Where Are The People?

I'm not that artsy-fartsy when it comes to my photography, but I do know a few things about composition and how to make an otherwise dull photo stand on its own. Is it art, though? Hardly. Unless taking a photo that actually tells a story is art.

But one thing's for sure: I don't take snapshots.

From an early age, I recall one of my elder relatives saying, on returning from a vacation to the Grand Tetons, "Where are the people?" I'd taken photos from the road of a herd of moose, of a chair lift in Jackson Hole, trees, scenery, that sort of thing. And every one of those photos that were devoid of humanity elicited a tsk tsk or a groan.

The nerve of someone using a camera to record anything but pictures of people.

I'm reminded of the myriad photo albums my Aunt Mary Lou showed me on my travels to her house before she died. Volume after volume, page after page, there were photos of the family, of friends, but rarely of my my Uncle Gene - he was the one taking all those photos. And all were snapshots, otherwise known as pictures of people.

On the off chance I take photos of people, they're of family and friends. And, alas, very few of ME. So when the opportunity presents itself, I tend to hang on to those moments when there's such a photo.

A snapshot in time: