Flaming

My first camera was a Minolta XG-1 that I bought with the money I earned from my first summer as a lifeguard. Although by today's standards, it's a laughably simplistic design, it was a wonder to me the first time I pried it from its box and cradled it carefully in my hands.

Between its myriad dials and displays and its balanced heft, it was light years removed from the instamatic 110s that I had inherited from my parents. I learned to hate the limitations of those little boxes even as I became ever more fascinated with the possibilities of film.

Yes, film. This rapidly-disappearing medium of photography was my stock in trade for a whole lot of years before digital came along. In some respects, it remains a part of my photographic history, for it forced me to plan every picture, remember how I obtained the shot, then wait patiently for the folks in the photo lab to do their thing.

The first few years that I had my camera, I was often disappointed when I first opened the envelope. The pictures never quite seemed to snap or pop out at the eye as I had originally envisioned. Sure, I had dialed in the right settings and done all the technical things a photographer should do, but something was missing.

While the composition was pretty much what I remembered from the viewfinder, the prints didn't make me feel that emotional twang that I felt in the nanosecond before I clicked the shutter. I had failed to capture the tone or atmosphere of that moment.

Tone. It's the difference between a by-the-rules piece of work and one that stands out just enough to stick in someone's mind. It's the piece of work that helps create a response that is felt as much as it is thought. It's what allows the creator of said work to establish a unique style in the eyes and minds of everyone who reads and views the resulting work.

I started to ignore many of the proper lessons I had read in the years since I began to shoot. I tossed out a lot of the common sense advice like never shoot into the sun, always use a flash indoors, sharply-focused pictures are always better than soft-focused ones, etc. I deliberately ignored my metered settings and trusted my gut instead. And if I blew it, then I could always toss another roll of film into the camera and try again.

I figured I'd never get that snap, that feeling, if I didn't try - and fail.

I took this picture in Montreal earlier this month. My wife had just lit the Passover candles with our kids. They had gathered around her in silence while she lit the candles and said the blessing. Then they each leaned in for a hug and a kiss when she was done.

It was a soft, glowy moment that I knew wouldn't last forever. They're growing every day, and there's no telling how many more warm holiday moments we'll have before they begin to head off in their own direction and make their own memories.

I turned off the flash, deliberately soft-focused the image and crossed my fingers. The result takes me back to that one moment in time far more effectively than a technically-perfect yet emotionally-empty image would have.

Your turn: Please tell us about one picture that takes you back to one particular moment. If it's posted online, please paste a link here, too.