Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Thinking small
I open my Facebook account and I was told that it’s my fault that the world is messed up. I was also informed that I must do something to save Mother Earth. I really want to, but saving a whole planet seems like a really, really tall order.
Just yesterday, I was also told that Mother Earth is at war… with me! Yup, me and my co-inhabitants on this giant orb, which as Sagan put it, is actually just a pale blue dot in the universe. I was also told that I am winning, but unfortunately, winning this war means losing it.
Ok, first of all, I did not consciously want to wage war against Mother Earth. It is not personally my fault that the specie I belong to is one that can never be satisfied, one that continues to imagine, explore, experiment, create, destroy and create again, and destroy again. It’s a vicious circle really. And we happen to exist here, on earth, on which we want to go as happy as we can. And to be happy we look at the things around us and see what we can do about it. We discovered fire and then we invented the wheel, so we can move bigger things faster. We invented tools so we can gather more food. We invented weapons so we can hunt more animals for meat, and to get rid of those who want to take our meat. At first we used found objects, like wood, and rocks. Then we discovered that some of the dirt on this planet contain stuff that can be turned into stronger materials for our tools and weapons and wheels. So we started digging for bronze, silver, gold. We were happy for a while but not for long, since as I said, we never satisfied, never content. Never truly happy. We had our floating devices that brought us across waters from one land mass to another, and later we learned that we can actually put ourselves on top of those wheels, and travel faster on land. We went farther, saw more and wanted more. More food to gather, more animals to hunt.
To make a very long story short, here we are today, using fossil fuels that take millions of year to form, fuels that when burned, produce greenhouse gasses that can result in the end of life the way we know it. The end of life itself, even. We didn’t see that coming, did we?
So go save the earth. Who me? I can’t do that, I’m no Superman. Even Superman himself can only save some people sometimes, but he couldn’t save all the people all the time. That, maybe I could do.
So don’t tell me to replenish the earth’s denuded forests and stop global warming and. I can’t do that. I can plant a few seedlings in my backyard, or if I don’t have one, any open space where a tree can grow freely, that I can do. Don’t tell me to stop polluting the earth, I can’t do that. But I can try to reduce the garbage I produce, reuse and recycle some of it as much as I can, that I can do. Don’t tell me to stop poisoning the earth’s rivers and lakes and oceans, I can’t do that. But I can try to minimize the use of harmful chemicals at home, try to minimize the poison that flows down my kitchen sink knowing that this will eventually find its way into the nearest river, and that river flows into the ocean. I can’t de-clog the world waterways of garbage, but I can make sure the canal in front of my house is clean. Don’t tell me to stop putting greenhouse gasses into the atmosphere, I can’t do that. But I can make sure that if I use of one of those things that run on wheels, it’s powered by my own body. And if I really have to use one of those that require fossil fuels to run, I’ll make sure that the vehicle emits as little of those gasses as much as possible by having that engine is always at its best possible condition at all times. And I’ll walk more.
There are times when looking at the bigger picture helps. Other times, it’s just much better to focus on small, practical, doable realistic things.
Afterall, though what I can do on my own may not be much, but the last time I checked, there’s close to 7 billion who are just like me on this earth. That’s a lot of small things that if put together, may just be big enough to matter.
Just yesterday, I was also told that Mother Earth is at war… with me! Yup, me and my co-inhabitants on this giant orb, which as Sagan put it, is actually just a pale blue dot in the universe. I was also told that I am winning, but unfortunately, winning this war means losing it.
