Lessons learned from S., on the five-year anniversary of leaving the door open
I’m not just a girl with a camera. I’m the oldest of three girls, and my younger sister Katharine just had her first baby on Saturday, and my youngest sister Cara is getting married in July. And I’m turning thirty-five next month. I’m old enough to be Shane Lavalette’s mother. Okay, so I would’ve had to get pregnant in the ninth grade, and I wasn’t doing anything in the ninth grade that would’ve even come close to getting me knocked up, but still, it’s biologically possible.
It’s really easy, when you’re starting something in your thirties, to focus on the numbers. It’s really easy when “emerging photographers” are almost always defined as being under thirty (or under thirty-one), to think you’ve missed the boat. It’s really easy to feel like you’re in a race against time. To feel like you have to shove your work out there in the world now, fast, hurry up!
When my mind starts going into that dark place, S. will say or do something that makes me realize that age makes no difference. He is decades older than I am, and he is always learning, always growing, always trying new things. He’s more adventurous than I am, by far. He faces challenges head-on, never shrinking from them or questioning why. He sees life as a grand comedy, and even in the most difficult times, he finds the humor in it all. He is confident beyond my comprehension, without being remotely arrogant. He has read more than I’ll ever read. He understands music in a way that blows my mind. He’s all curiosity and enthusiasm and energy.
I used to think it would’ve been cool to know him when he was a kid, but it occurred to me recently that I already do—that the person he was when he walked down the street, to the corner of Sixth and Cochran in Los Angeles, reading his Big Little Books and chewing on licorice, the remainders of which he would wrap in wax paper and bury, leaving them like a treasure to be discovered anew the next afternoon, is the same person I know now, except instead of Big Little Books it’s Richard Price and Junot Díaz and Jhumpa Lahiri, and instead of licorice it’s coffee from Peet’s.
It’s really easy, when you’re starting something in your thirties, to focus on the numbers. And it’s really easy, when you have S. in your life, to let that all go.
It’s really easy, when you’re starting something in your thirties, to focus on the numbers. It’s really easy when “emerging photographers” are almost always defined as being under thirty (or under thirty-one), to think you’ve missed the boat. It’s really easy to feel like you’re in a race against time. To feel like you have to shove your work out there in the world now, fast, hurry up!
When my mind starts going into that dark place, S. will say or do something that makes me realize that age makes no difference. He is decades older than I am, and he is always learning, always growing, always trying new things. He’s more adventurous than I am, by far. He faces challenges head-on, never shrinking from them or questioning why. He sees life as a grand comedy, and even in the most difficult times, he finds the humor in it all. He is confident beyond my comprehension, without being remotely arrogant. He has read more than I’ll ever read. He understands music in a way that blows my mind. He’s all curiosity and enthusiasm and energy.
I used to think it would’ve been cool to know him when he was a kid, but it occurred to me recently that I already do—that the person he was when he walked down the street, to the corner of Sixth and Cochran in Los Angeles, reading his Big Little Books and chewing on licorice, the remainders of which he would wrap in wax paper and bury, leaving them like a treasure to be discovered anew the next afternoon, is the same person I know now, except instead of Big Little Books it’s Richard Price and Junot Díaz and Jhumpa Lahiri, and instead of licorice it’s coffee from Peet’s.
It’s really easy, when you’re starting something in your thirties, to focus on the numbers. And it’s really easy, when you have S. in your life, to let that all go.
Labels: age, books, family, Jhumpa Lahiri, Junot Díaz, Los Angeles, photographers, Richard Price, S., Shane Lavalette, writers
posted by Liz at 1:33 PM
11 Comments:
You are so fortunate to have a friend that offers wisdoms on so many levels for which you can use as your support system.... something most of us do not have....
one of your best posts yet!
Even better when that friend is your boyfriend. ;)
P.S. He'd laugh at the thought that he offers wisdom. But I appreciate the kind words from you all the same.
This definitely hits a nerve. I got serious about photography right around the time I turned 30. I'm always feeling a bit late to the party.
I've been telling myself lately that art is not a race, and the only person I need to worry about pleasing is myself. Hopefully if I say it enough, it will actually come true!
Dalton, it may be a race, but if you treat it like a marathon instead of a sprint, I think you'll end up okay in the end. That's what I keep telling myself, at least.
Thanks Liz for the inspirational post.
I started to concentrate seriously on my photography in my fifties, something I should have done long before (not that I regret my former career which opened so many horizons and took me to interesting places). I too feel the urgency to produce and be recognized... But then I tell myself that I am primarily doing it for me, and for those around me...
I am also lucky to have my own S. who fully supports me in what I want to do (...and she will also gladly carry my bags on some shoots).
Keep shooting!!! Keep posting!!!
I love this!
Well, My b-day is next week and I also have been thinking along those lines.
Your post was like balm to my soul--sounds dramatic, but it is true.
The kindness of strangers-- what a beautiful thing!
I felt that way at 19. At the time, I was surrounded by professional athletes who dreaded turning 30, because by then everything important and interesting in their lives would be over. In that company, it was incredibly demoralizing to be 19 already, un-famous, with no career focus yet.
My point in telling this is to point out that, in real life, 34 isn't particularly "old." I can think of lots of artists whose careers took off after 40. And you're already well on your way.
Thanks for this post, Liz. I've been enjoying your blog for a while now and find comfort in knowing that I'm not alone in my feelings of impatience. I tend to want everything to happen at once myself, and also feel that pressure of being in my 30s. It's nice to get some perspective, and to also know that I'm not the only one who goes through these moments of feeling like it's a race and a boat to catch, or miss. As always I appreciate your ability to be honest and open about your life as an artist.
Amen, sister. I turn 35 next month also, and this is my 4th year pursuing photography full time. It's SO hard not to compare yourself to your colleagues and judge your own success relative to those around you. I think the marathon metaphor is perfect: we're still just getting warmed up at this point.
Great post, Liz. I am in my late 30's and I began my photographic journey in my late 20's. Hang in there-- Keep shooting and keep blogging. Thanks for your honesty.
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