Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot photos of amazing city skylines? I’ll make prints of the photos and hang them in my remote cabin in the woods where I live. Any time I get the urge to move to a big city where there are oodles of people and always exciting things to do, I’ll stare at these photos until the feeling goes away. It will work, right?
Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot pictures of scraggly trees in west Texas? Then I can sell them to a hotel chain where they will hang them in bathrooms, next to the mini-fridges, or above the king-sized beds. Then when visitors enter the hotel room and flip on the lights, they will see my photos. They probably won’t look very long. I mean, these are just scraggly trees in barren Texas landscapes. They certainly won’t wonder what the photo means. Or consider buying a print. Instead they will likely flip on the TV. Order room service. Go to bed. And never think of the photo again.
Maybe I can be one of those people who only shoot photos of white-painted poles on the beach. I’ll create a website with thousands and thousands of white-painted poles on the beach. The photos will be shot from beaches across the world. The Caribbean. The Mediterranean. The South Seas. These photos will become extremely popular. Everyone who loves the beach, but is land locked, will purchase one. They will cherish the photo and hang it in their home. Likely in their bathroom.
Maybe I can be one of those people who photograph incongruencies in nature. I’ll train myself to notice what does not belong. I’ll seek out oddities, outcasts and misfits. And then I’ll look for you. Watch out!
Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot photos of old rusty trucks? This one gets extra points for the rusty crap in the foreground, the dilapidated trailer and the barbed wire. If only the truck had flat tires and an emaciated dog. . . that would be perfection.
Maybe I can be one of those photographers who take pictures of old dilapidated signs on Route 66. Then I’ll start wearing black leather jackets and grease my hair back. And I’ll buy an old car from the 1950’s, fix it up, and drive the mother road. . . all the way to L.A. I’ll seek out the greasiest diners, the lonliest truck stops, and the cheapest motels.
On second thought, I’d rather stay home.
Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot single-track trails disappearing into the misty forest. I could also take photos of nylon tents in the woods with my feet sticking out. And pressed leaves. And steaming cups of coffee. Lots of coffee. Then maybe some outdoors company would see my photos and pay me a ton of money and give me free camping gear. And then I could go camping and not have to worry about taking a bunch of silly photographs.
Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot landscape images that look like abstract paintings. And then after staring at one of these photos for a few days, I can make a painting of it. And then a few days later, take a photo of that painting. And a few days later, paint that photo. Ad infinitum.
Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot pictures of driftwood? And maybe I can meet up with other strange people who shoot pictures of driftwood? We would meet once a month in a restaurant near the beach. And we would sit among old chairs and tables made out of driftwood. And we would bring our favorite photographs of driftwood, each one carefully cropped and matted. And we would order tuna sandwiches and herbal teas and maybe a slice of pie. And we would eat slowly and with great satisfaction.
But of course, we wouldn’t sit together.
Maybe I can be a photographer of old olive oil farms around Sorrento? Probably not a good idea. Every photo I took was amazing and made me feel talented. I don’t want to get a big head.