Over the Christmas holiday in December, I took a vacation for a family reunion. Eighteen members of my extended family were congregating--a monumental event to take place in Texas. Of course, I brought my camera along to record it.

As the vacation progressed, I noticed that my approach to recording family events--the frequency with which I pulled out my camera, the types of things I photographed, the quantity of photos that I shot--was drastically different from my approach as a wedding and portrait photographer.

The source of this difference is what I'll call "respecting the moment."

Many other photographers, I'm sure, have written about this--the way that covering an event or simply looking for opportunity have a way of altering your perspective and taking you out of the moment. You stand outside the event or environment, and observe in a global fashion. With events, I watch for the energy of the group to change in order to anticipate a laugh, or a quiet, touching moment. WIth the environment, I spend more time exploring nooks and crannies, watching the light and construction of the room, or examine the surrounding area for visual monstrosities that might become obstacles.

But with family, you have to relate at the same time. You are much more mentally inside the event or environment, because you are an integral part in creating it. Being the photographer in a family means you are given less slack, in a way, when your flash is too bright, or Aunt Bernice is getting uncomfortable, or the cousins are tired, et. al. Because of this deep relational element, you have to respect the moments that are being created in a different way, sometimes by abstaining from photographing altogether.

And I think this is the reason why I feel that so many photographic opportunities are missed when I spend intensive time with my family. You could also say it's the reason why so many family photos are often bad photographs. Many family photographs are taken more as afterthoughts. They act as a record that a laugh or quiet moment happened, but are not a record of the actual moment itself, because the photographer was too busy being in the moment when it happened.

So a balance--"respecting the moment"--must be struck. When photographing family, I try to think in advance about what events are going to happen throughout the day, and what specific times and events I would want to have my camera ready. That way I can feel at ease with missing a few "opportunities" if I feel that I'd rather relax into the moment, or if it would be annoying or inappropriate for me to be in everyone's face with a camera.

And come to think of it, when it comes to my family, more often than not I'd rather be in the moment with them, laughing away. Those moments are precious to enjoy, and good photography can coexist with them.

For Christmas, my father-in-law gave me this delightful little book, An Essay on Typography, written by Eric Gill. For you non-typophiles, he's the "Gill" in your "Gill Sans." Yep, that lovely slim-lined typeface that you pick when you want to look professional, or maybe Swedish. That's him.

The book starts out with a brief introduction about the history of Mr. Gill's "essay," his life, and his collaboration with other Famous Typographers. What struck me was his voluminous impact on the world of typography, his ability to collaborate with others, and the depth of his thoughts and convictions (as evidenced by the rest of the book).

Among his writing, I found these few gems:

...for nothing can stop small boys from selling one another marbles, and it is that personal dealing which is the root of all trading. Even the small craftsman, in spite of the impossibility of competition with 'big business' and mass-production, cannot be permanently put out of action, if only because the pen-knife is always with us and men will always want to make things to please themselves, tho' only in their spare time.

To be patient is to suffer. By their fruits men know one another, but by their sufferings they are what they are.

The artist makes no claim to serve his fellow men; neverthless he does so--when he is not wholly led astray by the notion that art is self-expression or the expression of emotion.

There are, then, two principles, as there are two worlds. There is the principle of the best possible quality, and the principle of the greatest possible profit. And there is every sort of compromise between the two.

His writing has a sense of urgency and cosmic importance that I find lacking in much of modern writing, but that I know is difficult to keep up on a regular basis. Mr. Gill was an idealist, as many people-full-of-impact are. What is fascinating about him--and what often leads me to find particular artists admirable--is that he remains devoted to his work while still managing to be accessible, articulate, and decent human beings. (See my previous letter to Jasper Johns.)

One of my recent modern-day experiences with admirable and friendly artists includes an e-mail exchange with modern-day typographer, illustrator, artist, and designer Marian Bantjes. I wrote to her one day after being struck by her incredibly amazing work in Print magazine.

I said,

I'm just SO curious, and envious, to be truthful. Your work is as gorgeous as it is intelligent, and I envy that you seem to be able to get paid to do all this gorgeous, intelligent work.

She said, among other things,

How did I get here? Well, perseverence, stupidity, perhaps, and using every available resource I have and hoping in the face of adversity that it would help... Also, just getting over some shyness and connecting with people: not to say, 'Do you have work for me,' but just to say, 'I like what you do,' and send them things I do as gifts. Being a designer, I have a lot in common with designers, and now that i work for/with designers, well ... it all just kindof worked out...

