Driving Me Crazy

We took a long ride yesterday to Cross City for the buffet dinner at the Carriage Inn. From there across the highway to Dairy Queen for sundaes and such. It was raining with lightening. Our day of photography seemed a wash. We proceeded up 19 toward Jena, turning into the scrub to make our way to Steinhatchee falls. I took the perfunctory few photos despite the lack of proper light. We loaded and drove in to town, Steinhatchee that is, pausing at Roy's to survey the recent storm damage. from Hermene. We went back into the scrub to a pond, perfunctory photos. Over to a landing. PP.
To Shared Island. Dixie Mainline. Suwannee. And on. Perfunctory. Photos.
Point being. You cannot drive a photographer. I gave up trying to say stop, slow, wait.
I just thought of returning alone.

Honesty

Honesty hasn't always been my strong suit lately. In the realm of photography, the raw image as from the camera or iPhone has been manipulated, often without the knowledge of the viewer. I've added full moons to scenes, I've manipulated color, sharpness, etc. Some images to the point you would not recognize it from the original. It emanates from an unhealthy desire toward a wow factor, to garner likes. What is the solution? Don't do it unless there is full confession of the image being manipulated or created. It is a great and fun way to save images but the viewer should be made aware for my own integrity sake.

Reach One

It was my senior year at Florida Southern 1979. I had declared an Art Education major mainly out of exasperation, the only thing I could do at the time. I really did not aspire to teach. But it was practical and seemed a way to get a job in art. In the course of the year, early on I was assigned to Mrs Plemons kindergarten art class in nearby Winter Haven. I was to observe and learn. It was a wonderful week with the then innocent and excited kindergarteners. I so hoped my internship would be with the kindly Mrs Plemons. The last semester arrived and schools were assigned. To my great disappointment I was given 7th grade at the then new Lake Gibson Junior High. The teacher was Mr Weinstein, a Jewish gentleman who had a strong disdain for my Christianity. The art classes were basically detention halls for the students. Most of the time was spent breaking up fights, quieting the class, getting control. Mr Weinstein was the constant recepient of pranks. When it came time to turn the classes over to me, Weinstein was more than ready for a break. And so I proceeded with my projects, one such creating a stained glass paper mosaic, of which Weinstein opposed as being too religious. And so the end came. I passed. I vowed never to teach again.
It seemed a total loss. Years later, well into a career in retail, one day I received a letter from Lakeland. It was Greg, one of the shy students who was picked on and did not fit in. He wrote that of all the teachers he had in school, I was his favorite. He wanted to write and thank me. It made my eyes well up. So it wasn't a loss after all. I had reached one.