Lancaster, Ohio
I’ve been shooting with a sixty-year-old Ukrainian-made camera lens. It’s not nearly as great as the reviews say, but it has character, that undefinable quality we often see in life. The lens is entirely manual, which only adds to its charm. It gives me something to put my mind on, and it allows me to make creative decisions. The whole endeavor lures me out into the world before sunrise, before sunset, to catch the full moon or a seascape. I always seem to find something to shoot.
In this world of AI, with everything computerized, cars driving themselves, and refrigerators connected to Wi-Fi to remind you when to buy bread, it feels great to hold something without a connection. The other day, my car navigation failed. At first, I panicked, but I’d been to this destination once before, and I’m old, so driving by memory is in my blood. I took off and felt my way there—without missing a turn.
It feels comforting to hold something in my hands that won’t change. Thirty years from now, this lens will still work exactly as it does today. No one will move the focus ring or change the f-stop scale. With all the craziness in the world, we can still live purposely, make choices that reflect our views, shoot photos without the assistance of an algorithm. It’s satisfying to see a photo taken by human choice—like an open window filled with light.