The journalist, part 2

I’m a terrible driver.

At least according to my husband.

When I’m driving, my hands tend to follow my head. So, if I’m trying to spy an abandoned barn or house on the side of the road, the car drifts toward the side I’m looking at.

This never caused me an issue on the backroads of Alberta. If I drove off the road, I was in a wheat field.

One small correction of the steering wheel and, voila!, I was back on the road.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

There is, however, one thing Husband has to give me credit for. When I hear a siren, I go on full alert. I can spot the siren’s location and, if it’s roaring up behind me, pull over to give the fire truck/ambulance/police car room to pass.

Of course, my instinct is to then follow the siren.

But I must resist.

I’m told there’s a journalistic quality to my shots.

A new photog friend told me this. She says it’s unique.

Alack and alas, it’s also a quality that — I think — keeps me from becoming an “artist” in photography.

I see what makes the scene beautiful. I see what makes it a moment in history. Or … if it’s an abandoned homestead, it drives me to find out what made it a moment in history.

What I don’t see is how to make it a beautiful piece of art.

That’s my goal.

To make my moments in history artful.

In the hope that others see how beautiful that moment in history is.

I’ve joined a photography club. To learn from people who are better than me. To hang with peers who can inspire me to find the beautiful in the moment.

Not just the moment.

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