

A rough day of training turned into a good night of relaxed conversation with a beer or two. What remained fun for me, turned out to be a profound challenge for someone else.

A person who shall remain nameless looks at social media on his phone. His face changes from modest to a blank, distraught emptiness. He steps outside and doesn’t speak of where he is going or how long he will be gone. It’s raining outside, and he doesn’t seem to care. He leaves.

On his phone was a notification. A notification of the dearly departed. Each day, he is getting lost in time while training; he wasn’t aware of what day it was. He wasn’t aware that a year has passed.

The notification was a reminder that a year ago to the day, his mother went to the other side. I’m not sure of the extent of the relationship that he had with her. I’m not sure, because I don’t typically find it my business to ask deeply personal matters. I know what it is like to lose someone. I know, deeply, what that feeling is.

ISO 4000 / Nikkor 50mm F1.8D / F3.5 / 1/500sEdited with Adobe LightroomShadows/Highlights/Contrast/Adobe Portrait Profile

ISO 4000 / Nikkor 50mm F1.8D / F3.5 / 1/500s

Edited with Adobe Lightroom

Shadows/Highlights/Contrast/Adobe Portrait Profile

The next morning, I hear the sound of small droplets of rain hitting my window. Situated inside of a traditional military squad bay. Bunk beds all lined up in traditional military fashion. I’m usually one of the first people to always get up and get ready. As I gaze out into the early morning darkness, I see the person, staring into his phone. Emptied expression, filled with something only he can know.

I make a subtle noise to let him know that someone else is awake, not to frighten, but from the point of understanding. I, too, get lost in my thoughts. We each begin our day, in a type of unrecognizable connection. I’m aware of his mental state, but say and do nothing.

This same morning, we are heading to Nuremberg. A very well-developed city in Germany. It is fraught with the history of World War II but has changed immensely. This is the second M.W.R. day I’m attending. I hold my Nikon D810 close to grab images of Nuremberg. I want to recount my experiences in the city and the beauty it holds. The weather isn’t fairing so well, though.

The person is sitting directly in front of me. In what seemed like a fraction of a second, I see the same expression reveal itself. The same look, thinking of his immediate kin. Without hesitation, without thinking, I snap the image. I review it on my Nikon, but I am busy trying to process the person’s mindset. I’m busy trying to find the right way to communicate a complicated matter, into something that is meant to be my condolences. Maybe I’m a soulless individual? Perhaps I have a cold heart?

Back home, I review the image on my computer and realize that it holds some significance. It contains some importance because I see a level of myself in the person’s face. I, too, have kept this look, as many other people have.

I process the photo and order an 11x14 print. I think if I should potentially get a frame or not, but unfortunately, I don’t have the funds.

As our annual training comes to a close, most people returned from Germany with a sweatshirt, some chocolate, or some souvenir. I don’t go out of my way to find the person.

I show up early for our last day of military drill, camera and all. I enter a room with no one in it, and behind me comes the person. “Hey, I have something for you,” I say to him.

I grab the image out of my bag and remove the plastic coating protecting a memory. “I knew what you were thinking about the night before,” I say. “I just thought that it was a good image. I want you to have this.” I hand him the picture of an empty face.

As his mind processes the picture, he revisits his kinship with his mother. His face turns to the same duplicated expression in the image. For only a few seconds, he relives a memory of a time gone by.

“I’ve had this expression in my face before too,” I say to him. “It’s a beautiful image.”

Camera gear knows nothing about moments or emotions.

A Thousand Words

Obscurity (1 of 1).jpg

Photography has always been a catalyst for ideas. It allows me the flexibility to get outside, but also provide some context to our world. It is a glimpse of how to convey my eyes to the world. I can communicate what I wish the world to see. Blurring or freezing motion. Creating a depth-of-field image where certain portions are blurred while others are sharply in focus. While all of this is good and well, there is the traditional quote which states, “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

I am troubled by this. In the past, I was attributed with writing. Writing took the back seat while I dove headfirst into photography. I never felt that it would take over my life. I fell in love with the process for a few reasons.

I couldn’t convey profound, intricate ideas into artwork with my writing. I mean -- I could, I just never had the motivation to finish a project. With photography, I could do this exact thing. I could communicate anything and everything I want with the simple click of a shutter. Unfortunately, there are drawbacks. It creates more room for subjectivity and relativity. I find an abundance of critique in photography more than I do in writing. Depending on the photographic discipline, moments are fleeting and inconsistent. They are never perfect.

With writing, ideas become conveyed on paper. While two photographers may take a similar picture, writing is not this specific. It is easy to paint a scene instead of hunting for one. I’ve read that some photographers spend years trying to capture an image. In their mind’s eye, they see the picture. They long for the process to be over, but lest it is still an arduous one. They remain a victim of circumstance. Never able to convey the image they wish to capture or in their head.

