Kevin Rendall recounts a photographic experience which, in his own words, was
"character-building, to say the least”!
Digital photography has come a long way since the odd shaped Fuji camera that came bundled with my 'TINY' Personal Computer first piqued my interest. I still have it somewhere but sadly it no longer works and I can't bring myself to get rid of it. Hardly any of the many thousands of shots I took with it - if memory serves, it might have been a FinePix 2800 - were any good but that ugly little thing started me on a journey the length of which I could never have imagined back in early 2002.
Fast forward twenty years and both technology and my technique, thankfully, have come on leaps and bounds. I'm now on my third and favourite DSLR but the other two, both Nikons, a D70s and a D7100, are still used occasionally for old time’s sake. In point of fact, the D70s and I (me more than it) endured one of the most difficult days l've ever had with a camera. So much so that I didn't pick it up again for weeks and seriously considered selling it and all of my other paraphernalia. The occasion in question was the nuptials of the lady about to become my sister-in-law at the start of November in 2010.
No amount of persuasion could convince her that she would be far better off hiring a professional wedding photographer and not me. I even offered to pay for a pro as a wedding present but she wasn't having it. The die was cast. At some point in their clicking career every photographer who ever picked up a camera once considered themselves inexperienced, there was, however, no excuse whatsoever for being as poorly prepared as I was that day. I'd like to think that one caused the other but the facts of the matter were simple; it was much more a case of me having half the gear and absolutely no idea.
The problem with weddings, as well-organised photographers who do them properly know, is that the day typically starts early, recording for posterity all those preparations that make the big day, for the prinicpal lady involved, such a special one. Invariably starting at the bride's house, the scene then shifts to the church before everyone decamps to a local hotel for the reception and the obligatory shots in the garden before scoffs. My day followed a very similar pattern. Throughout all of this, there was I trying, and failing miserably, to be unobtrusive. I inadvertently managed to incur the wrath of the priest, too. Forgive me Father.
Eventually, as the guests began to drift away about eleven thirty in the evening, one kind soul took pity on me and thrust a pint of lager in my hand. It was gone in 60 seconds.
You'll have to believe me when I say that keeping Leo Messi in focus for ninety odd minutes was considerably easier than shooting my first, and so far last, wedding. So stressed was I at the end of the day that I barely slept a wink that night. When, some days later, I got round to viewing the shots on my computer, I was aghast at realising I'd made the rookie error of using the JPEG format all day long and not the uncompressed RAW files favoured by pros.
Undeterred by what I initially considered an abject failure behind the lens after having been reassured by far better photographers than myself that every wedding is a bit of an ordeal for newbies, I resisted the urge to flog my gear and decided to give it one more chance. I'm so glad I did. I realise now, of course, that out of focus and under or overexposed bloopers are par for the course, even amongst the very best togs. Be it with a camera or my keyboard, l've always been my own harshest critic but I guess at some point, they'll find a cure for “Imposter Syndrome” and folk like me can, perhaps, begin to believe in themselves a little more. I hope so.
Landscape photography in and around Felixstowe, by contrast, is an altogether more relaxing and less stressful pursuit. Heading north from Old Felixstowe I'lI follow the sea wall past Felixstowe's two northernmost Martello Towers, T and U, on my way to Felixstowe Ferry. A quick coffee, carrot cake and comfort stop later, camera bag over my shoulder, it's on to the path heading towards Kingsfleet. Half a mile or so later, I can either turn left and use the elevated Blofield Track towards the golf club house or continue on with The Deben to my right and head out into the country before heading home via the derelict Holmhill Farm and Marsh Lane. Whether or not I take any photos isn't really the point, the pleasure is all in the walking.
You'll doubtless be delighted to know, too, my sister-in-law and her newly minted husband absolutely adored the gallery I prepared for them. Result!
So lesson learned… when all else fails, just keep going!
