WEEK FORTY-FIVE: KINDRED SOULS

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As the summer rolls on and I struggle to find photographic subject matter here in southern Appalachia, awash in green leaves, hazy blue skies and endless sunshine, I’ve apparently evolved.  I’m no longer trying to avoid the fishermen; in fact, I’m stalking them.  I watch them launch in the cool morning dampness from my perch in the shadows along the lakeshore.  I swat absently at the occasional gnat and consider that evolution.

I’m struck by the parallels between their sport and my photographic practice.  Fishing, they say, is all about patience.  But so is photography, I remind myself as I wait rather impatiently for the boat to move into that shaft of light and for the line to arc out over the water.  Hook the big one? Well, how about producing your masterpiece?  Revel in the silence?  Check. Mixture of art and craft, of skill and luck, of frustration and bliss? Check.  Obsession with gear? Check.  Up before the sun? Double-check.  Addictive? Most definitely.

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