When I was 15 I took a photography class. I had been waiting and waiting to be able to take the course. You needed to be at least a sophomore with at least a certain number of credits. I wanted to be a photographer at that point, maybe even a photojournalist. Something anything that involved me spending quality time with a camera.
The course turned out to be a bit of a letdown. I felt like my creativity was being squandered. I mean how was I suppose to be creative when I was told I had to take pictures of lines. Go take pictures of lines. What was that teaching me? I remember hating the class. I remember hating the teacher: this little anal man, who thought too highly of himself.
Of course despite how little I thought I was learning, I always pause now and realize how much I actually did learn. I still don’t think much of the teacher I had, but I use his lessons all the time. I even find myself drawn to taking pictures of lines. Long stretches of lines. Lines on buildings. Lines on the streets. Lines of a pattern. Lines. Lines. Lines. I bit a reluctant to say that the class itself is what brought me to this point. It’s far easier to photograph something you see than it is to photograph something you’re told to see. Maybe it I had been told to go out and photograph whatever I wanted my 15-year-old self would have come back with considerably more interesting photographs of lines.
Lines are everywhere.