Late bloomers

I've been thinking a lot over the past few weeks about an article from Malcolm Gladwell that appeared in the New Yorker last month. "Late Bloomers" is the title of the article.

I've liked Gladwell for a while, but this article raised my appreciation for his writing to new level. I'm very thankful for this article.

In the article, he compares "child prodigies" to "late bloomers." He illuminates the difference between Picasso (who began producing powerful work in his 20s) and Cezanne (who plugged away for decades and produced his best work at the end of his life).

Naturally, I'm reading something of my own situation into this article. Because I've been panicking just a little lately. I'm in my mid-30s! I should have accomplished more by now! I'm sunk! It's all downhill from here! (Et cetera, ad nauseam.)

One of the bits from the article that I appreciated most was this quote from economist David Galenson, discussing the "slow burn" approach to creativity from the Cezannes of the world:

The imprecision of their goals means that these artists rarely feel they have succeeded, and their careers are consequently often dominated by the pursuit of a single objective. These artists repeat themselves, painting the same subject many times, and gradually changing its treatment in an experimental process of trial and error. Each work leads to the next, and none is generally privileged over others, so experimental painters rarely make specific preparatory sketches or plans for a painting. They consider the production of a painting as a process of searching, in which they aim to discover the image in the course of making it; they typically believe that learning is a more important goal than making finished paintings. Experimental artists build their skills gradually over the course of their careers, improving their work slowly over long periods. These artists are perfectionists and are typically plagued by frustration at their inability to achieve their goal.

Boy, does that resonate. The quote talks about frustration, but I was so heartened to read it: Maybe there's hope for me! Maybe there are still good photos in my future! Maybe it's OK that I feel stalked, haunted, hunted by work still begging to be made.

I have begun seeing my therapist again with some regularity. She helped me through my divorce, and after that, I gradually tapered off my visits. But lately it seems like it's time to get back into a conversation. Last time I saw her, we started talking about photography again, for the thousandth time, about how frequently I dream about photography, about how I "don't know what I'm doing with it," but how I feel deeply compelled to keep working at it. Every time I choose not to follow it or engage with it, it feels like a self-inflicted wound. It feels like a big old lie.

She said, "I'm glad you're bringing this up now. I think you should bring some of your work in with you next time, and we'll talk about it." She is an artist herself, and someone I admire hugely. This feels like it could be an interesting conversation.

So, here I am, Saturday afternoon, ordering some prints for our session coming up this week. I have no idea what will come of these sessions, but it feels so good to open up the conversation about photography in a place that is totally safe. I'm taking prints of Amy with me (above). The photos I most recently shot were of her (see also this photo and this pairing). She is an inspiration and a favorite model. These photos feel like a good place to start.