Your essay made me nostalgic for the time, more than two decades ago, when I first learned photography -- largely on my own, largely by walking around and meeting people with a 50mm lens and, first, a Pentax ME Super, then a bit later, a Nikomat FTn, and after perhaps reading a bit too much about Cartier-Bresson. This weekend, after reading your note, I rummaged through a long packed-away box and retrieved a few of those old prints. And of course, they transported me back to my youth. And made me quite glad I had spent a portion of that time learning a craft instead of just living -- learning to balance the two, really; learning to see, to observe but also to interact (a 20-year-old with a camera isn't really ignored), filling notebooks, too, with written impressions. But it was always the photographs that stayed in my memory. And I haven't looked at some them for a decade or more, and yet I recall taking them, recall the mood and emotion they captured. recalled printing them in my makeshift darkroom where some curious mix of chemistry dyed my hands a dangerous shade of brown. I recalled the joy of First Creation that only artists and clerics can glimpse, if only fleetingly.
Henry David Thoreau wrote, in a letter to a sister or cousin: "If thou be a writer, write as if thy time were short, for it is indeed short at the fullest." I read that when I was your age, and I've never forgotten it. There are many among us who live unrecorded lives, and for many, that is fine. But there are a few who seek to record, to set-down memory, and to understand. And our role is transcendent in understanding humanity. We are the descendents of the tale-tellers of the tribe who, after the Great Hunt, gathered our listeners around the campfire to recount the deeds we had observed, or which had been recounted to us; we are the descendents of the cave-painters, for without us, there would be no record of humanity's passing except arrowheads and garbage.
Well done, Stephanie. Bravo.