A picture is worth a thousand words.
Or so they say.
Sometimes, I think it is worth a lot more.
I was fortunate enough to be privy to a photograph contest going on at Alder Flats Elementary School the other day and I do believe those pictures were priceless.
Perhaps it was the story behind the picture that was so priceless. I mean the teacher who dyed her hair pink to get more kids to submit their work and the judge who wrote a nice comment on each and every picture probably didn’t get a red ribbon, but they should.
And the photographers themselves.
They were good. Really good. Their pictures did what they were supposed to. They told a story.
I thoroughly enjoyed looking at the pictures. I thought I might pick up some tips, learn a few things, and, if I was lucky enough, see the world, if only for a short time, through the eyes of a child.
And I did. I checked them all out, pictures of buildings and sunsets and waterfalls. Pictures of puppies and babies and daredevil cowboys. Action pictures. Still shots. Creative pictures and pictures that made you smile.
I marvelled at the one with the elk horns lying in the snow. The picture had it all. Simplicity, contrast and good composition.
And when you looked at it, you wondered about the story behind the picture. Who shot that elk? Was it a girl or a guy? Where was it taken? And were they going to eventually mount those horns somewhere in a trophy room, or simply eventually discard them?
And then there was the picture of the sleeping baby. The photographer had obviously gotten close up and personal and the sweet infant never even opened his eyes. I think the baby was a boy, because of the soft pale blue blanket he (or she) was snuggly wrapped in. I wonder if it was a big brother or sister who took the liberty of snapping the shot. I wonder if the baby is one of two or three or maybe even four siblings.
I wonder what his name is.
I snap a few pictures of the pictures, and write enough words in my somewhat tattered notebook to fill up the very last page and then I wandered up and down the halls, looking again at the proud and perfect display of pictures.
Finally I begin the drive back to work, pondering the morning’s assignment and thinking nice thoughts about the weather.
I took a black and white picture a long, long time ago. It was of a girl standing by a river, still crusted over with snow, with only a little bit of dark, angry water showing through the cracks. The girl is wearing blue jeans and a plaid shirt and her curly hair is done up in pigtails.
The photographer had tilted the camera slightly so the picture is not exactly straight and the little girl looks like she is slightly on an angle, even as she smiles patiently at the photographer.
The picture still sits on my dresser, even though the glass frame is cracked and it is kind of dusty.
One day when I was holding my youngest grandchild on my knee, I showed him the picture.
This picture is worth more than a thousand words,” I begin.
He squirms on my knee, but I keep on talking, brushing away the dust from the glass with my fingers. “This is your mom. I took this picture, rolled the film, and developed it. I did it all and then I put it in this frame.”
“Grandma,” he said. “Can I have another cookie?”
And that was the end of that story!
— ON THE OTHER SIDE