There’s a new word for describing the marvel of seeing a place for the first time. It is allokataplixis, a conjunction of two Greek words: allo, meaning “other,” and katapliktiko, meaning “wonder.” Professor Liam Heneghan of DePaul University in Chicago coined the word in 2018. He had been taking his students to Ireland every year and noted that they delighted in many things–the food, the smell of the air, architectural details, the local language, as well as many small things they had never seen before. Heneghan grew up in Ireland, but had lived in the United States for many years and no longer looked at Ireland with fresh eyes or noticed its peculiarities. His word really describes my experience of discovering Toronto for the first time. Fresh eyes notice things that accustomed eyes don’t.
The above photo, taken in 1980 shortly after I arrived in Toronto, seems to be a good example of allokataplixis. I had grown up in the country, and never lived in the city. In the first several months everything seemed brand new and my photography studies at Ryerson meant that I had a camera in hand at all times to capture what I saw. I discovered the photo just recently while scanning negatives, and it’s like seeing it for the first time. I marvel now at the numerous geometric shapes, and the contrast between the old buildings and the modern ones in the background. And how the old fashioned antenna and power pole seem to dwarf the CN Tower. After having lived in Toronto for twenty years, I can no longer see it with country eyes. When I visit now, everything seems familiar.
The series “Toronto Gone” puts a focus on things that have disappeared–buildings, businesses, parking lots, cars, people that used to be a part of the city in the 1980s and 1990s prior to the condo boom, and before the widespread use of computers and cell phones.
Photography as Meditation was a presentation given by Avard Woolaver at the Universalist Unitarian Church of Halifax in July 2019.
Photography as Meditation
Taking photographs can give us a different
perspective and a fresh way of seeing. More than that, however, photography can
offer us unique ways to engage with the world around us. Whether we seek a new
start, a satisfying sense of closure, or a novel way to meditate, using a
camera can help us move forward.
I’ll start by reading a quote from American
photographer Henry Wessel:
“Part
of it has to do with the discipline of being actively receptive. At the core of
this receptivity is a process that might be called soft eyes. It is a physical
sensation. You are not looking for something. You are open, receptive. At some
point you are in front of something that you cannot ignore.”
For the most part, I take photographs of everyday life. I rarely go out of my way to take pictures. I’m content photographing the surroundings of where I happen to be. I’m interested in New Topographics—the human altered landscape—how human activity has changed the earth. I carry a camera everywhere I go, whether it’s a trip to the supermarket or a drive into Halifax to attend the Universalist Unitarian Church of Halifax.
This one is called Spiritual Centre—it’s the exterior of the minister’s office at UUCH. I displayed some photos in the Ballroom Gallery several years ago and this was Rev. Fran Dearman’s favourite one. She bought a copy and keeps it in her office.
One of the points of mindfulness is that we
just observe what’s here with us now, without judgement. When we meditate, we
try not to categorize or judge. We try not to say: this is good; this is bad.
When taking photos, we can also try not to
categorize in similar terms. We don’t have to think in terms of judging, like:
“This is pretty; this is ugly.” We can just think—”This is here.”
American photographer William Eggleston came up with the term The Democratic Forest—no subject matter is more or less important than another. A telephone pole is as valid as a lighthouse. There is poetry in the everyday.
This was taken at the corner of South Park and Sackville in Halifax. There seems to be music in the overhead wires.
Here is another quote from Henry Wessel: “In a
still photograph you basically have two variables, where you stand and when you
press the shutter. That’s all you have.”
When we’re taking photos, we have to give up control. Standing there holding your camera, it feels as if you’re the one in control. This is an illusion. You have to let go of the idea that you’re in charge of the people who’s picture you’re taking. If you’re outdoors, or by a window, you aren’t really controlling the light. It’s hard to control the movement of animals, or of traffic, or of crowds. Instead you have to just be there, ready for what unfolds.
This was taken on a cold and windy day skating on the Oval. Sometimes just getting a photo can be challenging. There is no controlling the wind and snow.
Another aspect of mindfulness that tracks closely with photography is the need for patience. Life demands patience of us, but it’s up to us to develop it on our own. From where do we draw these needed stores of patience? Most of us have to learn it, through practice. And photography is great practice for that.
We may have to wait for a car or cloud to come into the frame, for the sun to come out from behind a cloud, for someone to smile, or for the golden hour just before sunset. So often, it is worth the wait.
No one can predict the future, which means we
don’t know the future implications of pictures we take. The unique quality of a
photo is that it captures a moment in time.
Often a family snapshot has unique value for
us because it’s the only picture we have of a certain family member or special
place. Taking photos helps us document things throughout our lives.
This was taken in a hotel room in Toronto in 1982. My parents were on a trip and stopped off in Toronto for a short visit. My father was 59 (about the same age I am now), my mother was 50, and I was 24. It’s such a wonderful moment captured in time. A good memory.
I took a lot of photographs in the 1980s, when
I lived in Toronto, capturing street scenes and ordinary aspects of daily life
that happened to catch my eye. I had no way to anticipate how significant they
would seem 30 years later. They show things that no longer exist, even though
it hasn’t been that long. Without necessarily trying to, I caught images of
buildings, cars, fashions, gadgets that are no longer part of our world. Toronto’s
entire skyline is utterly changed.
A photo not only helps you remember what you were taking pictures of, but also can bring back memories of how you were feeling and what you were doing at the time you took the picture. That can be powerful to reflect on when you look at the picture. It might not be such a great photo, but you can say, “Oh, I remember that day.” You may recall who you were with, what was said, where you went afterwards to get a bite to eat. The picture brings back all these memories that accompany it.
This photo of my daughters, Lia and Jane, from 2012 brings back a wonderful day at the Museum of Natural History in Halifax.
And other times you look at a picture and have
no recollection of it at all. You stare at a beach scene and you can only say,
“Well, it looks like I must have gone to the beach that day.”
For me, photography is all about observation—taking the time to notice the world around me. Growing up on a farm I spent a lot of time in the fields, looking at the landscape, the trees and the clouds. I was observing the world long before I had a camera to record these observations. It has taken me quite awhile to get back to that childhood state where there is no rush, where you can be patient and just let things happen. That’s what mindfulness is all about.
I don’t get caught up too much in the technical aspects of fancy cameras and long lenses, or manipulation in Photoshop. And I use my camera mostly in automatic mode because it gives me more freedom to capture the moment. It has been said that the best camera is the one you have with you, and I believe that. Most people these days have smart phones with camera and video. This is a perfect tool – you don’t need an expensive camera to get worthy photos.
I took this photo in Amherst, Nova Scotia. After I got home and looked at it, I realized that it may have been the setting for Alex Colville’s 1954 painting “Horse and Train”.
Horse and Train, Alex Colville, 1954
Colville grew up in Amherst and later studied at nearby Mount Allison University in Sackville. This train line runs between Amherst and Sackville.
And now I’ll give you a few photo tips:
Try to include something in the foreground. It provides a point of interest and a sense of scale. This was the first photo tip my father gave me.
People take photographs for all sorts of
different reasons–and whatever those reasons are, it can be rewarding and
worthwhile to document what’s happening to us and around us as we go about our
daily lives. Taking photos with a relaxed mind and an open heart can be a
profound and beautiful way for us to engage with the world and with one
another.