Ok, first of all, I did not consciously want to wage war against Mother Earth. It is not personally my fault that the specie I belong to is one that can never be satisfied, one that continues to imagine, explore, experiment, create, destroy and create again, and destroy again. It’s a vicious circle really. And we happen to exist here, on earth, on which we want to go as happy as we can. And to be happy we look at the things around us and see what we can do about it. We discovered fire and then we invented the wheel, so we can move bigger things faster. We invented tools so we can gather more food. We invented weapons so we can hunt more animals for meat, and to get rid of those who want to take our meat. At first we used found objects, like wood, and rocks. Then we discovered that some of the dirt on this planet contain stuff that can be turned into stronger materials for our tools and weapons and wheels. So we started digging for bronze, silver, gold. We were happy for a while but not for long, since as I said, we never satisfied, never content. Never truly happy. We had our floating devices that brought us across waters from one land mass to another, and later we learned that we can actually put ourselves on top of those wheels, and travel faster on land. We went farther, saw more and wanted more. More food to gather, more animals to hunt.
To make a very long story short, here we are today, using fossil fuels that take millions of year to form, fuels that when burned, produce greenhouse gasses that can result in the end of life the way we know it. The end of life itself, even. We didn’t see that coming, did we?
So go save the earth. Who me? I can’t do that, I’m no Superman. Even Superman himself can only save some people sometimes, but he couldn’t save all the people all the time. That, maybe I could do.
So don’t tell me to replenish the earth’s denuded forests and stop global warming and. I can’t do that. I can plant a few seedlings in my backyard, or if I don’t have one, any open space where a tree can grow freely, that I can do. Don’t tell me to stop polluting the earth, I can’t do that. But I can try to reduce the garbage I produce, reuse and recycle some of it as much as I can, that I can do. Don’t tell me to stop poisoning the earth’s rivers and lakes and oceans, I can’t do that. But I can try to minimize the use of harmful chemicals at home, try to minimize the poison that flows down my kitchen sink knowing that this will eventually find its way into the nearest river, and that river flows into the ocean. I can’t de-clog the world waterways of garbage, but I can make sure the canal in front of my house is clean. Don’t tell me to stop putting greenhouse gasses into the atmosphere, I can’t do that. But I can make sure that if I use of one of those things that run on wheels, it’s powered by my own body. And if I really have to use one of those that require fossil fuels to run, I’ll make sure that the vehicle emits as little of those gasses as much as possible by having that engine is always at its best possible condition at all times. And I’ll walk more.
There are times when looking at the bigger picture helps. Other times, it’s just much better to focus on small, practical, doable realistic things.
Afterall, though what I can do on my own may not be much, but the last time I checked, there’s close to 7 billion who are just like me on this earth. That’s a lot of small things that if put together, may just be big enough to matter.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
In Baguio, when it rains
We just had our first typhoon, and I’m very thankful that PAGASA got it wrong again – what they forecasted as a typhoon that would hit Baguio directly only brought about moderate winds and gray skies for a day, it was actually nice.
While known as the Summer Capital of the Philippines – originally literally when the American colonial government declared this highland paradise as the official seat of government of the country during the dry season, I have always loved Baguio even more during the rainy season. Having less tourists during that time may be one of the reasons for that.
Now as in when I was growing up, summer for our family meant the going to the beach, so way before I chose Baguio to be my home, my mother would bring me with her on her numerous trips to visit friends here usually during the rainy season. We used to take the Pantranco bus from Quezon Avenue, I’d sleep off the first few hours of the journey and wake up just as the bus perilously starts to make its way up Kennon Road, I’d keep the window open to feel the gradual drop in the wind’s temperature as the bus climbs higher and higher.
Coming here then was like entering a theater to watch a play. Open house starts at the bottom of Kennon Road, with house music provided by the sound of the rushing Bued River. That music slowly fades out as curtain time nears – and you know that the magical Baguio experience is about to begin when the curtain of fog closes, gradually hiding everything from view. The lowland flora slowly exits the scene and a new cast of highland greenery takes its place, waiting in the wings behind the clouds to make their entrance. The air gets colder and everyone in the audience of tourists, students, Baguio folks on their way back home, change costumes – out come the thick jackets and sweaters and scarves and bonnets – back then it was cold enough to wear gloves or mittens.
