The Difficult Way

How many photographers go out in subzero temperatures to capture snowscapes? Not many. Cold-weather photography is extremely difficult: you must wear warm snow gear, which is heavy and bulky; you must trudge through mountains of snow while gasping burning lungfuls of frigid air; and you must be extremely careful not to touch your own camera equipment with bare hands, lest your skin stick to the freezing metal. How can you take pictures if you can't readily handle your cameras or lenses or tripod? It's an excruciatingly slow process, and you must wear several layers of gloves, stripping down to the thinnest (but never to bare skin) only briefly and only when absolutely necessary.


A decade ago, after a heavy snowfall, I decided to take an early morning hike through Shaw Arboretum, outside of St. Louis. Of course, I arose early to take advantage of the dawn light, but it was beastly cold--so frigid that I used chemical hand-warmers to try to keep my feet from freezing. Even the effort of moving around in the heavy snow was not enough to keep me warm, so I spent only a short time outside. But the light was so brilliant and the air so clear that the scenery was truly spectacular. If only I had had enough stamina and patience to capture it as it was!

Sometimes it seems that Nature reserves its most splendid sights for those who are able to overcome the most difficult obstacles. Think of high mountain scenery, undersea vistas, or even desert panoramas--all of these are not easily accessible, but the view makes the effort so worthwhile. I hope I remember this the next time I'm tempted to sleep through dawn or avoid that rugged path.

Reading the Signs

A number of years ago, I spent many evenings along the shores where the Severn River meets the Chesapeake Bay. My intention was to photograph the evening sailboat races, which proceeded out into the bay and finished in Annapolis. I managed to capture a few decent shots of the sailing vessels, but the boats were generally too far offshore during the bulk of the races, and the light had generally failed by the time the sailboats returned to harbor.

One evening, the boats were particularly slow getting to the finish, for the wind had been very light and erratic. I was trying to be patient as the sun set and the light diminished, but after a time I realized there was no use waiting any longer. As I was beginning to pack up, I happened to look overhead--and there I saw a small wisp of a cloud, with a beautiful rainbow illuminated by the final rays of the sun. All of a sudden, I was snapping pictures of the most amazing cloud formations! The colors were brilliant, and the shapes were fascinating--nature was painting some of the most breathtaking abstracts I have ever seen that evening.

That experience taught me to be more flexible in my photographic endeavors, that it's important to remain open to the images that are present, even if they're not the ones I was hoping for or expecting, and to allow myself to see what's actually there in front of me. It's an ongoing lesson, and one that applies to my spiritual life as well. If my expectations or preconceptions limit what I might allow the Divine to reveal to me, what breathtaking revelations might I end up missing?

My First Solo Photo Show

Here is some information about my first solo photography show. For anyone who lives locally, I'd be happy to give you directions and additional information.

The LOFT Artist Guild presents

Intimate Views: Photography of Flowers & Nudes
by Anthony F. Chiffolo

December 2nd – January 13th

The LOFT Artist Gallery
@ The LOFT: LGBT Community Center
180 East Post Road, White Plains, NY 10601
914-948-2932 / www.loftgaycenter.org

The Ones That Got Away

If you ask any wildlife photographer to show you their best photographs, they won't be able to, because they'll tell you that the best photos are the ones they were never able to capture. Wildlife photographers get up before the crack of dawn, make their way through the dark mists to a blind in the marsh or woods, and then wait--often for hours--until the ducks or turkeys put in an appearance. The best photographers are always ready, with their fingers on the shutter, to capture that perfect, fleeting image. But the animals are just about always stealthier, quieter, faster, coming into view opposite from where the camera is pointing or moving faster than the photographer can focus. The photographer might be able to snap his/her head around to see what the elk or coyote is doing, but in such a situation, only rarely will the photographer end up with more than a memory of the moment.

Nowadays, we all walk around with digital cameras (or even cell phones) to record our memories, but how many times do we still say, "If only I had a camera with me..."? The best images are still the ones we carry around in our minds, not on film (or in digital files).

So the next time you're tempted to take out the photo album or load the slide show for your friends, take a couple of minutes to share as well those images that you can't actually display--those unforgettable moments that are burned so vividly in your memory--the ones that never really "got away" from you.

Intimate Views

To photograph nature is essentially to notice and "see" the world in new ways, in a manner that is different from my workaday glance at my surroundings and perhaps in a manner that is completely alien to most people's view of the universe. When I've gone hiking with companions, I'm always lagging behind--where they search for an elusive deer or bird or butterfly, I'm looking at perspectives, lines, and angles. "I see a photo here," I might call out to them, bending to examine a mushroom or fern, to which they might respond, "Just a jumble of rocks and logs to me." Or I might say, "See how the sunlight coming through the leaves turns this area into a crimson room with a red ribbon curling across it," while they're impatiently tossing rocks into the stream. For them, a path through the forest might be just a way to get to a pretty scenic overlook, but for me, it is a subject unto itself, never the same from moment to moment.

