The uncertain glory of an April day Jon Hillenbrand, July 11, 2007December 30, 2015 “O, how this spring of love resemblethThe uncertain glory of an April day;Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,And by and by a cloud takes all away.” Spakespeare speaks here of control. Once Art became involved with money, like Life, it grossly spun out of control. As a white dove flies to the rafters of a church instead of out the windows as intended by the poetic planners of weddings, so will your photography be horribly reproduced against your will. Often the colors will be screwed up. Many times the exposure will be so far off that you wonder if anyone is proofing the publications you shoot for at all. The only advice I can give you is to just let it go. Be at peace with your lack of control. Do what you can, of course, but understand that editors will pick the worst shots, clients will think they look ugly in every photo, and your best work will appear dark and green when printed by people who just don’t care about the Art. This sounds pessimistic. But a writer I used to work with once told me to get my artistic satisfaction somewhere other than at work. I considered her a burnout, but there’s truth to her scratchy voiced warning. Outside of the Art world, people will be more concerned about deadlines, accuracy of quotes and statistics, and whether or not the idiots in charge of the whole organization instantly like it all or instantly hate it all. I’m pushing for this photo to be used in an upcoming publication. It was already criticized as looking too “stock” by one of the editors, which I take as a mixed compliment. And I’m sure that if they do use it, they’ll screw up the color or the exposure. Either way, at least I had a chance to show it here. In a world where women drive their men mad with silence, veteran soldiers die in car accidents while on leave, and the same apartment is robbed twice in a year, take satisfaction in knowing that you can control your lights and you can control your camera. Poetry photography
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Poetry My frightening moments in the toy section March 22, 2007December 30, 2015 And with tears and longing, a forgotten child cringes, small hands clutching at the unpurchased toy, the life preserver and the reason and the hated reason, love at first sight, pretending not to notice the fading nearness of mothers skirt, vague fantasies projecting into mysteries. And all the world collapses… Read More