And the performance begins – the curtains are drawn to reveal a majestic sight of towering pine trees, mossy rocks and thickly vegetated mountainsides. It is a multi-sensory experience – the wind chills and gently moistens the tip of your nose as you stick as much of yourself out the window to take in as much of the ongoing performance as you can, you take a deep breath and smell the unique scent of pine, and your eyes feast on the one of the most beautiful skylines you’ve ever seen. And it’s only the beginning.
A gentle drizzle would complete the overture as the bus enters the center of town. The bus slows down and even before it comes to a full stop people would be getting off their seats already, picking up their bags from underneath their seats or from the overhead luggage rack and start making their way down the aisle. You get off, and Act 1 of Baguio in the rain begins.
In Baguio when it rains, you don’t rush to hide from it like you do elsewhere. Here, you look up towards the heavens and take it all in, and it’s a wonderful feeling.
In Baguio when it rains, walking around Burnham Park is like being inside a watercolor painting where all the colors seem to feather into each other, flowers cross-fading into leaves into earth into people’s faces.
In Baguio when it rains, the lagoon across the Mansion House and the pine forest beside it are a Zen garden.
In Baguio when it rains, artists gather for an exhibit opening and later around the fire to make music; around a table for a warm drink; every establishment along Session Road provides a welcoming, warm sanctuary; the cold brings people closer together.
In Baguio when it rains, you breathe out and make a cloud.
In Baguio when it rains, at night, the lights of the houses in the distant mountains are like fireflies.
In Baguio when it rains, at night when you call it a day, the mountains sing you a lullaby and beginning with your toes and the tips of your fingers, numbs you to sleep, a welcome intermission.
In Baguio when it rains, the next morning when you wake, the sun comes out and the world is young again.So one rainy day more than a decade ago, I decided to never be elsewhere again but here, in Baguio, when it rains.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Palengke
I usually start at the fish section, the Baguio Public Market isn’t exactly as organized as a boring supermarket – though there’s only one area where they sell coffee, the other sections recur in different places.
“Tatlong lingo ka nang hindi nag-uulam ng tilapia,” my suki scolds me at the top of her voice when she saw me approaching from a good 50 meters away. I didn’t plan to buy tilapia that day, but to appease her, I get a kilo. Her sister in the next stall silently smiles at me – from her I buy three pieces of boneless bangus. I call them Ms. Tilapia and Ms. Bangus. “Ang galing talaga ng mga taga-Baguio, ‘no?” I raise both eyebrows, not exactly knowing what she’s talking about. “Biro mo, tatlong taga-Baguio ang nakapasok sa Pilipinas Got Talent.” Ahhh, ok. I smile and agree with her. “Mabait na bata ‘yang si Karen,” she continued, “bata pa lang ‘yan kilala ko na ‘yan. Kapitbahay kasi namin sila sa Quezon Hill.” I paid for both the tilapia and the bangus, and I turned to go. “O, baka tatlong lingo na naman bago ka bumili ulit sa’kin!” Ms. Tilapia chided me. I smiled at her and, “Malamang,” I said.
Behind them is where I get other varieties of fish – tuna, blue marlin, maya-maya. Today’s batch didn’t really look fresh, so I moved on to where I get my chicken where I picked a whole chicken big enough to feed all five of us at home but not too big to fit in our rotisserie. I get another kilo of leg quarters for adobo too. “Hindi ka ba kukuha ng liver?” Why not, so I told her to give me a quarter of a kilo, and politely told the little boy offering big plastic bags to put all my purchases in that no, thank you, not today, I have my bayong.
I walk past the first vegetable section, I prefer buying my greens from the hangar vegetable section. But I do stop by “GrandFa’s” for a few blocks of freshly made tofu.
Just a few paces further, I buy a bunch of bananas and some avocado and along that same row, I get my ingredients for laing – dried gabi leaves, stalks, and a bag of niyog. I smelled basil while waiting for the guy to finish grating the coconut, just behind me was lady with whole sack of basil leaves. P40 per kilo, that’s whole lot of pesto!
