I should be studying for my math test tomorrow or getting ready to go to class but instead I’m sitting here looking at pictures and sulking. I’ve known this for a while but it just hit me like a ton of bricks…..my mojo is gone.
I used to be a pretty good travel photographer. I’d spend time planning shots, waiting for the right moment, testing exposures, etc before I executed the shot. I was good, not the best, but I was good. Then I decided to try to make a living doing what I loved, photography, and went into wedding photography. It took some practice, guidance and a lot of second shooting but I was good at wedding photography too. Not the best, but I was good. Then I moved back to the US and left the business and the weddings behind.
I didn’t shoot anything other than bad food pictures for a long time. I always thought that when I had a baby I’d have a camera attached to my hand most of the time and that I’d take beautiful pictures of him pretty much on a weekly basis. Then I had said baby and I couldn’t have been more wrong. Looking back at the pictures I did take I realize I have nothing but bad, bad snapshots. They are pictures I’m ashamed to call my own. I have no beautiful portraits of my child and it bothers me to no end. Even the professional pictures I paid for, which I could have done much better if I had applied myself, are disappointing.
I am heartbroken, I can’t have all those beautiful moments with my baby again. I can’t turn back time and do things differently. I will never ever have the opportunity to photograph my baby the way I always envisioned. I had the opportunity and let it slip through my fingers.
I cannot remember the last time I picked up a camera and took a picture that took my breath away. I try, especially with my food blogging, but I am unable to get past the mediocrity that has taken over me. I no longer even had the desire to go out and shoot. Why bother? It will be bad anyway. All of my photo gear sits in a closet probably never to be used again. Lights, lenses, filters, cameras, all witnesses to the distant memory of the thing I called my passion. All reminding me that I am not, and will probably never be, even the shadow of what I used to be.