Who I am is who I am - Identity and Perceptions

This blog post is about perceptions and identity. I remember when 911 happened, I was sitting in an internet cafe in Takoradi, chatting up a friend online. She told me the twin towers had been hit. I was confused.  I was just a young Radio Presenter and Journalist who was fighting for survival and quite detached from what was happening in the big bad world out there . I was concerned that people had died. I am always concerned when people die; but I couldn’t really understand or relate.

That 911 incident brought with it new social classifications and placements. Words like “terrorists”, “extremists”, “enemies of freedom” etc filled the airwaves and I listened, and nodded and listened some more and moved on with my life; or so I thought.

One day, years after, I walked into a barber shop, opposite Papaye to get a haircut. A guy walked in dressed like the “terrorists” I’d been seeing in the news.  I froze. I knew I shouldn’t be afraid but I couldn’t help it. I was sitting in my seat, watching his long beard, his red and white scarf, and long flowing clothes. He wore many things but no smile and I was scared.

If anybody had confronted me before that day and said: “Nana, you are prejudiced against Muslims who dress like that guy”. I would have totally denied it because I’d never had personal reasons to not like that guy. I’d never had a conversation with any. Never even really met any up close . I’ld have been honest in my denial not realising that somebody had altered my perception over the years without my permission.  The news I fed myself on, had made me racist without my consent; and I beg to think I am not the only victim.

I remember this white guy who asked me for a cigarette on a train in Brussels. I told him I don’t have any and he looked surprised and disappointed at my unwillingness to share. From the look on his face, I knew if I told him: “I don’t drink, I don’t smoke and I only sleep with one woman”. He would have called me the biggest liar in the world. When people look at me, a black man, often unconventionally dressed, what do they see? A criminal who has not yet been caught? Or a huge, long phallus with no brains? Or something dangerous one must approach cautiously? And the important question is, why do they see me this way?

I remember, one beautiful Summer day. The sun was out, there was no sign of rain and everything was beautiful, as is rare in Amsterdam. I was at Dam Square, taking photos just like the hundreds of tourists were doing. I saw a rusty bicycle and thought I could use it to frame some shots. Moments after I knelt by it, old Mike comes to drag his bike away. I asked him if I could just take one shot before he leaves. He was amused, I guess at my accent, which was obviously foreign and then surprised that I was using the same camera as him. We got talking. He was a photographer and quite known. Made a point to make me know, he even photographs the Police force officially. Somewhere along the conversation, he talked about how bad his flash was and why he hated it. I asked him a couple of questions, and then told him with certainty: “The problem is not the flash. The problem is you”. He was shocked.  I asked him if he had the flash right there with him. He said yes. I asked him to pull it out of his bag. He did. The moment I reached for it, he instinctively pulled the flash away from me, as if afraid I’ll run away with it.  I told him: “No problem, you hold the flash.” I made him turn it on, taught him to change his settings, asked him to put it back on the camera and asked him to also change the settings on his camera so the two communicate properly, and then I asked him to take some photos. He did, looked at the results and blurted out : “Wow, I just got a free seminar. Wow, for a young African, you are quite unusual!” 

I am quite unusual? What is the usual? Where do you find the usual? How many young black men has Michael ever met? How many has he ever even spoken to? If I had told Michael, who I had lunch with that day, that he was a racist, he would have been shocked. Why? Because I don’t think he set out to be a racist. He, just like me, had been programmed to fear and avoid a group of people without his permission. He was a victim; and by virtue of the very nature of racism, he had also become a perpetrator.

If you think any group of people are all bad or are all smart or are all rowdy or violent or uncool etc, check your programming. Remember the GIGO principle and after you’ve honestly assessed yourself, flush out the rubbish.

Have a lovely day.

