I had a nice comment today on something I uploaded last night. It was simple and it just said...
...I love how the photos seemingly tell a* story...
*well, a bit edited.
— by @juecoree
Although not news to me, I was still happy to find recognition of that aspect of photography in general and where it concerns my own efforts.
I've been working towards becoming a storyteller both in photography and otherwise. My first real photography job was as a trainee in a photo agency that sold journalistic photos to the newspapers.
But I've been on that path even before that.
And although I care about fine art photography as well, it is more often than not that I focus on the storytelling features of it, especially as of late.
Mastery is where we are able to combine the two. I don't think I always succeed in that. And I stopped caring about it so hard. It's "the joke"that is most important to me.
So, here's another short one...
The Beast Of Karkazan Hills
The last vestige of greed disappeared from the gunslinger's eyes when the ground shook beneath his feet. The Guardian Beast of the fabled Forty Cauldrons treasure was real. And awake.
A gust of wind and a swift shade made the gunslinger's reflexes act before his intent and faster than the blink of an eye he pivoted around, brought his legacy revolver out of its holster and fired from his hip in the direction of the motion.
Nothing to be seen there. The sound of the shell falling to the dusty surface of the hills echoed in his mind. The thunder of his shot had echoed as well and hundreds of jackdaws swarmed up from the unnatural looking pine trees nearby. Their voices suddenly fell silent as another tremor rippled.
'All right', the gunslinger muttered from the corner of his crooked mouth. 'You might be something but you've never met a gunslinger before, now, have ya?'
Then his gaze fell upon the other empty shells around. Most of them aged beyond reckoning .And he could reckon the age of empty shells with the precision of days and within the span of a dozen years.
The grass below the rusty shells was fresh, though. Unnatural. Like the pines trees at this altitude. He then saw his own empty shell turn to rust in a matter of seconds.
Something that was certainly huge just drew a breath behind him...
The gunslinger turned around and shot from his hip again. But there was nothing there.
By the time he saw the tiny red dot moving in a blur towards him, it was too late. Even for his reflexes.
What's the moral of the story? Don't shoot from the hip, metaphorically speaking, nor from the level of your face while standing upright, when you're shooting at something on ground level. Get down there. Get to your target's level for a better shot. In terms of perspective, that is.
Talking about photography here.
Peace and Golden Light!
Yours,
Manol