At the coffee place, I placed my usual order of half a kilo of Benguet coffee, fine ground. I also got a bag of muscovado. While waiting for them to finish grinding the coffee, the coffee lady asked me to come closer, and amidst the din of roasted coffee beans being pulverized in an industrial coffee grinder, she said, “Huwag kang titingin kaagad, pero ingatan mo ‘yung wallet at cellphone mo, kanina ka pa minamanmanan nung dalawang lalake doon sa kanto.” Discreetly, I turned to look and true enough, there they were, I looked them in the eye, and they immediately turned around and pretended to look at the merchandise right behind them. I stuffed my wallet in my front pocket and moved on.
Ice lettuce, regular lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes, potatoes, onions and garlic, some carrots and broccoli and a bag of shitake mushrooms. My bayong was almost full already, and much heavier. Time to check out the ukay-ukay at Hilltop. There were bags, shoes, pants laid out on the road – ladies’ leather boots in good condition selling for P50.00. I wasn’t sure if they’re my wife’s size, but I get them anyway. If they don’t fit her, then we can give the boots as a gift to a friend. Cleats for the boys, football jerseys for the girls. That’s enough for now. I buy a couple of strips of rubber for the leak in our pipeline.
I walk down to where I started – just above the fish section is where I get my meats - I get some porkchops, some ground beef to go with the 3 kilos of tomatoes I got (atP10.00 per kilo!) for the pasta sauce I wanted that night, and some beef for nilaga (and asked the butcher for a few extra slabs of fat, which he gives to me for free).
Last stop, a bouquet of rosal for the bathroom and newspaper. There’s a long line at the jeepney stop, but in just five minutes I was already seated inside a San Luis jeep, reading the day’s headlines on my way home.
The Baguio City Public Market, one of Baguio’s treasures.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Who do you think you are?
And that, for me, is the most important lesson one needs to learn in theater. That, for me, is the one question an actor needs to answer to become an actor, and to become the actor who can become whomever and whatever he wants to be. For we are whom we think we are – think it and believe it, that’s what it’s all about. You believe and we shall believe you. Think and believe that you have the courage, wit, talent, an unsullied sense of honor, unbending principles, a strong sense of justice and a ridiculously large protuberance for a nose, and you are Cyrano de Bergerac, we believe. Think and believe that you are being unjustly persecuted, that you are stripped of your right to love and be loved, and you are Serapio, we believe. Think and believe that you have the right to have what you want, no matter what, even if you hurt people along the way, even if you completely destroy those who get in your way, you are Machiavelli’s Callimaco, we believe, whether you are on stage or out in the streets.
Think and believe that there’s nothing you can do, and there’s nothing you can do. Think and believe that you can save the world and we shall get out of your way to give you that chance. Believe that the world can step on you and crush you and destroy you, and the world will do just that.
You may be in the grandest theater production of the decade, or in some obscure amateur stage presentation, it doesn’t matter, that production becomes what you think it is and in it you become what you think you are. Think it’s obscure and that’s what it is, think the world of it, and it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever done in your life. Imagine being able to do the greatest thing you’ve ever done in your life every single time you do anything at all – it’s a great feeling.
Thin
k and believe it’s one of those mere opportunities for some extra money, when we go to your opening night, that’s exactly what we’ll see. You think, therefore you are, and believe it. And that conviction is the spark that lights up the passion inside of you, whatever your dreams and aspirations. And that, for me, is the greatest thing that can be gained from being in the theater – the passion. Not the promise of fame nor fortune, not even the realization of that promise. And whether you spend the rest of your life telling stories onstage or turn your back on that life and move on, that passion will keep burning inside of you. That passion is what will help make you the best English tutor your Korean students ever had; the most sincerely helpful call center agent that client ever communicated with; the most caring nurse that patient ever met.
