Commentary # 51 - August 2011
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"You GOT One"


August 2011


- by Craig Wassel


"You GOT one".

I’ll never forget – standing in near darkness – the first time I heard those words.

That was more than thirty years ago, but it is the roots of this month’s commentary. I’ve been dealing with some tricky public relations decisions the past few weeks, and it’s had me thinking a great deal about what it means to be a photographer. The answer is destined to be different for each of us, and one of the things I have thought so much about of late is how much my own view of what it means changed dramatically in my first couple years of trying to make photographs.

More than thirty years ago, I was getting excited about photography. I was even more excited about the fancy, automatic 35mm SLR I had picked out as my first good camera. I could not wait to walk around with that Minolta SRT-101 (or maybe my dad would even see me as worthy of an SRT-102) around my neck. I would have the best camera of any photographer-kid I knew. It was a near given that on my upcoming birthday there was going to be a box – maybe with a fun attempt at disguise – that would hold a new camera.

Photography was all about the camera to me back then, and the better the camera the better the photographs. That was how I thought. I waited with so much excitement and anticipation as my big day approached, like Ralphie scheming for his Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time. Unlike Ralphie, though, I didn’t exactly get the holy grail of gifts I was expecting.

The big day arrived and there were no “box” tricks or mis-directions. There was a just a box that was right-sized for a good camera. I opened it, and indeed there was one inside. It just was not the one I had pined for all those months. Instead of the SRT-101, it was a pre-owned 35mm rangefinder. I tried to hide my disappointment, but my dad saw right through me. He looked at me and said something like, “I’m not buying you a fancy automatic for your first camera. If you really want to be a photographer, you need to learn the fundamentals and more”.

I hated that camera at first, but my dad knew precisely what he was doing with me. He was a far better artist than I will ever be, did commercial artwork as a side business, and also had a love for photography. He was going to make that camera my training ground, since it was totally and completely unforgiving to anyone who didn't know what they were doing. It had manual focus (as everything did back then), manual shutter speed, manual aperture, manual everything. It didn’t have interchangeable lenses or even a zoom – just a very good but fixed mount 45mm Rokkor. It did have a light meter on it which I learned after two rolls to not trust in the least.

Though I hated the camera at first, at least it was way better one that I currently had. I could not wait to run my first roll of Kodachrome through it. Another disappointment came, though, when my dad would not let me shoot any color for my first year. All he would let me shoot was black and white Kodak Tri-X 400. I did not understand the lesson right away, but I remember him lecturing me about being able to “see” in black and white, and that if I could do that then I was getting good at seeing light and composition and exposure and contrast and tonal relations . . . . blah blah blah blah blah.

That didn’t mean anything to me, though. Photography to me still meant a good camera, so I took it almost everywhere and snapped lots of pictures. After all, even though it wasn't the one I wanted it was a very good camera, and surely the photos made with a very good camera were bound to impress. I got discouraged as a few months passed, though, as my dad never really paid me any compliments on any of my photographs. Instead, he offered up tons of critique. What’s more, he seemed to come up with captivating photos on a regular basis and seemingly with great ease. He had not gotten through to me yet. He was trying to teach me, but it just had not quite hit me what the difference was between a snapshot and a photograph.

Somehow, slowly, the thousand little lessons he had been trying to teach me started to take root. I stopped wishing for a different camera, and started taking photographs with my eyes everywhere I went. I started trying to see things the way he would, and only releasing the shutter when I saw enough of those “somethings” in one scene. Then one evening in our basement darkroom – in near darkness under the red light – I stood with my father as one of my prints rose up through the developer tray like a ghostly apparition. I looked down into that tray, and I could hardly believe that I actually took the photograph I was seeing. Standing behind me, my dad put his hand on my shoulder and said three simple words that I can stil hear to this day: “You GOT one”.

You GOT one.

I never asked him what he meant, because I felt like I could feel it by the tone in his voice and the feel of his hand on my shoulder. It was an affirmation that all those little lessons he had been trying to teach me that have little to do with what camera you use finally yielded a memorable photograph with lasting value. Standing in that tiny little basement darkroom looking at my print floating in that Ilford Microdol developer and feeling the squeeze of my dad's hand on my shoulder was one of the most magical moments of my life, and it permanently changed what it meant to me to say “I am a photographer”. Not “I am a professional photographer” or “I am an amateur photographer”, but purely and simply “I am a photographer”.

So much irony followed in the next few years. One Christmas in a disguised box my own “Red Rider” was waiting for me. It was an automatic 35mm Minolta 35mm XG-1, which I almost never shot in “auto” mode the years I used it. Ironcially, the old rangefinder from two birthdays before that I loathed at first had taught me too much, and I wanted a control over the look of my photographs that full auto mode did not give. I fell in love with monochrome and quadtone prints. A further irony is that I don’t have that XG-1 anymore, but I still have that lovely rangefinder. It sits in my own families curio cabinet, and there is not a time I walk by that curio when I don’t look at it and think of all it and my dad taught me and did for me. The aperture ring needs repair now so it’s not usable, but I’ll never part with it. It’s not the most expensive camera in our home, but it is far and away the most valuable. I would even like to get it fixed. She deserves it.

Everything my dad and that rangefinder taught me and did for me is a photographic filter I carry with me everywhere I go and use all the time. It truly shifted how I think about photography - away from cameras - and toward what I look for in front of the lens. Whenever I am shooting, I am always thinking at least subconsciously about all those lessons my dad and others taught me, as well as the ones I have learned myself over the years. I am trying to “see”, and work all I have learned into my photographs. The last thing I would ever want one of my customers to say is “I have a good camera – I could have taken that myself”.

And every now and then I am REALLY happy with a photograph I make, and I get that same feeling of high I had seeing my first really successful photograph rise up out of the developer tray more than 30 years ago. Every now and then I feel like maybe – just maybe – the ghost of my dad is looking over my shoulder at the LCD or the monitor and saying, “You GOT one”.


". . . Your first 10,000 photographs are your worst . . . ."

~ Henri Cartier-Bresson ~








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" . . . It was an affirmation that all those little lessons he had been trying to teach me that have little to do with what camera you use finally yielded a memorable photograph with lasting value. Standing in that tiny little basement darkroom looking at my print floating in that Ilford Microdol developer and feeling the squeeze of my dad's hand on my shoulder was one of the most magical moments of my life, and it permanently changed what it meant to me to say 'I am a photographer' . . . "












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