Happy Mother's Day

Picture a young woman holding her baby, her first, for the first time. She wears on her face happiness, exhaustion and confusion. Hopefully, she’s happy to be a mother. She’s relieved at last of all the weight she has carried  in her body for nine months. She sees a future for this child already. May be, she sees new beginnings: A happy husband and respect from society.  Or may be, she sees no future; not for her, not for her child because she wasn’t prepared for motherhood when she got pregnant or the father of her baby has fallen in battle, or eloped with another woman long ago, or is a rapist or someone of a lower social class and therefore cannot be named.

When a woman is inducted into motherhood; especially for the first time, whether  under good or terrible circumstances, it always hits her like a train. All of a sudden, she finds the curtain raised and a billion faces staring at her, waiting for her to perform,  and it hits her that this is quite different from the role she’d rehearsed for. 

I have watched my wife become a mother thrice. I have watched her evolve from a cool, top class university student who had her life together and her future intact , into a lovely bride giggling around like a little girl who just discovered lollipop, into a ranting lunatic trying to get two older children ready for school whilst her baby screams for attention. I have watched this girl who enjoyed sleep like it was made of dope, go for days without a dose because one of her children was sick or a new baby wakes up every few minutes to be breastfed.

And one would think the whole world will excuse her because she’s a mother and obviously has no time for herself, but no. Her husband also has several needs, most of which only she can meet; and then there is career and that corporate ladder thingy, and several other social pedestals she must get on to be counted.  

Saying Happy Mother’s Day to our mothers and the mothers of our children isn’t much against the sacrifices they make, but definitely a step in the right direction. Happy Mother’s Day

Thank You (A posture, a poem)

We could wait for the days of laughter 

When our souls are lit on fire

And all our prayers are answered

And we have not a single sickness

To say thank you.

We could wait for bounty harvest

When our flocks and stocks overflow

And all our enemies are ashamed

As we celebrate  with thousands of friends

To say thank you.

We could wait for our coming ascension

When we wear our sparkling crowns

And dance on those streets of pure gold

And sing and shout with joyous voices

And say thank you.

Or we could pause right this moment

And fish out the beautiful seconds

Hidden within sands of drudgery

And lift our heads in gratitude

And say thank you.

We’ll thank you in this season

Whether we do or have no reason

We’ll thank you right this moment

Here. Now. We say Thank You.

I made free screen savers and wallpapers for you.

I blogged about my new life quite recently and many of you were very happy for me. And that made me happy. Your generosity and support have compelled me to take a look at my life, see it for the blessing it is, and I thought the best way to say thank you, was to give you something you could put on your wall or use as a screen saver.

So yesterday morning, I packed my camera, walked to the cove, sat down, offered prayers of thanksgiving to the One who already sees my future as history. And then after that, I wrote a story entitled "How the crab got to fly" for my children, and then I took these photographs for you.

Yesterday, I spent a lot of time reading poetry. Poetry is my first love but I have never treated her right. Fortunately, I think she still loves me; and I hope that spark I felt yesterday, blossoms into something beautiful.

Enjoy these images and remember always that someone somewhere cares about you.

Here is a download link to the high res versions: https://plus.google.com/110038741574265967213/posts/CjG8pt4RBHN

Honour the Mosquitoes

I love mosquitoes. Especially, the female anopheles. I think we need to replace the eagles on our national coat of arms with mosquitoes.  If your grandfather fought for independence or died trying, forgive me. I am not trivialising their sacrifice but if you will be honest, you know them white folk were more afraid of  dying from Malaria than they were of our catapults and talismans. 

But Malaria isn’t really what’s on my mind at this moment. It is Buruli ulcer. Why? Today, I went to visit Billy. A truly amazing Scottish man who works with orphans in Prampram. Health workers came to vaccinate them against yellow fever, now four of them have Buruli ulcer. Yes. Buruli ulcer. I hope nobody decided to use the poor orphans as guinea pigs O?

 I think there are two ways to silence the people. You can either stuff their mouths with filthy rugs or with good food. Both of them will silence them but one will make them hate you, the other will make them love you. Politicians, are you listening?