k and believe it’s one of those mere opportunities for some extra money, when we go to your opening night, that’s exactly what we’ll see. You think, therefore you are, and believe it. And that conviction is the spark that lights up the passion inside of you, whatever your dreams and aspirations. And that, for me, is the greatest thing that can be gained from being in the theater – the passion. Not the promise of fame nor fortune, not even the realization of that promise. And whether you spend the rest of your life telling stories onstage or turn your back on that life and move on, that passion will keep burning inside of you. That passion is what will help make you the best English tutor your Korean students ever had; the most sincerely helpful call center agent that client ever communicated with; the most caring nurse that patient ever met. You will always find satisfaction and a sense of fulfillment, of accomplishment, in whatever you do when you have that passion. And you are passionate because you thought it and believed it. Because if you didn’t, pity you for you are not really alive.
The 6th definition in the dictionary tells us that passion is “a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything…” I don’t even think that is enough to describe it. The 10th says, “the state of being acted upon or affected by something external, esp. something alien to one's nature or one's customary behavior…” I don’t even think that’s really accurate – it is not something external, it is really internal, though it is true that it may just really be something that is alien to your customary behavior. Customary is habitual, the usual, the way things have been and are expected to be done. Mediocre. If we all of us succumbed to the customary, the habitual, the MEDIOCRE, then the human race would have ceased to exist long ago. But time and time again, there has always been the one person who thought and believed that he can make fire, and he did; who thought and believed that he can change the world with just a simple round object called a wheel, and he did; and the ultimate act of passion – that One who thought, believed that He can and will save our souls by the dying on the cross, and He did.
So who do you think you are?
Sunday, June 27, 2010
We lost, baby
Since it started way past my daughter’s usual bedtime, she couldn’t keep her eyes open and she fell asleep about ten minutes into the game. That’s why she missed Slovakia’s first goal against Italy in last Thursday’s do-or-die match. The Italians played like amateurs the rest of the first half – no rhythm, no organization, it’s as if there were only 11 individual players and no team playing against the Slovakian Team. At halftime, after posting my disappointment and frustrations on both my Twitter and Facebook accounts, I carried my sleeping daughter to her room so as not to get disturbed by the occasional bursts of verbal cheers and jeers from me and her mother. My latest online status update at that point: “I don’t think I can stand another 45 minutes of torture.” They’ve been to the World Cup finals 16 out of 18 times, have won the Cup 4 times, the last time just four years earlier, watching them fumble in the first 45 minutes was just heartbreaking. The score stood at one to nil, things can still get better in the second half.
And then Slovakia scored a second goal in the second half. I gave up on Italy at that point. But then, by some miracle, they slowly found their game and finally scored a goal – 2 to 1, the score now stood. It’s wasn’t over, after all. And then that brief flash of brilliance turned out to be a fluke for soon after, Slovakia upped their lead once again with a goal. With just around 10 minutes left in the game, the defending champions were behind by 2 goals. It was already clear in the minutes that followed that the Italians would be leaving South Africa sooner than the whole world expected. And despite scoring a second goal, the Slovaks simply had the win and the right to move on to the round of 16 within reach – all they needed to do in the dying minutes was make those minutes die as fast as possible.
And then the referee blew the final whistle. One of Italy’s younger players dropped to the ground and cried his heart out, and a veteran walked over pull him back to his feet. He put his arm around the young player as they walked out of the stadium – the young man would probably have another chance to be part of a champion team four years from now, while the veteran knew that this was his last World Cup. Italy was only of the so-called big teams who everyone thought had realistic chances of making it to the top in this World Cup to be booted out in the eliminations. France was also sent home early, no thanks to their players who thought that their personal issues and attitudes were bigger than their country’s aspiration.
The next day, the whole of Italy mourned their team’s loss. "It was the darkest and most terrible day in the history of Italian football," according to the editorial of Italian newspaper, La Gazzetta.