Writers, on the other hand, send a picture with a host of words. Categorizing different settings and themes through an outline and painting a scene with vocabulary. There is a direct correlation between writing and photography. Both require vision.

One can be blind and still, read. One can be deaf but still, take a picture. To absorb ideas, we must have at least some form of sense. Touch, smell, taste, sight, and hearing are all forms of physical senses. Physical senses. We know that the five senses are related to our natural world. I believe there to be more senses which we are still trying to study. What about emotional and spiritual? The need for stimulation and change? Absorption and exchange of knowledge and ideas? These are extremely important. One can lack a matter of the five physical senses, but pick up on a plan with an inner sense that can be built.

Art is our inner sense; not restricted to our natural world. It is a level of communication that requires a deep, intricate level of insight and emotional intelligence. When I say that writing and photography need vision, it is not through our physical senses. It is through our inner feelings, our internalized image.

If people lack a vocabulary, would this mean that they are more prone to something like photography? Is their visual cortex stronger than that of someone who writes? I’m not particularly sure. In the order of painting a scene, both have their pallets.

As a photographer, I enjoy being out in nature. While in retrospect as a writer, I enjoy the bits of solitude. Extrovert versus introvert. Combining these two forces gives me a sense of balance to my photographic and written approach — a storyteller through visual aid.

I am potentially looking for something external, to replace something internal. An internal process, trying to explain what has happened externally.

The yin and yang.

Which $1 Bill Holds More Value?

I’m sitting down with a friend in New York City for breakfast. Mutually, we both love everything about photography, but have two completely different approaches and philosophies.

My friend, Andy, started a photography group with the idea of showcasing different photographer's work. The idea is that each week, we receive a new assignment, and each photographer will follow up to post their particular photographs to our message board. At first, the momentum of the group and tasks were fantastic. Eventually, though, it's hard to maintain that momentum when other things in life can get in the way. People stopped posting and following the assignments, and it seemed that it would die off.

Part of me came to New York to pick Andy's brain on the idea of keeping the different photographers connected. I love the idea of fostering together a community of like-minded individuals. Here's the problem, though — you can create that community, keeping them consistent and engaged is the problem. There are so many hurdles: differing personalities, ideas, thoughts, opinions, and photographic viewpoints.

"Someone wanted to know who the better photographer was?" Andy says to me. Puzzled, I thought about how I could articulate the question.

Photography is one of the most personal forms of art out there. It is also hard to narrow down a unifying theory on the exact process from which to learn. Some people will argue learning on film has certain benefits, while others will say learning on digital is just as easy. The truth? These philosophies are nor right nor wrong; they are merely different ways to teach a diverse and wide-ranging subject.

In the natural world, most of our daily lives are rooted in a meritocracy — the measurements of success and accomplishment. The majority want to learn from these successful people. We wish to be their disciples and tell us the secret to be successful as if they will whisper a secret in our ear, telling us the right path to take. In the real world of photography, it is hard to find a proper teacher and mentor. Anyone can snap a photo. While one image may hold a striking message, it may not resonate with everyone. Photography is flawed and dysfunctional in so many ways — the millions upon millions of differing perspectives and biases.

"He wants to know who the better photographer is?" I reply. This question is substantial and contains many layers. 

Art itself is not about competition. It is not about who can outdo the other. At its core, art is about expression. Think about humanity's history. How did we ever vent our frustration, struggle, admiration, love, tranquility, and so many other internalized emotions before the advent of modern medicine? Art was a sanctuary for people to vent their ideas. Unfortunately, through socialization and other forms of social engineering, we have learned that certain avenues of life are merit-based rather than expressive-based. Everything is a subtle competition between peers. Equally troublesome and disheartening for people in the pursuit of truth. What is art? What is the truth? How would you best explain the philosophy of purpose?

These questions are deeply based on experience and personal philosophy. If a camera crew walked the streets of New York City and asked these questions to a random passerby, each item would answer differently. If I said that purpose is, "Finding meaning through everyday life," then that only procures vagueness. The vagueness of which can't identify. At the end of all of these questions, it doesn't get closer to finding an answer. "What is art?" "What is the truth?" These questions can be rhetorical or digested on a case-by-case basis.

This is the same concept when it comes to art. Every single expression will be different in a group of people. We are all uniquely different through our social upbringing. Through nature or nurture, whatever the argument is on our developmental process. We are all distinctly different from one another. What is so puzzling to people when they start looking at the arts, and why can it be frustrating?

To answer the question, "Who is the better photographer?" It took me some time to reflect and try to articulate a way in which people can understand.

