When You Fall Out of Love.
It can be with a person, a place, a long-loved hobby, a favorite drink. Over the course of our lives we fall out of love with so many things, so many people, and in their place, pick up a newfound love.
When you no longer love something, you have to pay attention.
If it’s a person, tremendously difficult decisions must be made. A battle must be fought, a heart must be destroyed. If it’s a thing, maybe it has simply run its course, but maybe, just maybe, that thing is no longer meant for you.
Everything, every person, every passion, every love, has its season. There is a season to love and a season to let go.
When love morphs into duty, something is irrevocably broken.
I used to love photography. It was a giant portion of my identity and a source of great pride. It has been a very complicated relationship over the years. The beginning of this love ignited a fire I’d been in search of up until then. I knew who I was behind a camera and that telling unspoken stories was an overwhelming part of my identity.
Not long after the foundational love began, too soon after the foundation began, I made the decision to go to a private art college. I was so proud of myself and couldn’t wait to tell any and everyone where I was going to school. Being at a very young, impressionable age, paired with choosing a career where you are judged solely on what you do and do not create, was a devastating mix.
I went from being proud of my work and seeing my soul reflected in the images I produced to creating just to pass a class, knowing I was not putting my best work forward but work that would (hopefully) please others.
When you mix art with opinions, it’s a slippery slope.
I quickly learned that I did not fit in. I was not interested in photographing naked people or stories that were weird for the sake of being weird. I did not do well photographing something that isn’t a story. I hated it. I hated commercial photography and I hated trying to fit my personal style into a box. The box made no sense and came with the politics any organized institution requires. If you slept with a professor, you had a better chance of getting an A. I wouldn’t do it; I couldn’t.
After graduating, I made the terrifying decision to start my own photography business. I offered everything and there was not a shoot I would say no to, with the exception of a lady who looked like the over-tanned older woman in There’s Something About Mary, who requested a “Playboy-esque” session in her backyard. Hard pass.
Weddings, headshots, newborn photos, engagements, families, seniors, landscapes, you name it. If it came with a paycheck, I said yes. (Even if it didn’t come with a paycheck, I still said yes.)
My anxiety spiked when I was behind a camera and kept replaying the voices of fellow students and professors of the Art Institute in my head. “This is not good work.” “I cannot pass you with work like this.” “You should have done this.” “Why didn’t you do this?” “It’s not [weird] enough.” “It’s not what I wanted to see.”
How do you mix the love of something and a spark that’s still there with an education on the subject that makes no sense to everything inside of you that feels like truth?
Hard truth: you can’t.
Two decades have passed since I walked out with my diploma. I have dabbled in just about everything in the world of photography. There are no jobs I am still curious about or wondering where I fit or if I would fit. I have taken photos of clients who showed up with the inevitable Pinterest poses that are impossible to recreate. I have listened as multiple clients critiqued my work (mid-session nonetheless) and asked me to edit like another photographer they love. I have kept silent during multiple weddings where I was propositioned by the groom, inappropriately touched by the father of the bride on the dance floor, and so much more. I have worked through a multitude of different situations, camera in hand. There is nothing left on my list of categories to try.
Nothing ruins your art faster than monetizing it.
When you create to create, your truth is evident in everything you touch. It’s the work you will be most proud of, the work that is a true reflection of who you are. Work that no one can ever duplicate. When you create to make a living, you are merging something so personal to your heart with the expectations of others. For some, that is a balance they love, for others, it is all-extinguishing.
My flame has been gone for years. I refused to fully accept it and I trudged on anyway, saying yes when I felt like I should. By doing so, I have said no to myself. I love photography, and I always will, but I have to accept the fact that I am at the very beginning of a journey to finding out if I still love it enough to reinvent where I belong in a world I had once mastered.
This is the beginning of that journey.
xoxo,
Allyson
