Some things are too beautiful and too profound, even for photography.
To be clear, this photo was not taken at the Ojibwé wedding described below. This image was made at a pow wow in Red Wing, Minnesota, in 2015.
The greatest objection I have to photography is that. Here I am, trying to live a full, rich life. I seek out beautiful things. I pursue events and sights that are TRUE and real. As an artist, I want to experience my world, process it, and share it again with my community, through this medium “photography.” The “study of light.”
So just when I enter the presence of sublime awesomeness, I reach down, unzip my bag, and pull out my camera. I say, this moment is SO special, I am going to preserve it for later, to share it with others. And in doing so, I miss the actual moment.
A long while back I had the task and privilege of photographing a Native American wedding ceremony. (I gave the rolls of film to the couple, and so do not have negatives or prints).
The Ojibwé ceremony was special for me because it was the only one I’d ever attended. Attire was casual for guests, natural for bride, groom, and wedding party. Cotton, buckskin, beads. The setting was a warm summer evening, above a waterfall, beneath a canopy of oak trees with long, strong arms. I moved down my shot list, with a few pauses for the prayers—those moments that you don’t want to be the guy moving, clicking, taking. I want to show respect while getting my job done.
Shortly after the ceremony, the elders brought out the drum. It was a dance drum, or powwow drum. Three feet in diameter, facing up. Room for seven men to sit around it, each of them wielding a leather-knobbed drumstick. With one loud strike they began their song. It was a sound that could be felt, in the eardrums, but also on the chest, on your hair as it lay on your head. You could feel it on every inch of your skin. Then the singing, the chanting, in a language I don’t know, loud, penetrating, shocking. I think I looked normal, like I was functioning as expected. But my heart was out of its cage, completely taken by this sound. Something bigger was happening to me, so much more important than my job. There I was, taking photographs of a moment, a moment I could no longer see clearly, because my eyes were brimming with tears, and my conscience told me to put my camera down.
This might be the moment that defines me as unprofessional, or as a feeling human being. It was a chance to experience beauty, and not have that experience compromised by the speculative act of missing the present for the opportunity to experience it and share it later. There have been dozens or hundreds of similar moments since. Events that show up on contact sheets and computer screens, but convey only a fact about a moment in time. These photographs, be they ordinary or stunning, carry little of the light and sound and heart of what was, is, and will be. You know, and I know, there is no substitute for being there, awake and present. But we take these photos for their momentous nature. We send them to Grandma because she couldn’t be there, and she is so appreciative. We look at them later, and say “wasn’t that a day?”
Taken by my grandfather, Richard Hanger, of my parents, Marge and Jay, on their wedding day in 1958.
I will always get the shot(s), but I will also keep my heart open. Some things are too beautiful and too profound, even for photography.
I know, I'm contradicting myself, saying that some moments are too beautiful to be photographed, and then showing you examples of such moments. What can I say? It's complicated! This moment was the culmination of Amazing Grace, performed by a New Orleans jazz band. Whatever you think you see, and whatever you might feel, the moment was all that and more.
Ceci, the bride, the goddess.
What does ecstasy look like?
