Ever wonder what kind of shovel is used to move hot asphalt into potholes in a parking lot or what type of glove is best for protecting your hands?
I’m on my knees trying to bend my back into a pretzel-shaped western facing arc to give foreground emphasis to the soon to be patched pothole in the grocery store parking lot when I hear the voices.
The first voice, the internal one, warns me that I’m about end up at the chiropractor with a twisted back. That I am really stupid for forgetting to bring along the right-angle viewfinder so I didn’t have contort myself into a freakish position with knees compressed well below horizontal, head parallel to the ground and shallow breathing to compensate for the low shutter speed to go with the high f-stop for greater depth of field.
The other voice had no warning. It was nothing but questions.
“What lens are you using!”
“What lens is on the other camera?”
“Why two cameras? Are they both Nikon? Which model?”
“How many mega-pixels?”
Someone inside a store in the shopping center saw me, my body twisted and stretched, wanting my answers to their important questions, all of them about equipment. Questions important enough to abandon their original purpose for shopping at the store.
Important enough that perhaps the answers might justify their camera purchase or provide reason for justifying an upgrade to the next greater mega-pixel range.
Important enough that the answers to their questions might help them learn about composition, lighting, timing, or better personal contact with a subject.
Important enough questioning me about technique might be of greater benefit than observing and analyzing.
Important enough to interrupt my work.
Important enough to miss my gentle verbal and body language signals that explaining my equipment wasn’t part of my photo assignment.
No one ran up to the guy at the truck to ask him what type of shovel he used or which glove brand he preferred for working with that particular shovel or how many cubic feet of asphalt the truck would hold or if he carried two shovels, one for a backup.
The shovel, gloves and truck are no more different tools of the trade than my D300s with their complement of lenses and accessories. Less important, perhaps, in their expense. More important in their utilitarian purpose. Yet rarely questioned or discussed by observers with similar items.
Psychologists say we often identify ourselves through our purchases, those things we own that show our status or indicate our wealth.
Perhaps questioning professional photographers about their gear is part of an expression of self, a desire to associate with someone whose talent is visually expressed, always on public display. The greater affinity for our gear translates to a greater talent.
Digital camera costs and availability have compressed the distance between professional and amateur equipment.
The talent space between pro and amateur is now compressed by better equipment at a lower price. Marking talent space by associating yourself with more mega-pixels, wider-angle lenses, and camera style doesn’t make better photos. Technically they are better. Technology provides the improvement.
Aesthetically, the gear doesn’t matter. Just shoot better photos with what you have.
I never did ask the worker what type of shovel he was using or if his gloves provided better protection than mine or the temperature of the hot asphalt. It just didn’t seem to matter.