Here, most Filipinos were intoxicated by the Game & win by the L.A. Lakers over the Boston Celtics in the National Basketball Association finals, which, to rest of the world, seemed more like an unwelcome TV commercial in a month-long main feature. Most Filipinos, when asked why they’re not into football, would say that the sport is boring since most games don’t go beyond having 2 to 3 goals made, some even end in a tie at zero. Unlike basketball, they say, where you are treated to a goal – a dunk, a triple, a fade-away, an impossible lay-up - every 24 seconds. But that’s the beauty of football, it is so easy to play but not too easy to score. Each goal requires so much to make – strategy, skill, stamina, speed, cunning, anticipation, improvisation – that not one involved takes it for granted. Not the players, not the coach, not even the people in the stands. And when a goal is finally made, unlike in basketball where you’re bombarded with anywhere between 40-60 goals in a game but hardly remember any one particular shot after, a soccer goal can stay in your head forever. It can push you into extreme sadness or elation, depression or excitement, depending on who kicked that ball in between those posts, every time the image of it pops into your head, hours, days, weeks, months or even years after it happened.
As my wife said our goodnights to the children, our daughter woke up as her mother tucked her in tighter under the blanket in her bed. “Who won?” she asked. “We lost, baby,” her mother said. Almost the whole family chose Italy as their top team in this World Cup (Our eldest chose England instead). She started crying that we decided that for that night, she could sleep with us in our bed.
I wonder how it would be like when the time comes when our own country would finally make it to the World Cup, and we’re actually rooting for our very own team? But that would take a while yet. See, we’re too busy waiting for Darwin’s law of natural selection to be repealed so that Filipinos would be genetically competitive in basketball, that we fail to realize that there is this one sport where we can actually really excel. Because in football, height doesn’t really matter, much less skin color. Its number one requirement is heart. And we’ve got plenty of that.
And then Slovakia scored a second goal in the second half. I gave up on Italy at that point. But then, by some miracle, they slowly found their game and finally scored a goal – 2 to 1, the score now stood. It’s wasn’t over, after all. And then that brief flash of brilliance turned out to be a fluke for soon after, Slovakia upped their lead once again with a goal. With just around 10 minutes left in the game, the defending champions were behind by 2 goals. It was already clear in the minutes that followed that the Italians would be leaving South Africa sooner than the whole world expected. And despite scoring a second goal, the Slovaks simply had the win and the right to move on to the round of 16 within reach – all they needed to do in the dying minutes was make those minutes die as fast as possible.
And then the referee blew the final whistle. One of Italy’s younger players dropped to the ground and cried his heart out, and a veteran walked over pull him back to his feet. He put his arm around the young player as they walked out of the stadium – the young man would probably have another chance to be part of a champion team four years from now, while the veteran knew that this was his last World Cup. Italy was only of the so-called big teams who everyone thought had realistic chances of making it to the top in this World Cup to be booted out in the eliminations. France was also sent home early, no thanks to their players who thought that their personal issues and attitudes were bigger than their country’s aspiration.
The next day, the whole of Italy mourned their team’s loss. "It was the darkest and most terrible day in the history of Italian football," according to the editorial of Italian newspaper, La Gazzetta.
Here, most Filipinos were intoxicated by the Game & win by the L.A. Lakers over the Boston Celtics in the National Basketball Association finals, which, to rest of the world, seemed more like an unwelcome TV commercial in a month-long main feature. Most Filipinos, when asked why they’re not into football, would say that the sport is boring since most games don’t go beyond having 2 to 3 goals made, some even end in a tie at zero. Unlike basketball, they say, where you are treated to a goal – a dunk, a triple, a fade-away, an impossible lay-up - every 24 seconds. But that’s the beauty of football, it is so easy to play but not too easy to score. Each goal requires so much to make – strategy, skill, stamina, speed, cunning, anticipation, improvisation – that not one involved takes it for granted. Not the players, not the coach, not even the people in the stands. And when a goal is finally made, unlike in basketball where you’re bombarded with anywhere between 40-60 goals in a game but hardly remember any one particular shot after, a soccer goal can stay in your head forever. It can push you into extreme sadness or elation, depression or excitement, depending on who kicked that ball in between those posts, every time the image of it pops into your head, hours, days, weeks, months or even years after it happened.
