It has been a couple of weeks since my last post, and a few readers have asked what I’ve been up to.

The short answer is: quite a bit.

The slightly longer answer is that my equipment room is currently in a state best described as organized chaos. I’m reorganizing, downsizing, and trying to make better use of the space. Unfortunately, everything that has left the equipment room has somehow migrated into the studio, where it now waits patiently for me to make more decisions. The piles assure me there is a plan. I’m not entirely convinced.

At the same time, I’ve been revisiting the digitizing film articles I originally wrote years ago. What I thought would be a few updates turned into a much larger project. Every topic seems to lead to another topic, which leads to another photograph, which leads to another rewrite.

Part One has been revised and published. Part Two has grown far beyond what I originally intended. What began as a simple update to an article from 2020 turned into a complete reexamination of my digitizing workflow, covering everything from camera setup and sensor-to-film parallelism to focusing, exposure, stitching, and RAW capture. The text is complete and has been published, although a number of supporting illustrations still need to be photographed and added.

The challenge is not writing the article. The challenge is creating the photographs that accompany it. Many of the examples require a clean, organized studio workspace, and at the moment that space is still occupied by the contents of the equipment room. Before I can photograph the workflow, I first need to finish reorganizing the studio itself.

In an odd way, the article has become a motivation for the cleanup. The photographs cannot be made until the workspace is ready, and the workspace cannot be ready until the room is put back into order.

Part Three, the final installment, currently lives somewhere between my notebook and my head.

Perhaps the clearest sign that my little corner of the world is somewhat congested at the moment is that there is still an unfinished roll of film sitting in my Hasselblad A12. Anyone who knows me understands how unusual that is. Rolls of film normally move through my cameras much faster. This particular roll is intended for the next article in the FlexBody series, a camera I thoroughly enjoy using. The camera is ready. The film is ready. The photographer is ready.

The studio, however, has other ideas.

I did take a few days away from work and visited one of our favorite islands. The surprising thing is that I barely touched a camera. Instead, I spent my time reading, walking, sitting, and simply looking. The cameras remained in their bags while I enjoyed the luxury of observation without feeling the need to record everything.

Sometimes that’s exactly what is needed.

Looking for a little inspiration, I also spent time visiting a couple of my favorite photography forums. Between thoughtful discussions, gear conversations, and photographs shared by others, I managed to recover a small spark of wonder. Not a lightning strike. Just a flicker. But sometimes a flicker is enough.

I’ve come to realize that creativity rarely moves in a straight line. Sometimes it looks productive and purposeful. Other times it looks like an unfinished roll of film, a cluttered workspace, a notebook full of ideas, and a photograph that quietly catches your attention.

As I was writing this, it occurred to me that this month marks one year since losing my childhood best friend, Karen. Perhaps that’s part of why I’ve spent more time reading, reflecting, and simply looking instead of photographing. Some seasons call for observation more than action.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the photograph accompanying this post.

At first, I thought it was a metaphor for my life right now. A small building beneath a large tree. A little crowded. A little overwhelmed. Surrounded by unfinished projects competing for attention.

But the longer I looked at it, the less it felt like a metaphor and the more it felt like an observation.

The tree is doing what trees do.
The house is doing what houses do.
The breeze will arrive when it arrives.

It reminds me of my childhood backyard and the little treehouse where I spent so many afternoons reading books and daydreaming. Every now and then it needed cleaning. There was always some mess to sort through before the next adventure could begin.

What I remember most, though, is not the cleaning.

I remember sitting quietly.
Listening to the birds.
Feeling the breeze moving through the trees.
Watching the afternoon pass.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to see life as a train ride. The scenery changes. Some things remain only briefly. Others stay with us for years. None of it really belongs to us. We simply have the privilege of witnessing it as it passes by.

Perhaps that is why I have always loved photography. Not because it allows me to possess a moment, but because it allows me to pause and pay attention to one. A photograph is simply a small acknowledgment that, for an instant, something caught my eye as the train rolled by.

And there is something else I should say about my photographs. I have never thought of them as belonging to me. They belong to the journey itself, to a life spent looking out the window and paying attention to the passing scenery. They are simply small reminders of what I noticed along the way.

I think that’s where I am right now.

The equipment room will get organized.
The articles will get finished.
The FlexBody roll will eventually make its way through the A12.
And the train will keep moving.

Until then, I’m content to sit quietly for a few minutes, listen to the birds, enjoy the company of the cats, and wait for the breeze.