When the Absence of Light Leads to a Full Heart

I live in a dark house. The central rooms remain shadowy throughout the year, and that absence of light is surprising on the brightest Southern California days. My guy turns on multiple switches while I’m still getting dressed in the mornings. He leaves dimmers at full to read on his cell or iPad. The brightness hurts my eyes, but I adjust about halfway into my first cup of coffee.

Some couples despair over one or the other being too hot or cold in bed. This light-thing is easier. As soon as my SO leaves for work, and before I go into my office, I turn the lights off and let a natural glow settle across the rooms. It’s easier to get to my writing, too, as long as I’m not distracted by lush patterns and reflections that emerge as the sun crests the hill to the east of us.

A bearded man reading alongside his iced tea in the New Orleans French Quarter

Focusing on capturing light has its rewards. Unexpected streaks of brightness that fall across a facade can pierce my heart. Light coming in from an unobstructed window has led me, more than once, to ask strangers if I might take their picture. In New Orleans, an older, gentle-faced man sat before a newspaper in the French Quarter cafe where I was having breakfast. As I stepped out of the ladies’ room, the contrast between the absence of light and the glow from the window was startling. It was impossible to ignore. I walked over, apologizing, and asked if I might take his picture. He smiled assent and in a luscious drawl, murmured, “Why, of course.” Then I pulled the lens close. He didn’t look up at the end of our short exchange, but I still love that picture.

On a farm north of Quebec, maple syrup giggles filled the room as farmer Jimmy, in broken English, explained how to make taffy on snow. It was late spring, and he’d brought a tub of pristine ice inside. Proud of his golden liquid, he lifted the pitcher to expertly pour thin lines on the ice and then stepped back as we rolled Popsicle sticks in the hardening goo. When I glanced up to the window, there was that shot through the heart. Jimmy spoke French, but I don’t – so I pantomimed a request, and he smiled. Dropping the camera to my chest, I put my hands on his shoulders and pivoted him to the light. He raised the pitcher of hot syrup. Only later did I realize that my companions were captured laughing in the background. I still smile when I see the shot. (Read more about my farm stay north of Quebec)

Jimmy Deschenes with a pitcher of maple syrup on his farm north of Quebec.

I’m not that technically adept, so my photos are mostly instinct and luck. Trust is there too, and I just go for it, stepping into situations I would be too shy to otherwise. The camera is a bulwark. Phones are a welcome way to connect with the world. The moment when I turn the screen to show my subjects the shot, and they smile at their image, is always a treasure. If they object, I honor that too, delete, and move on.

However, cell phones have made everyone more of a model. Unless you’re a three-year-old grandson who doesn’t quite understand the big deal. Mine has animated features that freeze in an open gaze when I stop him to take a quick shot, and I love that too. It’s a simple acquiescence, almost a question in his expression, that says, “I’m here. So what?”

You looking at me?!

Big cameras can turn subjects suspicious, so often I just work with my little rectangle. The automatic adjustments make it easier to shoot fast and without worrying about the absence of light. “Film is cheap,’ my SO reminds me. One of my favorite shots of him was captured after a summer hike near Mendocino. He was leaning on a small bridge railing, relaxed, tired, but, where he would often freeze a smile whenever I ask for a picture, he didn’t have time to pose. I said his name, he looked over, and the picture always warms my heart.

The Absence of Light Can Be a Capricious Partner

Light and motion are capricious partners. So many moments are lost as they pass by quickly. I’ll see something, and then it’s gone, like waking from a dream that evaporates the moment you open your eyes. Or else I’m lazy. There’s the shot, I tell myself, but I can’t be bothered to stop and take it. The opposite is true as well. I’ve gotten into trouble more than once for dipping into a storefront, stepping across a street, or stopping to lure a vendor into a thumbs-up with the universal signal, “OK?” While I’m distracted family has moved on, then have retraced steps to discover me, oblivious to their consternation. Usually, I have a plan to rejoin them but my diversions are not always so innocent. In Rio de Janeiro, I caught a one-line lecture as a woman passed me and whispered, “You might want to put that cell phone away.” I did.

Night falls in the Azores

There’s the glory and relief in bringing home memories as pictures or videos as well as seeing home with fresh eyes. Awhile ago I was leaving a business meeting on the waterfront in San Diego. While walking to my car, I passed the Tuna Harbor landing and was struck still. A shard of light had cracked through the cloudy sky, bounced off the water, and shot under the lip of the Midway ship, eliminating shadows in a startling way. The perspective drew me to stop on the sidewalk to click. The piece is a wonder to me still.

As much as I love words, the visual world nourishes me too. It always has, but now with the grace of a cell phone and a generous cloud subscription, the absence of light doesn’t slow me down. Motion has become easier to capture too, and short reels are a new storytelling fascination. I just have to settle into my workspace and make the time to share them, then punctuate them with captions. As a creative, I feel blessed to follow these interests. My house may be dark but life, and my heart, are bright.