If you take two $1 bills out of your pocket and hold them out in front of you, I'll ask you, "Which $1 bill is more valuable?" This might seem confusing at first. They are both the same amount of currency. Each dollar is similar in value. One dollar bill is torn, twisted, with wrinkles all over the ends. The other bill looks newer, probably because it is. If these dollar bills could speak, which one would you want to listen too? The one that just left the factory, or the twisted, wrinkled dollar bill that has probably been all over the place? Although it is weathered and torn, it is still the same value as the other dollar bill. The experiences and stories are what make these dollar bills have a different texture, shape, and look — congruent principles to photography. 

Every photographer is of the same value. Every single photographer is like the dollar bills, the same amount of currency. How are you shaped? What is your texture? What is your look? If you have something to say, what do you want to say? This is how art should be perceived, not as a competition, but as a way to express the self. It is not about competition; it is about how to express the self best. 

"Who is the better photographer?" Should be rephrased as, "How can we make each other better photographers?" 

To move forward with photography, one must be open to feedback and apply these principles in their work. If you shut everyone out, and revert to the idea of competition, your work will suffer. Some noble truths may be painful for some people to accept. It's questionable to me whether certain people are taught how to deal with critique? I remember trying to mentor a particular individual. They gave me excuse after excuse, always trying to speak over me. 

"This image is nice, but I'd like to see," as they inject the excuse as to why they couldn't get the image. A barrier many artists find themselves intertwined. 

There is a distinct difference between criticism and constructive criticism. I've seen so-called mentors berate a fellow for trying to grab an image that was intricate and difficult. You could tell the new photographer was at least trying and willing to listen to feedback, but the mentor was not so good at creating a positive feedback loop for the student. I hate this. I hate when I see someone that is putting their heart and soul into something, then greeted with harsh critique. 

As a photographer, we must be open to the different sub-genres of photographic imagery. While I'm not the most well versed in portraits, maybe I can still provide some insight as to what I see? What if an idea or perspective comes through my noggin' that another person hasn't thought of yet? The process of critique is to make every one of us better. 

Digesting and filtering proper critique and constructive criticism is a life-long learning process. I can't tell you which feedback will work for you, or which won't. That will have to be determined by the self. No one can tell you which are the good ones and the bad ones. If you have an attachment and emotional response to an image, then share the story along with it. 

My approach to photography is that every single image holds a story. It is a memory, a moment caught in time. Somewhere, someplace, at a specific time, the picture was taken. 

That in itself is beautiful.

Building an Audience

I've been looking over the prospect of starting a photography channel on YouTube. Of course, me being me, I always tend to over-analyze before I decide to leap with something. I've been accused of overthinking my entire life (is that bad?).

I have to admit, one of the things that I am always afraid of isn't a failure, just some underlying reason I am still exploring.

To the right, this video goes into more detail. I believe that our relationship with the self holds many different layers. I don't need recognition; I need mental stimulation.

To sum up the video, the gentleman narrating talks about failure, and why his audience stayed small for so long. He says failure is what made him fearful. Fearful of rejection, afraid of success, and also a failure from expectation. While it may seem easy to build an audience, it requires a little bit more than just key talking points.

My first attempt at creating an audience came in the form of a podcast I started back in February. I called it Ideas Are Bulletproof. I always enjoy good conversation, and creating a podcast seemed like the best remedy to keep that momentum going.

I did my research, figured out all of the requirements to make a podcast. I purchased my equipment (about $300 U.S.D.), and also started looking at software so I could record content.

Things start to get tricky. I didn't want the podcast to be me talking, because knowing myself, I always get rather bored listening to the same person over and over again. While this may appeal to some audiences, I didn't want to build my podcast foundation on this fact. I wanted my audience engaged with a conversation between two, three, or even four people.

The more conversations I partook in, the more people started reaching out to me for podcasts. I was growing a personal brand, and it felt amazing. Unfortunately, it lacked a certain quality. Expletives were thrown out left and right, a complete unprofessional tone. I had to reevaluate my objectives.

I decided to list a few things that went wrong with the podcast to learn from:

1) There was no direction or critical talking points. While this 'isn't necessarily always a bad thing, it can be somewhat inconsistent. If I want to create another podcast like this, It will be more conversation centrist than a key talking point.

2) Unprofessional tone. Entirely and utterly unprofessional in every sense of the word. I re-listen to some of the episodes and find myself rambling quite a bit. Keeping it short and sweet gives the 'listener's brain time to digest.

3) Inconsistent. I would go almost a month without posting an episode. While podcasting is part of Evergreen Content, it also needs to remain consistent so that you retain your listeners and viewership.

These were just the very few problems I encountered. So, while I do appreciate the help from all of my friends who partook in the content, it 'wasn't the direction in my 'mind's eye of where I wanted it to go. I went back to the drawing table and looked at one distinct thing that I am passionate about photography.

'I've always embraced the idea of capturing images. 'I'm a public affairs professional by trade but maintains a lot of overlapping principles that contain photojournalism. There is a delicate process that takes place within the world of photography, and it has always been a challenge trying to explain it to people.

