Photography: A Powerful Tool for Connection

Photography and Connection

I used to think the strongest photographs happened because I had the right light, the right lens, the right location, or somehow managed to press the shutter at exactly the right moment.

And sure, all of that helps.

Especially the light.

Photographers can become a little weird about light.

But after years of photographing people, landscapes, dogs, coastlines, musicians, and whatever else happened to wander in front of my camera, I’ve started to think something else is going on.

The photographs that mean the most to me usually came from moments when I felt deeply connected to whatever—or whoever—I was photographing.

Not observing.

Not capturing.

Connecting.

And I’m beginning to think there is a pretty big difference.

When a Portrait Becomes More Than a Portrait

Years ago, when I was photographing women in Las Vegas, I noticed something.

A photoshoot would begin the way photoshoots usually begin. We’re figuring each other out. I’m working with the light, thinking about composition, watching body position and expression. She’s becoming comfortable with me and with the camera.

We’re making photographs.

And then sometimes something would change.

She would relax.

The posing would become less like posing.

There would be a little more trust. A little more vulnerability. A little less performance.

And suddenly I wasn’t photographing a beautiful woman anymore.

I was seeing her.

Those were almost always the photographs that had something special in them.

At the time, I probably would have said we had established good rapport. And that’s true.

But now I think it was more than that.

Photography and Connection

There was a moment when the separation between photographer and subject became a little thinner.

I wasn’t standing over here trying to extract a photograph from someone standing over there.

We were creating something together.

The Best Photography Begins With Seeing

Much later, during a combination of a dream and a morning meditation—because apparently my subconscious enjoys holding staff meetings before breakfast—I suddenly understood those experiences differently.

What if the reason those photographs felt so alive was because, for a moment, I was seeing past the surface?

Past the pose.

Past the appearance.

Past my ideas about who the person was.

I was seeing something deeper.

Eastern philosophy has a lot of language for this sort of thing. In Vedanta, there is the idea of Atman—the deepest essence of a person—and Brahman, the underlying reality that connects everything.

Those are enormous ideas.

I’m not going to attempt to squeeze several thousand years of Indian philosophy between a discussion of aperture and shutter speed.

But the basic recognition landed very simply for me:

Maybe, in those moments of genuine connection, I was recognizing something divine in the person standing in front of my camera.

Which means I may have spent part of my photography career photographing Brahman in Las Vegas.

I definitely don’t remember putting that on the shot list.

Connection Changes the Way We Photograph People

Once I began looking at photography this way, something else became obvious.

A camera can create distance.

We literally put a machine between ourselves and another person.

It’s easy to start thinking in terms of angles, poses, backgrounds, expressions, focal lengths and whether that light stand is about to fall over.

The person can quietly become the subject.

But something different happens when we remember there is actually another human being standing there.

Someone with fears.

Someone with dreams.

Someone who wants to be seen.

Someone who may be revealing a part of themselves they don’t reveal very often.

When I’m genuinely present with that person, photography stops feeling like something I’m doing to them.

It becomes something we’re doing together.

And strangely enough, that’s often when the technical decisions become easier too.

You stop forcing the photograph.

You start listening for it.

Nature Doesn’t Pose, Which Is Probably Why It’s So Good at This

Eventually I realized this experience wasn’t limited to photographing people.

I’ve felt the same connection photographing the Pacific Northwest coast.

Standing near the ocean watching waves rise and break against the shore.

Driftwood scattered across the beach.

Cliffs disappearing into fog.

Lighthouses sitting out there doing their lighthouse thing.

Clouds changing every thirty seconds.

Cold water. Wind. Texture. Movement.

There are times when I’m photographing a landscape and something shifts in exactly the same way it did during a portrait session.

I’m no longer trying to get a picture of the ocean.

I’m with the ocean.

I’m paying attention.

I’m listening.

Not necessarily with my ears.

Although with the Pacific Ocean, there is plenty to listen to.

The photograph becomes less about documenting what something looks like and more about responding to what it feels like to be there.

Photographing Mazie

And then there is Mazie.

Photographing a dog might seem pretty far removed from contemplating the nature of existence.

Until you spend enough time around a dog.

Mazie doesn’t appear particularly concerned with whether she’s living in the present moment.

She just does.

She doesn’t need a meditation cushion.

She doesn’t need a copy of the Bhagavad Gita.

She doesn’t seem troubled by whether she’s fulfilling her dharma.

Although I’m fairly certain she believes part of it involves snacks.

When I photograph her, I’m not trying to reveal some philosophical concept.

I simply love her.

And because I love her, I pay attention.

I notice expressions other people might miss.

A glance.

A posture.

A moment of stillness.

Something in her eyes.

Again, the photograph comes from connection.

And maybe that’s the whole thing.

What If Photography Is Also in the Room?

There is another part of this that has become increasingly real for me.

I’ve begun thinking of Photography—with a capital P—as something more than an activity.

Photography feels like a creative partner.

I realize that sentence may cause a few people to slowly back away from me at parties.

That’s okay.

Hear me out.

Anyone who has spent enough time creating something has probably experienced a moment when the work seems to develop a life of its own.

Musicians know this.

There are nights when you’re playing the music.

And there are other nights when somehow it feels like the music is playing you.

Ideas appear that you didn’t consciously manufacture.

You suddenly move somewhere you hadn’t planned to move.

You wait instead of pressing the shutter.

You notice something you almost walked past.

Something quietly says:

Over here.

Look at this.

Wait.

Now.

And there’s the photograph.

Where did that come from?

I don’t really know.

I’m becoming increasingly comfortable with not knowing.

I only know that when I get quiet enough, Photography seems to participate.

Creativity Might Be a Conversation

We’re often taught to think of creativity as something generated entirely by the individual.

I had an idea.

I created this.

I made this photograph.

And of course that’s partly true.

I was there.

I brought the camera.

I charged the batteries.

Let’s not discount the batteries.

But some of my favorite creative experiences haven’t felt like acts of individual creation.

They’ve felt like conversations.

Between me and another person.

Between me and the landscape.

Between me and the moment.

Between me and Photography itself.

The less I insist on controlling that conversation, the more interesting it seems to become.

Photography as a Practice of Presence

This has changed what photography means to me.

Yes, photography is about light.

Composition.

Timing.

Gesture.

Color.

Shadow.

Technique matters.

Learning your craft matters.

But photography can also teach us how to pay attention.

Really pay attention.

And when we’re paying attention deeply enough, sometimes something unexpected happens.

The thing we’re photographing stops feeling like an object.

The person stops being a model.

The ocean stops being a landscape.

The dog stops being a subject.

For a moment, you’re simply there together.

And perhaps that is one of the quiet gifts photography gives us.

It provides an excuse to stop.

To look.

To become curious.

To notice another being—or another expression of life—without immediately needing it to be anything other than what it is.

That can become a surprisingly spiritual experience without ever needing to call itself one.

Take Connection With You on Your Next Photoshoot

So the next time you pick up your camera, maybe try something.

Before worrying about the photograph, connect with what’s in front of you.

If you’re photographing a person, spend some time actually being with them.

If you’re photographing a landscape, stop looking for compositions for a minute and experience the place.

If you’re photographing your dog…

Well, good luck getting the dog to cooperate.

But connect first.

Photograph second.

You might discover that the strongest image isn’t necessarily the one you planned.

It may be the one that appears when you’re present enough to recognize it.

And every once in a while, if you get quiet enough, you may even notice something else there with you.

Photography.

Waiting patiently.

Ready to help.