Photographic poetry

While browsing through my favorite photography website and its discussion boards, I happened upon a post by someone asking, "How did you get involved with photography?" Lots of responses...many people talked about their loved ones getting them involved, or having cameras from a very young age, or stumbling on it later in life. It was interesting to read, but my very favorite post came from a man named Luis, who talked about his father allowing him to use one of his old Leicas for the first time. I wanted to share what he wrote not just to share it, but to "capture" it myself so I can revisit it later without having to do crazy searches on the photography site. And maybe try to explain why I love photography so much.

When I was seven or eight years old, my father adjusted the neckstrap on his oldest Leica, set the exposure, and focus, showed me the vf and shutter release and I went along with him one afternoon. I don't even remember exactly what I shot, other than whenever he stopped to make an exposure, so did I. It was on a beach, along the shoreline... but I do remember how happy and honored I felt to be entrusted with one of his favorite things, and to get to photograph with him. It was a sunny day. I remember how heavy and shiny the Leica was, and feeling the mystery of a box that inhaled moments. The first and only soul the camera steals is the photographer's.

"...the mystery of a box that inhaled moments." Wow. That's poetry, right there.