Recently, a friend of mine called my writing. “The rantings of a mad man”. Me? A mad man? Since when? Do mad people know when they are mad? Did I say he’s my friend? With friends like that who needs enemies?  Enjoy your weekend :)

Small, Small, man dey grow O

Today, I turned 37. A part of my brain says “In only 13 years, you will be 50”. The other side says: “You are not 73, you are 37”. Fortunately, I always saw the old people in my life age beautifully but it is just dawning on me that may be, just may be… ageing beautifully is a choice they made.

I have a friend who is currently educating me on facebook about why I don’t look like a Taurus but rather like an Aries. Whatever these things mean. Do people really believe in those things? Do you? If I became every animal that symbolised me, I’d be what you get in the lab when you mix an antelope, a bull, a sheep, a lion and a wolf. 

Today, I feel extra grateful to all the people I don’t know and all those I know, who have supported me over the years.  I also want to thank my friends. I know I am not the easiest of friends to have. I know I can lose it sometimes, and even not realise it when I do. I know I can be fun but also a lot of pain… and in being who I am, I have hurt and lost a lot of friends along the way. But some of you have stayed, fought me, confronted me, encouraged me, corrected me, blessed me, educated me, rebuked me, insulted me, cursed me, loved me, loved me, loved me and cried and laughed with me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

I am currently in Abidjan, on assignment and not really in a blogging mindset, so I will end here. Enjoy the pictures… and have fun for me, wherever you are today.

Cowards among us, Cowards above us

The world is broken and I’m glad to repeat that like a broken record. The world is broken. The world is broken and I know my saying so isn’t going to fix it, but how can I keep quiet? That will be doing my children and all the children of the world a big disservice.  This world is broken.

It is not right. It is wrong. It should never be said among human beings that an eight year old boy lost his life because he was waiting for his father to finish a race.  How are we supposed to live with the fact that a 27 year old young man, who has never been in trouble, seriously focused on making something good out of his life, lost both of his legs in a matter of seconds because some coward detonated bombs on what was supposed to be a good day, watching his girlfriend finish her first marathon?

Whoever did this at the Boston Marathon didn’t commit an act of terror, they committed an ACT OF COWARDICE. But isn’t it just as cowardly to drop bombs with drones, hoping to hit your target, not considering the lives of all the other innocent people you may maim or kill? Isn’t the pain the same whether you are a citizen of the developed world or  some muslim woman, in the Middle East, busily cooking for five only to hear you will be eating alone because a drone dropped  a bomb on your husband and sons just when they got out of the mosque? And is it less painful, if the bomb wasn’t dropped by an American drone but was a vest worn by her neighbour’s son? You see? That is why this world is broken.

We can hide behind all the rhetoric and all the religion and the racist agenda of the world. We can pretend our children are more precious than other people’s. We can scream terror at the different. We can assert our mandate to eradicate those we hate is given to us by God and turn and blame Him when it all comes to haunt us but not none of all these will fix the world, which is the only thing we should be doing now.

We can only fix the world when I realise that my world is not whole without you. That meaning is only visible when there is difference; when there is contrast.  Even a child can see that a red rose stands out better on a green stem; so why are our leaders so blind to this to this truth? This world needs healing urgently and we must start from respect; even for what we don’t understand.

My New Life

(All pictures in this post were taken with the iPhone)

A couple of years ago, right on this blog, I wrote about how I had been duped by a priest who sold me land he didn’t have the right to.  At the end of the day, after much prayer, phone calls, begging for my money, getting a lawyer on his case and finally threatening to ruin his reputation in the press, I managed to squeeze out of him 50% of the money I paid for the land, which in actual fact was just about 30% of the money I had spent in acquiring the land, walling it, etc. It was a tough time in my life. 

