I've always been a photographer, but I'd come to it analytically. My excitement came from the technology inside the cameras: new sensors, new designs, video. For years, I relished cameras for the high technology they demonstrated and took photos that exercised that technology: high ISO, large aperture lenses, night photography. Essentially, I started taking photos to satisfy my curiosity with how cameras worked.
There are hundreds of websites dedicated to the technology treadmill that is the digitial photography market. Every day, thousands of people hem and haw over the latest cameras and the advancements or trade-offs they represent. You could count me among them for years.
Fuji X100. Thousand Island Lake in the Sierra Nevada.
Then, four years ago, I bought a Fuji X100. My ex-wife picked it up and suddenly discovered a passion for photography, something that my numerous other cameras never inspired. She quit her job and started shooting full-time, mostly weddings. This gave me an avenue to exercise my years of amateur interest by second-shooting what's now dozens of times. That single camera did something for me that previous cameras hadn't — it married high technology of the modern digital camera with a reverence for photography's past. Fuji invented new technology just so the act of taking a photo felt like it used to.
The main innovation is a separate optical viewfinder that was designed to emulate rangefinder cameras like the Leica M3. The camera has you compose photos through a separate optic, not through the lens like an SLR. This disconnection from the result, where you don't see what you're going to get before you take the photo, is actually a novel concept for folks that came to photography after the digital revolution. It's a subtle thought that being removed from the direct output of the camera sets you up to be surprised and delighted when the photo is a great one. It trains you to be a photographer and not a camera operator.
You see the world, think about how you can manipulate the camera to capture your vision of something, take the photo, and hope. That's a powerful idea.
Today, when not taking photos professionally, I only shoot film. I own a couple simple, mechanical machines that will last forever. You take a photo and then you're done. You don't look at the results and wonder if you should recompose. You don't pass it around to everyone to show people how cool something looks. There's no burst mode where you end up with 35 shitty photos of the same thing. You stay in the moment, look and consider, take a photo, and move on. Film fully disconnects you from the results.
Some time later, you get to re-experience that moment when the prints or scans come back from the lab. It's a little gift from your recent history. You're set up to be surprised and delighted.
How do these cameras work? I don't know, really. Producing and processing film is complicated. But for once, I don't care. The only upgrade cycle is trying out new film. That's a beautiful thing.
I had a wonderful adventure in the Trinity Alps Wilderness of Northern California last weekend. Sleeping under the stars at elevation, feeling short of breath, and being completely exhausted will likely never get old.
Being a software developer by trade, I am more “plugged in” than most. I relish in new technology, applications, and moderism. New computers, cameras, and means of connecting with others digitally get my heart beating faster. On a daily basis, I work with an incredible group of passionate designers and programmers and we collectively dedicate our mental capacity to mastering an everchanging sea of knowledge in the creation of the intangible.
Perhaps that is why I’m inexorably drawn to the woods where things are simple and devoid of novelty. Wilderness stays the same. Every emotion, impulse, or cause for concern are drawn from the physical world around me. Life is slow, intentional, and quiet, if only for a night or two.
It’s good to feel hungry, cold, and without shelter sometimes.
For the uninitiated, tenkara is a traditional form of fly fishing that originated in Japan. It's found a new home here in the United States thanks in large part to Tenkara USA, a startup founded in 2009 in California that brought global awareness to the relatively ancient practice.
I've been super excited and have posted on various forums about my success with tenkara. As a result, I've received quite a few emails and helped a number of friends get their own tenkara kits and I've given roughly the same advice. I realized it's time to create a resource for others to start tenkara, because more people should try it out.
My choices for the beginner tenkara fly fisherman are budget, practicality, and simplicity oriented. It should be cheap and work well.
A small fly box. Mine is an Altoids tin that I hotglued some thin foam on the inside surfaces.
A stringer (if you plan to eat some of what you catch)
Fly choice will depend greatly on your region and fishing style, but here in the PNW I tie and carry two currently. I fish predominately in wild areas where fishing pressure is minimal and the fish are starving. The need to "match the hatch" may be greater in your area.
Both flies are very productive, easy to fish, and simple to tie. There's nothing quite as satisfying as catching fish with a fly you made with your own hands. These are simple patterns that match the simplicity of tenkara fishing.
It's hard to follow the road when you're not looking where you're going.
I got my first computer when I was twelve. It was a 686 tower hand-assembled by some man in Salem who made them in his house. I drove with my mom to the man's house to pick up the computer in our Jeep Cherokee. It was large, heavy, delicate. Its case was textured, a dingy yellowing plastic even when new. The side door to the computer popped off as he placed it in the car, and the man was apologetic for not fastening the case securely. When we got it home, my brother and I rushed to plug in the cables, connect the modem and boot it up. It was so fast. We sat there, staring at that computer thinking, "now what?" The possibilities seemed limitless. Sure, my parents owned a computer before this, but this was the first time I felt ownership of a machine.
"This is mine", I thought.
Looking back to see a straight line of focus from then to now surprises me. My twelve year old self certainly didn't predict I'd be doing what I'm doing, but my passion for computers and the web have been rather unyielding for fifteen years.
It's hard then, to relate to those that feel lost or confused about how they want to spend their life contributing to the world. Time and again, I meet, hear, or read about people with diverse passions like winemaking or sailing thinking about getting a business degree or becoming an HR person. I want to shake them and say, "take something you love and find a way to make it yours."
Why would anyone willingly spend the majority of their life doing something—or being somewhere—that doesn't fill them with passion, excite them every day, and continue them down the road they likely started as kid?
This is an extremely simple gem that adds a method (has_pretty_param) to your ActiveRecord models in Rails. This scratches a tiny itch I've had when overriding the to_param method on every model I make to get more search engine friendly routes.
Love, like all worthwhile things, is a wondrous, challenging endeavor. I'm blessed to have someone like Christy to challenge me to be a better human and for adding so much awesome to my life. Happy Valentine's Day.