Getting Honest about Photography

I was walking through the old medina in Marrakech when I finally gave up on photography. This marketplace was packed with vendors waiting with heavy boredom in front of their shops and booths. Thousands of hookahs glinted what little sunlight slanted through the colorful fabric stretched overhead. Cheap metal rings, necklaces, and earrings lined the walls and glass cases. Young boys said hello and asked me into one shop after another. Men played their flutes and banged basket lids to charm thick cobras three at a time in the big square. I was enthralled.

And I didn’t take a single photograph. I didn’t even think about it.

It didn’t help that it was hot and that I was coming down with the worst sniffles I’ve ever had. I also made the mistake of packing my Macbook, iPad Pro, big digital camera, and two lenses for this trip without realizing I wouldn’t trust the little riads (basically, little hotels) enough to leave them in my room. My backpack cut into my shoulders deeply enough for my hands to start tingling. I had to stop every 15 minutes to rest and get the circulation going again. It was worth every minute I spent in that medina.

I didn’t realize until I returned to my riad that I hadn’t taken any photos. It simply didn’t occur to me at any given moment. Even if the impulse had struck me, I doubt that I would have bothered to take off my pack, pull out my camera, put my pack back on, lift that strap over my head, and hold the camera in my hand as I wandered through those winding little streets. I was in Morocco for ten days and only took out my expensive camera at one location: the partially excavated ruins of the ancient Roman city of Volubilis. It was even hotter than Marrakech, and my sniffles had gone from bad to much worse. I pulled out my camera and snapped fewer than a hundred photos in a few hours. Some of them were nice, but nothing I’m going to frame or go back to over and over.

I just don’t need to take pictures. I think that’s what it takes to be a photographer. Or at least to get good at it and love the process. I know what that feels like. The whole time I was in Morocco, all I could think about were the stories I was hearing, sharing, and experiencing. The sounds in the air were as rich and tantalizing as all the Moroccan dishes I tried. I wanted to record. And I wanted to write. Those impulses were with me the entire trip. I was so overwhelmed and overbooked that I spent any extra time I had trying to get some rest and battle that nasty cold. It’s been so satisfying to have the chance to write and talk about the trip since returning home. I sold my camera and lenses almost immediately after getting settled in.

It’s not like I didn’t take any pictures, though. I took plenty with my iPhone. I like those photos much better than the ones of Volubilis. They’re more spontaneous, unassuming, and earnest.

I’ve been relatively obsessed with cameras and lenses for the better part of fifteen years. I’ve spent a stupid amount of time and money buying and selling camera equipment. But the whole time, I couldn’t admit that I wasn’t actually passionate about pictures or the act of taking them. I thought that would grow if I stuck with it and had the right gear. I was wrong.