Venting online got me some very sympathetic and supporting emails. I was an emotional wreck at the time and every little support helped. I was also quite shocked to receive some self-righteous emails from folk who couldn’t wait to tell me how unfair it was to tarnish the priest’s image without giving him a fair chance to defend himself. (Defend himself??? I thought I was the victim!!!) After boiling with rage for a while, I came to realise they were quite right. I had no right to tarnish a person’s reputation without giving them a fair chance at self defence. I apologised the best way I could,  and prayed they never get “419ed” in a system that doesn’t work, by people with friends in high places.  

Whilst all these things were going on, my Shylock of a landlord was raising my rent like a lunatic baker pouring yeast into dough. The apartment downstairs had been turned into a church and those guys made sure I hardly slept. But what broke my heart the most, was when my wife returned home from hospital with Ato, our youngest son, just a couple of days old, and those church guys were holding all night services and screaming into microphones. I had a fresh baby, a tired wife, paying abnormally high rent and having sleepless nights. Those were tough days but tougher days were still ahead.

My sister had been talking about an auctioneer she knows, who came highly recommended. I was quite delighted to discover he was someone I already knew. He was a mate of mine from the University of Cape Coast. He showed me a few properties around Accra, and after I settled for one I thought I could afford and liked, I committed $15,000 to the transaction and from the moment he received the money, his attitude changed. He wouldn’t pick my calls, he would constantly cough up excuses and his stories didn’t always add up. So I called a few other friends who knew him and that is when the stories began. My good friend from school, it turned out, was now a con artist. Fortunately for me, I was able to grab him at a good time and retrieve every penny I had given him. I was shaken. I couldn’t afford the exorbitant prices all those real estate companies are charging for their badly built apartments and houses, my attempts to buy land and build myself had gotten me burnt by of all people- a priest, my landlord had increased my rent by 75% and I have a growing family. I have seen some tough days.

Why am I telling you all this? Well today, my tenancy-saga is thankfully over,  due to the good advice and support of friends like Mawuli T., Mawuli A, Robin, Francis, Rhoda, Nana Benyi and a lot of close friends and family who encouraged and supported us either technically or emotionally to not give up and press on. Eight months after we started a new project on a land we bought for a very good price from the father of a good friend, we have moved in. The house is not completely done yet… but it definitely is habitable… and the wife and children love it. 

So now, as you can see from the pictures, I live in Ghana’s answer to Malibu, an hour away from the madding crowd and enjoying my new life.

Life is like a Market Place

Yours sincerely won the Best Photography Blog last Saturday at Blogcamp13 in Accra. It was a humbling experience. Thank you for your votes and support over the years. I have decided to respond more actively to conversations and comments on this blog. Let’s see if we can make it come alive more. I will need your help to make this work :)

Today, I want to share two colourful photographs with you :). Yes, I am back to my colourful self. The first one is of the band OY. Lovely band. It was really a pleasure meeting and photographing them… but what even excited me more is one of their songs “Life is like a market place”.  It was what inspired this photo shoot. How I wish we all will always remember that life is like a market place, you come, you look, you chat, you buy, you go and another person comes, looks, chats, buys and goes. Nobody stays in the market place forever.

The other photograph, is one that captures a very vivid memory of my childhood. Fishing today is not as lucrative as it used to be, thus endangering the whole culture and local people who survive around this business.  Because our politicians are deep in the pockets of the Chinese, they’ve turned a blind eye (occasionally barking to deceive us) as the Chinese freely pair-trawl and fish illegally in our waters, damage our environment through unsafe, illegal mining practices and even retail in our markets.

I hope our leaders (and all of us, actually) will never forget that Life is really like a market place… and finally when we get home, they will ask us “So what did you bring from the market?” 

When you see Water...

In my culture when a child is born, the mother and child stay indoors for 7 days, away from the evil, pyring eyes that fill the air, walk the paths and peep through the neighbours' windows. On the eighth day, if the child has not died, then it is believed it has come to stay. It must be welcomed. An out-dooring ceremony is organised by the child's father. On this day, the father stays indoors with the child and wife until an elder welcomes all the guests and witnesses with an announcement: 

"Kofi {insert whatever name you prefer} and his wife went indoors. When they were going, they were two. It was only the two of them. Did we not all see them?"  

