Granddad's Camera

GRANDDAD’S CAMERA

“Excuse me, but I think I was here first.”

I looked at the young man who had just arrived and, without even asking, set up right beside me—all his gear cheek-by-jowl to mine And, he put his tripod leg in my shooting zone.

He looked up at me.

“What?” He looked confused.

I pointed to the ground where his tripod leg was directly under my camera. 

“Your leg is in my shooting zone.”

He looked down at his own, human legs.

“What” More confusion.

I tried not to purse my lips, and spoke slowly.

“Your tripod leg—” I pointed “—is in my shooting zone.”

He looked even more confused. “Your shooting zone?”

Was he being obtuse, or was he really that clueless, I wondered.

“Yes. The area underneath my camera, and between the legs of my tripod is considered my shooting zone.”

“Why?”

I couldn’t help it, I pursed. And put my hands on my hips, full on annoyed.

“Because if you, let’s say, knock over your tripod, then down go my tripod and camera. Or let’s say, you’re finished, and I’m still shooting, and you pull your gear up, and whack one of my tripod legs—at best, you ruin my shot. At worst, you knock over my set-up, and damage my equipment. And, this area—” I waved my hand around where my tripod legs were settled on the ground, “—is considered my personal photography space. Shooting etiquette says a photographer should never infringe on the shooting zone of another photographer.”

He looked from me to the overlapping legs, back to me.

“Huh,” he said, slowly nodding his head. “Makes sense.” He carefully moved his tripod away from mine. “Sorry. I hadn’t thought about that. I just figured that you knew something that I didn’t, so I wanted to see what you were seeing.”

I looked at him. He looked sincerely apologetic.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “I appreciate that you’re willing to move.”

“Yeah,” he said, awkwardly trying to fold up his gear. “I’m just new at this, so I didn’t realize that there was a ‘shooting zone’. I never would have set up if I’d known.”

“No problem,” I said, nodding. Then I looked at his equipment. It all looked gently loved, but not pristine. “So, when you say new, how new?”

He smiled. “This is actually my first venture into landscape photography, proper.” He held up his camera and lens, still attached to the tripod, towards me. “My granddad just passed, and he left me his photography equipment. He had been a working photographer for most of his life.”

I was intrigued.

“Would I have known your granddad’s work?” I asked.

He smiled. “Probably not. He worked for the police taking crime scene photos. And morgue photos.”

I laughed. “You’re right. Probably not.”

He stuck out his hand. “Connor Wells.”

I reciprocated. “Rachel Anders.”

We shook.

I looked at Connor. He was maybe in his early twenties. And he looked a bit lost. And sad.

“When Granddad wasn’t taking pics of car crashes, and murder scenes, he made photography a part of his ‘off-duty’ life. For the beauty, think. To balance out all the horrors he saw at work, he went to the natural world." He smiled. "When my mom was a kid, he’d pack up the family and head out camping so that they could be in nature. And he would take all his camera equipment, to try and capture the beauty of wild places. My mom told me about hiking with him up mountains and through forests in search of the perfect shot. She said she’d sit and watch him set up and carefully frame the photos. She said he was meticulous. At that time, he was using film, both at work and in his private life. He built a dark room in the basement of his house. She always believed that she was never as good a photographer as Granddad, but she was pretty good.”

“Your Granddad recently passed?” I asked.

He nodded. “He did. A couple of weeks ago.” He looked across the vista, towards the brightening horizon, heralding the sunrise we were both waiting for. “I went to live with Granddad when I was twelve. We were really close.”

I wanted to ask about why he had moved in with his granddad. Obviously, something had changed, and his parents thought living with Granddad was a better option, but right now was not the time to ask. The poor kid looked like he was ready to cry.

“Granddad was getting old and needed help, so after university, I moved in with him.” He paused. “The roles had reversed, and I was now the caretaker.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. He sounded like a wonderful man.” This sounded lame to me, but what else could I say?

Connor forced a smile, “Anyway, I’m on a quest.”

“A quest?” I asked, not knowing what to expect. Hopefully it was not a quest where he stole the equipment of retired school teacher photographers who were waiting in the dark for the sunrise on deserted overlooks.

Connor continued. “When Granddad was shooting—photos, not guns—he recorded the co-ordinates of where the photos were taken. In the last couple of months of his life, we went through all his photos. Granddad was old-school." He smiled at the memory. "He always printed all his photos, even when he moved from film to digital.” He pointed at a very expensive full-frame camera and lens perched on a top-of-the-line tripod. “Anyway, he selected his favourite shots—a total of two hundred and fifty three photos that he felt were his best. And, on the back of each photo he wrote the exact latitude and longitude coordinates, and the name of the place the photo was taken. He wanted me to recreate the originals.”

Connor put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out an old photo, and handed it to me.

“This was taken in 1973.”

I looked at the photo. It was, indeed, taken from the spot where we were currently set up. It was the same, but different. Fifty-one years had lapsed since the original had been taken, and the landscape had morphed.  Trees were bigger, there was a road in the distance that had not been there in 1973, and there were now wind turbines dotting the hills in the far upper-right corner, but it was definately the same scene. 

“This is the first photo that I’m trying to recreate,” he said looking towards the horizon. “That’s why I was set up so close to you.” He smiled, a bit embarrassed. “Apparently you have the same good eye that Granddad had, because you are in the exact same spot that he took this photo from.”

He pointed to the coordinates on the back of the photo, then to the GPS readings on his phone. He was right. I was standing exactly where his granddad had stood to photograph the sunrise over fifty years ago.

“You’re right!” I said, thinking about the serendipity of the moment. “Let’s swap places. So you can get your shot in exactly the same spot as your granddad.”

Connor flashed me his best smile.

Without knocking any tripods over, or dropping any cameras, we quickly swapped places. The sunrise was coming fast, and wouldn’t wait for us to set up. We had to be ready to go. We moved fast.

“Thank you,” he said once we were both reset, “it really means a lot to me to be able to be in the exact spot my Granddad stood, taking the same picture.”

“My pleasure,” I said, feeling all weepy. It was rare that I had met someone so emotionally invested in what they were doing. He certainly was on a quest, of the best kind. A quest born out of love and respect.

Connor shook his head, looking at his camera and tripod. “I usually just use my phone for photography. The cameras are so much better than they used to be. And easy.”

I nodded. Smart phones were overtaking the photography world. More and more people were abandoning traditional, bulky cameras, opting instead to use their smart phones. And doing amazing work, to boot! What was that saying—your best camera is the one you have with you? Millions and millions of people had high resolution phones right in their pockets. And Connor had the newest phone on the market, right there, in his hand.

“Why not just use your phone?” I asked, curious about his answer. His generation had had access to the best phone technology for most of their lives.

“Granddad left me his photography equipment, so I’m going to try and honour him by using the equipment that he loved.” He lovingly touched the top of the camera, lost in his memories. But he stopped, and shook his head, the smile leaving his face. “He taught me how to use this camera, and I thought I knew how. But every other time I used it before, he was standing right beside me, showing me how, or helping me when I wasn’t sure what aperture setting or ISO or shutter speed to use. Now, without him, I’m stuck.”

I felt my heart clutch. This boy was grieving.

“Okay,” I said, “what can I do to help?”