As my wife said our goodnights to the children, our daughter woke up as her mother tucked her in tighter under the blanket in her bed. “Who won?” she asked. “We lost, baby,” her mother said. Almost the whole family chose Italy as their top team in this World Cup (Our eldest chose England instead). She started crying that we decided that for that night, she could sleep with us in our bed.
I wonder how it would be like when the time comes when our own country would finally make it to the World Cup, and we’re actually rooting for our very own team? But that would take a while yet. See, we’re too busy waiting for Darwin’s law of natural selection to be repealed so that Filipinos would be genetically competitive in basketball, that we fail to realize that there is this one sport where we can actually really excel. Because in football, height doesn’t really matter, much less skin color. Its number one requirement is heart. And we’ve got plenty of that.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Overexposure
“If everybody knows everything, then nothing means anything. Everything’s a cliché. That’s why a stopped making art,” the “Artist” laments in Eric Bogosian’s performance-art piece, “Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll.”
In this digital age where everybody has access to perhaps all the knowledge the human race has accumulated, digitally stored as a series of ones and zeroes on hard drives and scattered out there all over the world wide web, everybody seems to know everything, or at least a lot of us act like we do.
In the realm of art, what does this mean?
The digital revolution has greatly affected one form of expression in particular – photography. Once the exclusive domain of those who have got the so-called “eye” and have access to the proper equipment, is now an open arena with everyone who has access to anything that can freeze life on frames at four megapixels or higher become self-proclaimed “photographers.” Well, it does literally mean someone who photographs, and since digital single lens reflex cameras have become cheaper, and since for peanuts any China-made phone now comes with a high-resolution camera, more and more people have become photographers. On the one hand, there’s a lot of good in this. Since there are a lot more people peering behind viewfinders and clicking away, more of life’s moments are captured, saved, printed or at least uploaded online for anyone to experience. No need to worry about the cost of film, developing the film, and printing the photographs. Flash, or SD or CF cards that can store thousands and thousands of high-resolution images have become cheaper.
In the early days of digital photography, it seemed like the new medium will take a while to replace film, it remained as toys to be played with by hobbyists and not serious pieces of equipment for professional practitioners. A couple of years later, as digital storage became more and more efficient with larger data being accommodated in much smaller gadgets, the digital format slowly caught up. But large format film made its last stand for a while since 6,7, or even 8-megapixel digital cameras still couldn’t match the quality of images taken with a large format film camera. And then in the blink of an eye, digital photography breached the 10-megapixel mark and has now all but totally doomed the film format to near-extinction.
Back in the days of film photography, photographers, seasoned and neophytes alike, composed each frame more meticulously, much more carefully, for in a regular roll of 35mm film, you only have 36 frames. And until you have that roll developed and printed, you don’t know if you had that picture right, and so you carefully measure the light and adjust aperture and shutter speed more cautiously. Now? Your CF card can hold thousands of high-resolution images, so you click away – and immediately, it’s there on that tiny frame behind your camera called the LCD screen, so you know if you took a good picture or not, and you instantly make the necessary adjustments until you get it right. It’s so easy it starts being taken for granted.
And now, everybody’s a photographer. And in the world of professional photography, one downside to this is, as the law of supply and demand dictates, when supply outnumber demand, the value of goods go down. It is almost impossible these days to make a living being a professional photographer. There’s just too many of them out there competing for a slice of that limited pie. Clients these days don’t go searching for the best photographer, faced with a smorgasbord of clickers, they now search for the lowest bidder. The competition gets tougher, and just like when all those shawarma joints started sprouting all over the country, each one lowered its price to attract more customers and eventually, they drove each other out of business. That’s almost what is happening now – photographers can hardly make a living out of their craft, there’s just too many of them out there, good ones, bad ones, real ones and wannabes and the sad thing is, people can hardly tell the difference.