Guests: "We saw them!"

Elder: "But now as they come out, we hear they are three. 

Guests: (pretending they are shocked to hear this, scream in unison): "Ei!"

Elder: Isn't this a mystery?

Guests: It is a mystery.

 Elder: Well, since we are all here to meet this third person, can Kofi and his        wife come and introduce this new member of the family to us?

At this point, the father of the child comes out with his wife and baby, adorned in white, to loud applause like only Africans can make. He walks up to the elder and whispers what is to be the child's name into his ears. The elder officially announces this name to the hearing of everybody present and then he gives the baby a charge. In the charge, he lets a drop of water trickle down his finger and drops on the child's tongue. He tells the child: "As you have joined us, know that in this family, we uphold truth above all. When you see water, call it water". After this, he touches the child's tongue with a speck of salt and he says: "And when you see salt, say it is salt".

Today, looking at Africa and pretty much most of the world, and the kind of people who lead it, one begins to wonder what happened to this ancient value. "When you see water, say it is water, when you see salt, say it is salt".

But this isn't the main reason why I started this post. I have been concerned about Water and how we use it as citizens of the world for a while now. The great deception when one stands on the beach, looking over the mighty ocean is to think "There is a lot of water in the world".

Really? Is there a lot of water in the world?  Is there?

Games we played in childhood, lives we live in adulthood

I am nostalgic this morning, that is why I am sharing this photo with you.

I used to play Daddy. I will come back from work, refuse to eat the food, and "my wife" had to beg me. She will use the opportunity to talk about how "the chop money" is small or there was no food in the market" etc. Finally, I will lift some of the "food", (actually sand) close to my lips, pretend to eat and give the rest to "my children".

Did you play these games as a kid? What roles did you often play? Do you think these roles in anyway now reflect your adulthood?

A simple thought for International Women's Day

It’s always intriguing to hear a man describe a woman.

I’m not talking about a man talking about one particular woman, but women in the more generic sense.

I have also observed that even in my country Ghana, ones choice of descriptors will be heavily influenced by where one comes from; and the general perception of one’s tribe. For example, I come from a matrilineal tribe. Women in my family have always been powerful. So the first time I heard of Feminism, I was totally confused. Overtime, as I explored the world, I discovered the power my grandmother, mother and sister enjoy in my tribe is not necessarily the common experience of all women.

This photograph, is of a woman doing a man’s job in a part of Ghana where women really are treated as second class citizens. I love this photograph because I have always been of the opinion that a woman doesn’t need to look or act like a man to gain respect; in fact, I think that rather reenforces the stereotype. I love to see feminine women calling the shots because that is the ultimate proof that “Men and Women are created equal”.  

Have a great week.

How I started blogging and why you should vote

My first blog post was on 28^th December, 2006. I should have been chewing Christmas chicken with my family at the time but I couldn’t afford that luxury.

There was too much going on in my mind. I had walked away from advertising, hanged my boots as a Creative Director, and stepped out of the air-conditioned offices that had been my world into the hot, unforgiven world out there, wielding a small camera, a lens and a flash and calling myself a photographer.  It wasn’t cool to be a photographer in 2006 in Ghana.

Everybody thought I was crazy for walking away from it all… and choosing a career that was mostly reserved for school drop outs. What they didn’t know was that at that time in my life, only two things made me happy: Photography and Writing. In those two worlds, I didn’t have to conform. I didn’t have to be politically correct. In 2006, when most Ghanaians even struggled sending and receiving emails, blogging became my escape… a a window that offered me an opportunity to share my world with the rest of the world. The very first words on my blog were:

“Everyday of our lives should be a Celebration. Truth be told, we often miss the moments that matter most, but we occasionally get lucky and capture a bit of it through the photograph.

