The Lens Through Which We See

The Lens Through Which We See

Somehow, standing on the edge of the cliff, I realized that holding a camera wasn't enough. The view was breathtaking, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting a hue that seemed almost unreal. But the person standing next to me, a weathered yet shimmering soul, showed me more than the sunset. He handed me a lens.

Our grip on art, on the world itself, can be fleeting. We are mere amateurs in a universe of untamed beauty. But with the right equipment—those metals and glass that can turn ordinary light into a captured, eternal moment—our perception can transcend. Lenses—they aren't merely tools. They are conduits of vision, sculptors of our reality. I often wonder how many of us find our true medium, the place where our skills melt into passion and drive us to mastery.

In the realm of lenses, there is the standard 35-80mm—like an old friend, familiar and reliable. Most of us start here. Every camera, even the pocket-sized wonders we carry like secret treasures, comes equipped with one. The manufacturers and their marketing schemes know this; they slip that standard lens in as part of the deal. But what lies beyond the standard? Is it distinction or simply an open field of dreams waiting for the right eyes?

This standard lens, it measures not just reach but the boundaries we impose on ourselves. Through its glass, the world inches close—flowers breathing softly, spider webs glistening with morning dew, the eyes of a child reflecting both hope and horror. Yet even as it brings what's near into sharp focus, it falters at a distance. The mountains miles away, the intricate dance of wildlife—they blur, shadows on the periphery of clarity.

But then there are the telephoto lenses. Take the 75-300mm, for instance—a beast in itself, not as gargantuan as others, but a formidable companion for the wanderer. The kind of lens that bridges the gap between human limitation and the vast expanse. It breaks the shackles of the 35mm, forces you to stabilize, catch your breath, and hold steady.

Stabilizers come into play here—a metaphor, perhaps, for the times we find ourselves shaking, on the verge of collapse. They steady us, allow the hands to be just steady enough to capture what might have been lost in a tremor. Photography accessories become not just aids in the craft but symbols of our struggle for control.

In another world, one where breadth takes precedence over depth, panoramic lenses reside. These lenses, they stretch the scene, enfold the whole scene in their embrace. Mountains, glaciers, moments too sweeping to fit into the confines of a small frame—they find solace here. The panoramic lens speaks to the heart of the beholder who can't settle for segmentation, who yearns to see the whole story laid out in one majestic sweep.

It's not just the icebergs, though—the literal ones or the metaphoric slivers of hidden largesse. It's about the understanding that expands with each lens we try. Amateurs or aspiring professionals—we are all seekers. Loneliness or failure, the journey or the destination—each shot carries a part of us, a fragment of our vision. And what we choose to capture with a tripod, with a telephoto lens, with a panoramic scope, or simply a standard 35mm lens, it all adds up to the mosaic of our lives.

Tripods—I find they represent the promise of stability. The simplicity within them whispers of a trust, a steady foundation that holds the camera, yes, but more so, holds the moment. These lightweight beings bear the weight of our expectations, our hopes for clarity and depth. Portraits or landscapes, they demand nothing but deliver support with unwavering grace.

Fundamentally, all mediums in photography require more than just top-tier equipment. They demand the essence of the photographer, the soul behind the lens. Skill, yes, but also an eye—an eye trained in both scars and stars, in tears and laughter. Lenses carve just a slice of the photographic realm. Studying the expansiveness of this art form, delving deep into each captured whisper of wind or the silent shout of a sunset—this is what enriches us.

In the dimly lit corner of a local photography shop or a cluttered second-hand store, answers lie waiting. The questions we hold about lenses, about life—they align in rows like vintage cameras on a shelf, waiting to be picked up, dusted off, and seen through. Illuminate and be illuminated.

Photography isn't about the lenses alone; it's about the story you tell through them. It's about where you decide to focus, and where you let the edges blur. It's about capturing moments the heart feels but words can't always find. As the sun sank below that cliff and I released the shutter, I realized sometimes, you need a new lens to see the beauty in your world, to see yourself.