Five Minutes Away
We had only driven five minutes, but it felt as though we’d left somewhere behind.
A few minutes earlier, Marie and I were near the bustle of the seafood market at Scarborough. Now we were standing beside almost motionless water, looking across at a handful of boats scattered beneath a late-afternoon sky.
Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. Including us.
Earlier that day, we had set out with our cameras to find somewhere we hadn’t explored before.
We travelled to the Redcliffe Peninsula just north of Brisbane. We have often visited Woody Point and Redcliffe, so we decided to check out Scarborough, where there is a popular seafood market and takeaway. From the seafood market, you can see the trawlers lined up having finished their work for the day.
People were buying fresh seafood, and others were enjoying takeaway as the seagulls kept a close eye on any scraps that might come their way. There were plenty of opportunities for street photos: the market atmosphere and the trawlers.
I captured a few shots of the trawlers, but they failed to ignite my interest. I was keen to move on, but I couldn’t explain why.
As we drove off, I decided to go down a road I had never been on before. It was a very short drive, and we found ourselves in a large car park with bays for cars with their boat trailers. Most of the parking bays were empty. I could imagine that on another day this car park would have been full, with much activity happening.
There Was No Hurry
As we approached the shoreline, I immediately noticed how unexpectedly still the water was.
It was late afternoon, and there were vessels moored with some distance between them.
Looking around, I noticed another couple of cars parked further along the shore. And like us, they were just gazing out at the water.
I struggled to believe we were only five minutes away from a bustling seafood market, and yet here we were in somewhere so peaceful.
After a few minutes, I slowly lifted my camera and took a few photos. There was no hurry.
Photographing A Feeling
It seemed like I was photographing a feeling rather than a conscious composition.
I don’t think I understood that at the time. Like most photographers, I can become preoccupied with finding a subject. Something interesting. Something that gives me a reason to raise the camera.
Yet other photographs seem to work in the opposite direction. The subject doesn’t announce itself. Something about the place simply makes you stop.
Perhaps it is the light, the space between things, or the absence of movement. Sometimes I don’t know what has caught my attention until I look through the viewfinder. And occasionally, as happened that afternoon, even the photograph itself seems secondary to simply being there.
Forty-five minutes is quite a long time to spend somewhere when you’re supposedly out looking for photographs. Yet neither of us suggested moving on.
We weren’t waiting for better light or hoping something would happen. I wasn’t walking backwards and forwards searching for another composition. For most of that time, the camera wasn’t particularly important.
We were simply there.
Looking back, that may be part of why the photograph stayed with me. I didn’t just photograph a peaceful place. For a little while, I allowed myself to experience it.
We had gone out that day looking for photographs. Perhaps the best one came when I stopped looking quite so hard.
Closing
I don’t remember what we did after we left. I don’t remember where we went next, or even whether I took any more photographs that afternoon.
But I remember standing there.
I remember the boats resting almost motionless on the water. I remember the late afternoon light beneath the clouds. And I remember that neither of us felt any need to move on.
Perhaps that is why I called the photograph Calm Waters.
It describes what was in front of me.
But when I look at it now, I realise it also describes what I felt.
Originally published in Full Frame, The Art of Photography