And the other downside: just like most mass-produced thingamajigs, quality suffers. And there you have it: more and more photographers and photographs but less and less worthwhile photographers and photographs. There’s so many of them they start being taken for granted. And that’s the worst of it all – being taken for granted.
As a quote from that Disney flick, The Incredibles, goes: “and when everybody’s special? Guess what, nobody really is.”
And when everybody’s an artist? Guess what, nobody really is.
“And that’s why I stopped making art,” as one of the characters in Eric Bogosian’s play said.
In this digital age where everybody has access to perhaps all the knowledge the human race has accumulated, digitally stored as a series of ones and zeroes on hard drives and scattered out there all over the world wide web, everybody seems to know everything, or at least a lot of us act like we do.
In the realm of art, what does this mean?
The digital revolution has greatly affected one form of expression in particular – photography. Once the exclusive domain of those who have got the so-called “eye” and have access to the proper equipment, is now an open arena with everyone who has access to anything that can freeze life on frames at four megapixels or higher become self-proclaimed “photographers.” Well, it does literally mean someone who photographs, and since digital single lens reflex cameras have become cheaper, and since for peanuts any China-made phone now comes with a high-resolution camera, more and more people have become photographers. On the one hand, there’s a lot of good in this. Since there are a lot more people peering behind viewfinders and clicking away, more of life’s moments are captured, saved, printed or at least uploaded online for anyone to experience. No need to worry about the cost of film, developing the film, and printing the photographs. Flash, or SD or CF cards that can store thousands and thousands of high-resolution images have become cheaper.
In the early days of digital photography, it seemed like the new medium will take a while to replace film, it remained as toys to be played with by hobbyists and not serious pieces of equipment for professional practitioners. A couple of years later, as digital storage became more and more efficient with larger data being accommodated in much smaller gadgets, the digital format slowly caught up. But large format film made its last stand for a while since 6,7, or even 8-megapixel digital cameras still couldn’t match the quality of images taken with a large format film camera. And then in the blink of an eye, digital photography breached the 10-megapixel mark and has now all but totally doomed the film format to near-extinction.
Back in the days of film photography, photographers, seasoned and neophytes alike, composed each frame more meticulously, much more carefully, for in a regular roll of 35mm film, you only have 36 frames. And until you have that roll developed and printed, you don’t know if you had that picture right, and so you carefully measure the light and adjust aperture and shutter speed more cautiously. Now? Your CF card can hold thousands of high-resolution images, so you click away – and immediately, it’s there on that tiny frame behind your camera called the LCD screen, so you know if you took a good picture or not, and you instantly make the necessary adjustments until you get it right. It’s so easy it starts being taken for granted.
And now, everybody’s a photographer. And in the world of professional photography, one downside to this is, as the law of supply and demand dictates, when supply outnumber demand, the value of goods go down. It is almost impossible these days to make a living being a professional photographer. There’s just too many of them out there competing for a slice of that limited pie. Clients these days don’t go searching for the best photographer, faced with a smorgasbord of clickers, they now search for the lowest bidder. The competition gets tougher, and just like when all those shawarma joints started sprouting all over the country, each one lowered its price to attract more customers and eventually, they drove each other out of business. That’s almost what is happening now – photographers can hardly make a living out of their craft, there’s just too many of them out there, good ones, bad ones, real ones and wannabes and the sad thing is, people can hardly tell the difference.
And the other downside: just like most mass-produced thingamajigs, quality suffers. And there you have it: more and more photographers and photographs but less and less worthwhile photographers and photographs. There’s so many of them they start being taken for granted. And that’s the worst of it all – being taken for granted.
As a quote from that Disney flick, The Incredibles, goes: “and when everybody’s special? Guess what, nobody really is.”
And when everybody’s an artist? Guess what, nobody really is.
“And that’s why I stopped making art,” as one of the characters in Eric Bogosian’s play said.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)