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Chris Orwig photographed me in Las Vegas a few years ago, and it was a humbling
experience as a photographer, particularly for one making his living on
assignment for the international NGO and humanitarian community. Chris is a
gentle person in the truest sense of the word. He is kind, and if this makes any
sense at all, he listens with his eyes. When Chris photographs he slows down.
Given his already calm, Zen-like personality, this is an accomplishment. He
didn’t ask me to grin, to mug at the camera (I did anyway). He just slowed down,
looked through the camera, and photographed me. If I hadn’t seen the photographs
afterwards, I’d have sworn that he never pressed the shutter. He used
a couple different cameras, changing them without much thought, keeping his
entire attention focused on his subject. I got the sense, being photographed
by Chris, that the portrait—not just my portrait, but portraiture as a discipline—
mattered a great deal.
The photography of people matters, because it allows us to look at a moment
in the life of another person and see the differences and the similarities we
share. Acting as both a window and a mirror, the portrait has the power of revelation,
showing us something about both the photographer and the subject.
This matters because the act of creating it is a relational act and a chance to
connect with another person.
The portrait matters because life is fleeting, and we will not be here forever.
When I was a teenager I spent hours looking at the work of Yousuf Karsh, poring
over portraits of the artists and elite of his time, many of whom are now gone.
But lose a loved one, as I have in the last 24 hours, and the value of a photograph
becomes all the more evident. We are passing through time, all of us,
unstoppably. We will change our times and be changed by them. The person I
am now is not the person I will become, and when I get to the end of the time
allotted to me, it will feel to me, and my loved ones, I hope, to have been far too
short. The portrait cannot undo this, nor slow it down. But it creates milestones
for us, way markers that say, “This is who I am, and who I have been.”
All we have in life, really, are people and moments. The portrait captures
both simultaneously, and tells a story about the characters in our lives. It shows
a person in a place and a time in which they will never be again; it stops the
clock and says, “Look at this person; she matters. This moment matters.” And
whether that portrait is serious or the brief result of a cheesecake grin, we’re a
little closer to seeing the soul.