The contrast is even more extreme when I do "macro" photography--that is, when I'm taking pictures of very small things, such as tiny flowers. Once I find a suitable subject, I have to pay attention to so many factors: the angle of the light and the resultant shadows, the background "noise" or distracting elements, the "ideal" height of the camera and the perspective on the subject, the bits that I want to be in focus and the bits that I want to be blurred, the effect any slight wind or breath of air movement can have on the subject, and so forth. Taking a closeup photo of just one flower can sometimes take thirty minutes or more. Most hiking companions, unless they are also taking photographs, don't like to wait so long.

It's possible to think that looking at the world with a camera in front of my eye has its definite limitations, for it means I end up by myself an awful lot. It could also mean becoming an outsider, an observer, not a true participant. Were I a portrait photographer or a photojournalist, I would admit to some truth in this claim. Yet when photographing people, I pose myself in front of the camera as often as I put others there. But more than that, interacting with the world as a photographer really brings a calmness to my spirit. Not only do I slow down my usual headlong rush through life, but I also pay attention to the details that make the world so astonishing, so beautiful, and so sacred. I feel connected with the universe; I experience a sense of unity that is both intimately personal and infinitely beyond the personal. I have a strong suspicion that I would not have had these--dare I call them "spiritual"?--experiences had I not been looking through my camera lens.

Remembering the Details

In twenty years (or more) of clicking the shutter, I've made thousands of photographs. While the number of images and variety of subjects is quite amazing, what really astounds me is that I can remember the location and time of pretty much every photo I've taken. This isn't because I've written it down; rather, the experience of the creative moment and the image have both imprinted on my memory.

So I know, for example, that I photographed this windflower in a certain garden in Annapolis, Maryland, one spring morning back in the early 90s (OK, so I don't remember the exact date!). It was a sunny but blustery day, a little chilly, some large puffy clouds sliding across the blue sky. This flower was nestled in the woods, deep in the shadows, and as I've written about earlier, I had to wait patiently for a calm moment between wind gusts for the petals to be still.

I remember the other flowers I photographed that day: enormous tree peonies, large yellow and blue and purple bearded iris, among my favorite flowers, and may apples. It was a morning when time passed unnoticed, when the present was all there was.

Maybe that's why I remember--because I was so "in the moment" that nothing else mattered.

This happens often when I'm out taking photos, and maybe this is why I enjoy nature photography so much. There is nothing outside of the immediate and present experience.

I wish to encounter all of my moments in the same way.

Spending Time with Wolves

I took the accompanying photo on my second visit to Wildlife Prairie Park in Illinois. Nothing unusual about that, but it was actually the second full day I spent at the wolf enclosure there. I might try to convince myself that the wolves began to accept me as another member of their pack, but it's more likely that they were so used to human traffic (or so focused on the neighboring elk and bison) that they never noticed I had returned for another eight hours with them. They were simply going about their wolf lives as normally as possible, following a routine that had become comfortable.

I, however, had stepped outside of my daily routine to visit the park, and I made the deliberate decision to spend as much time as I could with the wolves. Not only did I enjoy their company, but I also became familiar with their activities, their personalities, and their interactions. I was able to observe the details of their eating, drinking, running, hunting, playing, and sleeping, and I believe that my photos were better able to capture their essence as a result.

What worked with the wolves works for many other animals (elk, bison, turkeys, geese) as well, and it works for locations too--the more often I walk the trails of a certain park, the better I know that park's distinctive personality, the better I can envision what to expect, and the better (i.e., more true) my photos are. I believe the same principle applies to our human relationships, for the more time we spend with a person, the better we know her or him. I guess it's a matter of connecting with the spirit--of the wolves, of the park, of my companion--a connection that perhaps requires "time in" more than anything else.

Maybe we're deliberate about putting in this time, or maybe we're unconsciously filling a sensed need. It's easy to see how this might happen with our friends or family members, and they can give us cues to clue us in.

Sometimes the universe can send us clues too, signs that we need to reconnect with the Spirit. We might feel anxious, exhausted, overwhelmed, irritable, without knowing exactly why. For some people, such feelings indicate the need to "recharge our batteries"; others might say we've lost touch with our inner truth; still others might believe that we've allowed something to block our vision of God. Whatever metaphor one might use, the need to put "time in" with the Spirit remains.

How we do that is a very personal decision. Whereas one person might meditate, another might nap, and still another might listen to music, or read a poem, or watch the flowers grow in the garden. And some souls, like me, might even go visit the wolves.