These photos, sometimes taken for a client, sometimes taken for a friend, sometimes taken of family, sometimes taken for fun or pain, are all together a celebration of a soul as it experiences the world through the window called LENS.”

I invite you celebrate all the amazing bloggers who over the years have produced immense content that challenged our perceptions and ideologies by voting for them. In 2006, I couldn’t even imagine a time will come when there will be a Blogging Ghana. Today, I have been nominated for a couple of awards and that feels good. I didn’t see this day coming and I really will want to congratulate all the founding members and current executives and members of Blogging Ghana for leading us here.  I will want to use this opportunity to invite you to support their good work by going to the site and voting for the best blog in each category. Let’s keep the flame burning.

Vote at: http://www.blogcampghana.com/voting

The Flesh-Eating Disease

This week has been busy. I have been photographing what is commonly called "The cotton disease" in some local communities of Ghana.

Buruli Ulcer is a terrible disease. Nobody still knows, after many years of research, exactly what causes it or how it is transmitted.

Because the disease is very damaging to the human form when discovered late, now there are attempts to diagnose and treat it at the stage one of its development by screening children in schools for nodles, which often look like boils but are totally painless.

Overtime, what starts as a painless nodle soon becomes a ferocious flesh-eating demon with unsatiable appetite.  Treatment takes an average of 56 days for mild cases to several years for most patients. Lots of infected children drop out of school because it is hard to go to school with so much pain, and also they often have to be admitted in hospitals for the duration of their treatment.

Among the local communities, people hide their  infections until it is too late because they think Buruli Ulcer is a  curse for infidelity, theft  and other crimes.  Fortunately, there is a lot of sensitisation going on still, even though Buruli Ulcer is considered a neglected disease.

Dead White Folk's stuff in Accra

The local name of Accra's second hand market is "Kantamanto", which means "Promise Keeper", often used as an attribute for Creator God. I like Kantamanto.

It's a crazy place. But that's not the only reason why I like the place. I like Kantamanto because that is where you find "broni we wu" which simply translates as "The white person has died".

The white person has died? Yes. And I know it sounds crazy but let me give you the roots of that expression.  After independence, Ghana was a rich country. People were almost self-sufficient.

Then some people, discontent with how Nkrumah "Show Boy" was running things, decided to overthrow him. What followed was many years of "wahala",  brutal military regimes, "kalabuley" and lots of politically incorrect political nonsense.

It got so bad, that at some point, we had to start importing other people's pre-used clothing, cars, furniture and even underwear or as one parliamentarian said one national television recently, g-string.

Since most Ghanaians couldn't afford to give away a decent dress that looked good on them at that time, they naturally assumed that the nice clothes they were finding in the second hand market, must belong to dead white folk because nobody in their right mind will get rid of such nice clothes.

So yes, Kantamanto is the major place where dead white folk's stuff ends up. Welcome to Accra.
(All photos taken with an iPhone and are © Nana Kofi Acquah, 2013)

Stop sucking your thumb and grow up

Stop sucking your thumb, pull it out of your mouth and grow up. No, I am not talking to my child. I am talking to all the full grown adults who only murmur and whine about water shortage, light outs, bad roads, bad services and the million other issues that plague developing countries like Ghana. Stop sucking your thumb, pull it out of your mouth and grow up.

Anytime you sit in a car, remember it was invented by someone who was tired of walking. Anytime you sit in an airplane, know the Wright brothers never caught a flight to nowhere in their entire lives. Anytime you turn your tap and water flows or trickles or the tap just hums a tune and gives you air, remember that tap was invented by somebody who got tired of going to the well or river bank or wherever they used to get their water from. Anytime you stretch out your hand and tap that switch on the wall, remember the guy who invented the light bulb tried countless times before succeeding. Anytime you complain about how dirty politics is or how corrupt the government is or how inefficient the police force is, remember in the countries where these systems work, they work because good, intelligent people decided to actively get involved in the system, not just watch and whine from the stands. That is life. Life rewards those who rise up and solve the problems that confront them. Life doesn’t reward anybody for whining.