The most important decision I made was to work for love instead of money. That sounds corny, but I was so used to getting all upset over how long things were taking me, what or whether i was getting paid, it @#$%^& up the work as well. As soon as I started just really pouring myself into the work and getting it out there, I think that really came through. The important thing was to just be really happy with the work. And I work all the time. Even when I have no paying work I still make things, find a way to get them printed, and then send them out. I often get paid later when someone says, 'I'd like something like that piece you did...'

I admire her gusto, perseverance, and faith in the quality of her own work. If I could choose to be anybody when I grow up, it would probably be her.

I pause today to briefly reflect on the recent design upgrade I embarked on in December 2006. I had just purchased a license and installation of Movable Type, a blog publishing software that I had been quite impressed with. My goal: to integrate my blog into the existing site design in a comprehensive fashion.

I did not underestimate the amount of work or the number of times I "broke" my test site. I left plenty of room for testing and gave myself the grace for post-design evaluation and tweaking. Websites are, after all, less like paintings--completed, sealed, framed, and nailed to the wall with finality--and more like gardens--which must be pruned, tended, fertilized, and managed with continued attentiveness.

What I did fail to anticipate, however, was the way the problem of integrating my blog would engulf most of my headspace. I realized that I had made something of a mistake by trying to accomplish this redesign while on vacation for a family reunion. Switching gears between designing and socializing proved to require immense mental acrobatics for which I was not prepared.

Here is why: something about the way websites function makes them very difficult to put down when you're in the middle of them. Like a good mystery novel, the most satisfaction comes from the "whodunit"--figuring out all the minutae of making a site work smoothly. A website half-done is both nonfunctional and uninteresting. And with the intensely detail-oriented and organized work that is required, they require long stretches of rapt attention.

And even when brought to completion, websites always offer more work--maintenance and upgrades, compatibility improvements, style tweaks, and, of course, adding new content. Committing to maintain a website is similar to caring for a cat, dog, or even a child--they require attention and resources for as long as they are "live"... but at least you don't have to pay college tuition.

So here I am: committed to my website. It is by no means perfect, and therefore my work is never finished. I am, however, relieved to be out of the obsessive and time-sucking development/testing phase, and into the slow-paced and much more maintenance/improvement phase.

And next time I'll know to be prepared to devote extended intensive hours to development, preferably not while juggling 18 members of an extended family.

Lesson learned.

I came to a resolution the other day: Adobe Lightroom is not for me. I've been using the program for over six months now, enjoying the free beta version with all its powerful organization, tagging, and editing tools.

But something was lacking in the program overall, and I finally came to the decision. I've trashed the application and returned to an Adobe Bridge & Photoshop workflow.

Why? you ask? Here's why:

1. Slow Runnings - I'm using a PowerBook G4, purchased in 2004. This mighty little machine has held up mighty well, over the years, let me tell you. It's powerful and Gets It Done. But Lightroom is a beast. The previews take forever to load, and I spend more time waiting for things to refresh than I do actually perusing my (massive) photo library.
   
   
2. Clunky Tools - I have to confess: I'm a Photoshop gal. I know that program inside and out. Got a damaged picture? I can retouch it. Color adjustment? Done. But Lightroom takes Photoshop's powerful image-editing tools and makes them dumb. For someone who's so familiar with Photoshop, the tools that Lightroom has to offer are mediocre, at best.
   
   
3. Unused Features - After awhile, I noticed that I used very few of the features available to Lightroom, spending most of my time in the "Library" and "Develop" panels. I didn't need the slideshow or the web-gallery functionality; I knew enough to do it myself, and they didn't offer that much ease or control either. Plus, burning a CD, creating a web gallery, and making a slideshow are so easy with Photoshop and Apple's built-in tools. If I really need a quick fix, I can go there.

So there you have it, folks. Lightroom--a fancy program that promises to "do-it-all"--doesn't really do much.

But perhaps I'm being too harsh. There is one thing I'll miss about Lightroom, and that's the cataloguing power that I had. I used it to get myself more organized than ever before, and I now have a foolproof system to tracking everything. Now that the system is in place, though, Lightroom is unnecessary. So thank you, Lightroom, for helping me do my work better. You were a good to me, and I hope other photographers find you as helpful as I did, if for a time.