When I shoot photos on walks with my husband, he’s often surprised by my results. He claims that we walked the same path, but I brought back details he didn’t see.

In both photography and storytelling, value is often in the details. Take a look at this month’s photo.

Both ice and thorns are commonplace and easily overlooked. But when a photographer looks closer, an entire world is revealed, full of shapes, depth, bubbles, contrast, and shadows.  A photo like this reveals as much as it obscures, and it’s way too easy to seek out the big, panoramic pictures – and stories – rather than illuminate the details that speak volumes.

I’m certain that everyone brings their own perspective to stories, and that by slowing down to notice those perspectives, you serve yourself and others more fully. On the chilly February day when I photographed this, I became captivated by the play of bright sunshine on ice and how that ice was captured in branches and dormant greenery. The more I looked for it, the more I was able to see.

Trust yourself – and your perspectives! They are unique and valuable, and others will learn more about you when you share them.

Want to see this photo up close? Check out the Victor Farmington Library through February, 2016.

I recently presented at the STC Spectrum Conference in Rochester, NY. It was a great day of meeting up with old friends, making new ones, and learning from others.

The theme was “storytelling”… right up my alley! I did a short session about how to take better pictures. This wasn’t all tech-talk about ISO and exposure compensation and all those things that make photographers drool but leave everyone else scratching their heads. This session was about planning shots, deciding on the subject of a photo, and finding your way to execute your vision. I believe all of us have an “eye,” but it needs regular exercise to get stronger. After all, isn’t that the goal of any creative venture – to communicate with others though a unique perspective?

Much is said about the importance of developing an eye for photography, but little is written about it. In my experience, developing an eye is no different than developing any other latent talent: practice makes (near) perfect.

Here are a few tips for developing your eye. I believe that we all have our own eye – our own perspective – that we bring to any creative venture. Learn to trust it – and your instincts – and you’re well on your way.

• Walk around and look before you shoot. Get low. Get high if you can. Move to places where other things appear in the frame to give it perspective or interest. Yes, even stand in a stream by a waterfall. Seek the image that speaks to you, not the one everyone else takes.
• When possible, use a viewfinder to frame the image. I find my peripheral vision distracting when it comes to framing an image. I like to see what the image will look like, not all that my eyes can see.
• Set goals for your shoot. It’s all too easy to get into a rut, shooting only landscapes or only people because it’s what you’ve always done. Make a list of possible images – street scenes, textures or patterns, unusual light, fast action – and explore the possibilities. You’ll be surprised at how this expands your mind when shooting your favorite subjects.
• Trust yourself. The more you shoot, the more you will learn what you like to shoot. Trust what you’re attracted to. It is likely where your strengths lie… but still mix it up as mentioned above.
• Decide on your subject. Sometimes less is more. Isolating your subject makes a statement about your image. Don’t ignore the emotion you want to express. This will guide you in how you set up the shot and what you do with it later.
• Seek the Wow! factor. This is tough to achieve, but we all know it when we see it. It causes us to say, “Wow! Where was that? I didn’t see it!” As you develop your eye, be attuned to that tingle of excitement when you realize that a Wow! picture is there for the taking.

I’d love to hear how you have developed your eye. Tips to share?

The best gifts come in small – and often familiar – packages.

In November 2008, I lost my mother after a brief, nine-week battle with cancer. Although losing her was a most heart-breaking experience, caring for her as she made her journey was surely one of the most rewarding and important work I have done.

I made it through Thanksgiving fairly well. It was just a single day, and our family went on auto-pilot. Looking back, it’s obvious that we were still in shock from losing our mother just two weeks prior.

But Christmas is a season, not just a day – and a season full of expectations of joy. That year, I just couldn’t find it. The tree I bought on impulse stood in the garage for two weeks before our son put it up hastily on Christmas Eve. We didn’t put up the elaborate lights on our deciduous trees, and even our neighbors mentioned that it didn’t seem like Christmas without them. The shopping and cooking were minimal. I spent most of my days working through my mother’s estate as executor, cleaning perishables out of her house, and struggling with the silence of a phone that had been ringing non-stop just weeks earlier.

Christmas morning came, and in typical fashion, our teen boys slept in until 10. I grabbed a cup of coffee and headed for the computer. There, I found an email from my friend, Patricia. For years, she has sent out a poem on Christmas Day, and there it was.

I couldn’t have received a more fitting sentiment.

The Gift
by Sean Lause

The day my mother dropped a net
of oranges on the kitchen table
and the net broke and oranges
rolled and we snatched them,
my brother and I,
peeled back the skin and bit deep
to make the juice explode with our laughter,
and my father spun one orange in his palm
and said quietly, “This was Christmas, 1938,”
said it without bitterness or anger,
just observing his life
from far away, this tiny world
cupped in one palm…

My mother was nine years old in 1938, living with an older brother on a dairy farm in upstate New York. The Depression had hit the community hard. My grandfather, whom I never met, lost two entire herds to disease, and the family was forced to take in boarders and raise turkeys to make ends meet. Oranges were a rare treat.

My mother always gave us oranges in our stockings, and I have continued this tradition in my own family. That Christmas, as my family unveiled the sole item in their stockings – an orange – I shared this poem with them, saying simply, “This is Christmas, 2008.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about history, legacy, and our new media. Like many people, much of my history is digital in the form of emails, texts, and photos.

But a significant portion of my history is also stored the old-fashioned way in journals, letters, and in hundreds of printed photos tucked in shoeboxes and aging albums.

I’m beginning to wonder if there’s any way to pull it together, or if I’ll ever have the bandwidth to take on the task. I think not, and any time I try, I end up exhausted at the enormity of the job.

Just recently, I’ve come up with a better way, and it’s given birth to this new venture, Stories by Joy. I’ve long believed that life isn’t about days and years, but about moments. Some emerge as bright shining stars above the rest, and those are what define us and identify us to others.

Capturing moments. Maybe that’s a way to link past to present to future.

What do you think? How do you deal with the overwhelming media that make up your past? I welcome your ideas!