It really is important to see the problems that plague us for the opportunities they are.  Yes. Every problem in life is an opportunity… but we need to change our attitudes before anything else can change. I remember the story of the two students who went to India together. One saw all the bare footed people and was filled with pity and moaned about how poor the people were and how pitiful their lives must be. He went back to college, got his degree and blended in with the insignificant masses. His friend, however, saw the problem for the opportunity it was, quit school and became a billionaire selling affordable rubber shoes to a shoeless culture. This is also the story of Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Darko Farms, Kama, Amoabeng and a million others.What do you see? How do you see? 

Do you want to look again? 

The Camera is a Passport

Some years ago, I was selected by the World Press Photo for an assignment in Angola. The first two weeks of the programme was designed as a training session for us. That is when I met Per Folkver for the first time. I had so much to learn I didn’t know I had to learn until I run into that wonderful man. On our first encounter, I told him: “Don’t treat me like an African, under privileged photographer that needs your compassion. Speak to me straight like you do to your guys in Politiken”… and boy, was I mostly sad but ultimately glad I did? He didn’t mince words. He gave it to me so hard and fast that my head still spins from the thought of it. But one of the lessons I remember from that class was “The camera is a passport”. Per said; “Imagine you’re walking on the street and you see a beautiful lady and you tell her ‘can I come to your house and see you naked?’ she’d definitely think you are a crazy pervert and might even slap you but if you told her ‘I’m a photographer and would love the opportunity to shoot you nude. Would you pose for me?’, you may actually get lucky”. I am not saying, go out there and be a voyeur with a camera. The point here is, the camera can grant you access to places a smile and a pretty faces won’t necessary do. 

In my short career as a photographer, I have had the opportunity to meet and photograph people I normally would not have access to. I have photographed presidents of nations, drug addicts, beauty queens, child soldiers, super models, farmers, superstars, some of the world’s richest people, some of the world’s poorest people… and the list is endless. The camera really gives one access and that access comes with responsibility. I feel vulnerable when a camera is pointed at me. Even the most amazing models, experience some level of vulnerability when they face the camera… and that is why the access the camera gives must be treated with utmost respect. I have seen chief executives of multinational companies whimper at the sight of a camera because they hate the vulnerability they feel. That is why it’s a big shame to encounter a photographer with the skills of a Mozart and the sensitivity of a goat. A photographer must be sensitive. I believe that a photographer’s emotional intelligence will actually take them further than their technical competence; especially when one considers the fact that a lot of modern cameras don’t require much competence to operate. For example, how many photographers today know how to use a light meter? How many photographers today have a light meter? Anytime I pull one out, it’s amazing how many people come asking what it is and what it does. The modern camera has a relatively accurate meter for most occasions… technical competence is no longer a major requirement. 

I have studied a number of great photographers and what these bunch have in common, is how they handle the subjects they are photographing. That is their real skill: Respecting the opportunity the camera has given them to witness an occasion in someone else’s life; and clearly seeing and appreciating the moment for what it is. It is the reason why some of these guys get paid several thousands of dollars for their time… whilst lots of other photographers starve. 

The camera is a passport, but a passport alone is not enough, if you want to travel far.

The Baby My Mama Nearly Didn't Have

Yes, I am that baby my mama nearly didn’t have. 

She was young, unmarried, intelligent with a whole world ahead of her 

and a tiny bump threatening to pull it all down.  But that was not the worst part...

Her dad. He was powerful, rich, erratic and had a gun.

Her mother, she was elitist, respected, looked up to, and very scared now.

The story changes depending on who tells it but bottom line is…

There was a doctor,  a few attempts…

    But that bump grew and grew and finally became me.

I am that precious baby my mama nearly didn’t have.