For most of my photographic life, I assumed that photography required three things: a camera, something worth photographing, and the ability to walk over to it. The first two have never been particularly difficult. The third has become a problem.
Arthritis has gradually made standing and walking increasingly difficult, and eventually I had to admit that my old method of photography—wander around until I find something interesting—was no longer a particularly practical business plan.
This came as something of a shock.
I had spent decades believing that photography was about movement. You found a subject, walked toward it, walked around it, crouched down, stood up, backed away, moved closer, changed lenses, changed your mind, and then walked another fifty yards because the light was better over there.
Apparently, I was using my legs as photographic equipment and didn’t even realize it. Now those particular pieces of equipment have become somewhat unreliable. My knees, in particular, have developed a disturbing relationship with gravity and have become increasingly reluctant to participate in the process.
Sitting down, however, works quite well. So I have adapted. I now do considerably more photography from a chair. This is not exactly how I imagined my photographic career would develop. When I was younger, I had visions of landscapes, distant places, interesting perspectives and long walks with a camera. I don’t remember ever dreaming about becoming the Ansel Adams of the recliner. But here we are.
The interesting thing is that once you can no longer walk around looking for photographs, you begin to look at the photographs that are already within reach. My backyard has become considerably more interesting.
Plants are particularly good subjects because they don’t require me to chase them. They stay where I put them—or, more accurately, where they decided to grow without consulting me. Flowers are even better. They don’t move, they don’t complain, and they don’t get impatient while I fiddle with the camera. They are, in other words, ideal photographic subjects for a disabled photographer.
Birds are another matter. Birds apparently regard my physical limitations as a personal challenge. They arrive when I’m not ready, turn their backs when I finally get the camera pointed at them, and leave precisely when I have achieved something resembling focus.
Food, on the other hand, is extremely cooperative. I’ve discovered that photographing dinner has several advantages. It doesn’t move, it’s already in the house, and when I’m finished photographing it I can eat it. I have therefore managed to turn what might once have been considered a questionable photographic subject into a completely rational activity. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I’ve also had to reconsider my equipment. When I was younger, I could carry a camera bag around without giving much thought to its weight. A couple of lenses, accessories, batteries and whatever else seemed necessary could go along for the ride. Now every additional ounce requires a justification. This was one of the reasons I eventually moved toward lighter equipment and bought my Fujifilm X-T5. I’m not simply interested in having a newer camera. I’m interested in having equipment that makes sense for the photographer I am now. That’s been one of the more difficult things to accept.
For a long time, I thought adapting meant trying to continue doing photography exactly as I had always done it, only with more difficulty. I’ve slowly realized that’s probably the wrong approach. I can’t always go to the photograph anymore. So the photograph has to come to me. That sounds philosophical, but sometimes it’s actually just practical. If I can’t walk across the yard to get a different angle, I have to think about the angle I can get from the chair. If I can’t crouch down comfortably, I have to find another way to photograph the subject. If I can’t wander around for an hour, I have to pay more attention during the fifteen or twenty minutes I can comfortably spend taking pictures.
And oddly enough, that has changed the way I look at things. When movement is no longer automatic, you start paying more attention to composition before you press the shutter. You look more carefully at backgrounds. You notice the direction of the light. You start thinking about whether you actually need to move—or whether you simply want to move because photographers have been trained to believe that moving around makes us look as though we know what we’re doing. It turns out that sometimes standing in one place and looking carefully is enough. Or, in my case, sitting in one place.
There are certainly things I miss. I miss being able to walk around freely with a camera. I miss exploring. I miss discovering a view because I happened to walk another hundred yards down a trail. I miss being able to get down low without having to consider whether getting back up is going to require outside assistance, a hydraulic lift or a small miracle.
But photography hasn’t disappeared. It has simply gotten smaller. My photographic world is now much closer to home. I photograph things that are accessible to me. I spend more time with plants, flowers, birds, food and the ordinary things around the house and yard. And perhaps there’s something useful in that.
For years, I was always looking for the next place to photograph. Now I’m increasingly interested in what I’ve been overlooking because it was too ordinary. The irony is that I spent decades traveling around looking for interesting photographs, only to eventually discover that there were plenty of them sitting right outside my door. Unfortunately, I was usually too busy walking somewhere else to notice. So I’ve had to change my expectations. A good day of photography doesn’t necessarily mean walking around for hours and coming home with hundreds of photographs. These days, it might mean sitting in a chair for half an hour, taking twenty photographs and discovering that two of them aren’t bad. I consider that a successful expedition. Sometimes I don’t even have to put on shoes.
There was a time when I would have thought that wasn’t really photography. I’ve changed my mind. Photography has always been about adapting to circumstances. The light changes. The weather changes. The subject changes. Technology changes. Apparently, the photographer changes, too.
My arthritis has taken away some of the physical freedom I once had with a camera. I don’t want to pretend otherwise. There are photographs I can no longer easily make and places I can no longer easily reach. But it has also forced me to slow down and look at the things that are still within reach. And there are quite a few of them.
So I’m still a photographer. I’m just a photographer with a much better understanding of the importance of a comfortable chair. And after thirty years of photography, I’ve finally discovered a piece of equipment I should have bought much earlier.