"What, 'it's just taking pictures. What more to this is there?" 'I've heard this from family members, friends, and many other people.

"I 'don't want to spend that much money on a camera. I can use my phone." These statements invigorate something within me. Something that makes me want to respond in a way that 'isn't degrading, but educational. I have an opinion and matter that I would want to explore. There is a conversation waiting to take place!

I decided to try a YouTube photography channel. Unfortunately, there were a few challenges to overcome. Put a microphone in front of me, and I can still talk the same. It took a bit of time to get used too but eventually figured it out.

A camera, though? I feel this is going to take some time to get used too. By building an audience, I also want to foster community engagement through a comments section. If I create a key talking point, I want to be spot on in my facts. I also want to be sure that the video editing and quality are top-notch and that nothing is out of focus.

'I've started the process entirely over. I purchased an external video monitor to make sure that everything is properly in focus. I have a microphone stand that records audio from the side. I am exploring the idea of different video techniques and procedures before I dive headfirst into creating content. Unfortunately, there remains a small voice of doubt inside my head. I feel as awkward as ever when I start recording things myself — a self-acknowledged amount of uncertainty lingering in the back of my mind.

I believe that to get better at something; you keep doing it. 'It's a Stephen King approach. Summarizing his book On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, the only way to get better at writing is to continue writing. If there were a secret formula for success, everyone would tap into the equation, and everything would be the same flavor.

Everything would boil down to the equilibrium, and we would all face the same mundane content over and over. There would be no life, no spark.

Michio Kaku, a theoretical physicist at New York University, once spoke about his experience walking through a park. He would look out at the pond and see equations and numbers. He deeply understood the light refracting through the water, just in equations and numbers. I became puzzled by his explanation. Instead of seeing numbers and equations, wouldn't someone want to witness the natural beauty, before the numbers? While science has its place, so does art. Art is the representation of our nature, our existence. Without it, according to science, we are all just statistics.

To Print or Not to Print?

I’ve been debating the prospect of selling photographic prints on my website. One of the defining principles of photography is not to get wrapped up in making money. But, at the same time, why would you want to limit yourself with the prospect of making a quick dollar?

I sold photographic prints on my website before. Not once did I ever get an offer. I thought I’d use a third party application and website called FotoMoto. The site uses Adobe Flash to integrate with a gallery slideshow. If a potential buyer is interested in what they see, they click on the print, are directed to FotoMoto’s website — and then buy it. All the distribution and printing is taken care of, while collecting a small fee of course.

This proved troublesome. Most people don’t browse photographs on their desktop, but instead on their mobile phones. About 90 percent of the time, my galleries would crash on a person’s mobile phone. I started receiving complaints from friends and family who couldn’t browse my work because of the third party application I installed on my website.

Prints (1 of 1).jpg

Would you pay for me?

THE ISSUE:

1) In order to sell photographs through a third-party vendor, they need to be possess a certain resolution. Higher resolution photographs often create larger file sizes. For my Nikon D810, a 36 megapixel camera, these file sizes are often HUGE. This is my potential clients browsing my site would crash. A gallery of images would be somewhere between 300-400 megabytes of data.

2) While I could lower the file sizes, the prints would come out pixelated. Although this would solve the browsing issue, there is no way that I can guarantee a good print. I decided FotoMoto was not for me and decided that the amount I make through photographic prints is not really worth it.

Waterfall (1 of 1).jpg

THE (POTENTIAL?) SOLUTION:

1) Now, since I’ve revamped my entire website, this opens the door for selling photographic prints once again.

2) I’ve browsed the NUMEROUS online tutorials that talk about selling photographs online. Some claim they make thousands, while others claim that it just isn’t worth the time. This presents two schools of thought. Am I willing to devote all of my time to selling a business purely on prints? Or Am I focused on selling my photography through things like YouTube? This, yet again, depends on a number of circumstances. I want to monetize most of my work eventually through YouTube, but I feel that the energy devoted to prints could be wasteful?

3) I think that what I will do is explore the aspect of selling certain prints online, and eventually it might make me a few dollars. I think devoting a few days a week to upgrading my social media and websites will help create more traffic to this website.

As I throw my chips into selling photography prints, it would help if I didn’t exactly lose over 7,000 images I took over the course of two years.

I used a Seagate Backup Plus 2 Terabyte hard-drive that I brought everywhere with me. It still contains these images but whenever I plug it in to access the files, it just spins and spins. A beeping sound can be heard as it tries so hard to do its duty, alas poor little hard-drive it seems your days are numbered.

I was able to backup a good portion of them on my Dropbox account. Unfortunately, I never backed up the newer images before it decided to fall victim to gravity. At least now it’s a good motivator to get out shooting again.