Words to Live—or Die—By

Photo by Susan Jones

"If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough," declared Robert Capa. As arguably the premiere war photojournalist, Capa stepped on a landmine in Vietnam in 1954—trying to get a bit closer. (Sidebar: Robert Capa was born André Friedmann in Hungry. He changed his name while living in Paris. He and his lover, Gerda Taro, invented the persona, Robert Capa. Capa means “shark” in Hungarian.)
As a photojournalist I’ve always liked those words. They define, for me, what photojournalism is all about. And they work well with other aspects of photography, too. I’ve noticed, however, in bird photography there seems to be a strange, inverse relationship between bird and camera. It’s this: The larger the bird, the more difficult it is to get close. I’ve had hummingbirds so close I couldn’t focus; eagles 100 yards away fly at the click of a shutter. Then there’s California.
Susan and I just got back from a week of pounding the sands and backwaters of Southern California. And while it’s good to be back in Cleveland where the temperatures fluctuate 50 degrees from day to day, California is the place for bird—big bird—photography. A joyous element of photography, for me, is the challenge of getting close. Occasionally, when the planets, moon and stars are properly aligned, and I’ve been a good boy, karma is on my side. The bigger (California) birds accept my intrusion into their lives for what it is—just a visit—and I get a picture.
Part of the art of getting close is watching where you step. Certainly, cleaning a bit of dog shit off your shoes is not as traumatic as stepping on a landmine. But getting too involved in the “moment” is most often what leads to bumps and bruises on photographers.
Susan and I were trying to enjoy a non-existent sunset on Hendrey’s Beach in Santa Barbara last week when a Snowy Egret approached us. Hey, I had the camera and I was there first. The bird acted like it was auditioning for American Idol. How could I say no? While shooting with the ocean and incoming tide to my left, I was okay. One eye on the ocean, one eye on the bird. It was when the bird walked between Susan and I, and I turned my back to the ocean, that things got interesting—and a bit damp.
So much for Capa’s advice on getting close. Maybe I’ll start to let some of his other words, those thought to be his last as he set out from the village of Nam Dinh, Vietnam, on day of his fateful assignment for Life Magazine in 1954, be my guidepost: "I will be on my good behavior today. I will not insult my colleagues, and I will not once mention the excellence of my work."


Snowy Egret