My Life as a Starving Artist
We've already established my half century interest in art history, so how did I end up living
in the isolated ecosystem of the Wind River Canyon photographing it's hummingbirds and wildlife? Coming from a family of hunters, I was taught to handle a firearm before I could ride a two-wheel bicycle. But, hunting is a yucky business, and best left to those men who have a need for such things. Eyes that were surgically corrected got me taken along on every hunting adventure that the old men could dream up. I could hike mountainsides like the mule deer and antelope they were after, and so often couldn't see; they took me along because of my eyesight. But, men with guns often do stupid things with them; even the best of hunters.
I'm going to leave the above paragraph without detailing the traumatic, horrific events that sometimes accompany a hunt gone bad. For a young impressionable boy that would rather
have been at the art museum, some of these hunts belong at the Saturday matinee. "Any idiot with a gun can kill a wild animal." That dentist in the mid-west that shot Cecil is a prime example; he was smart enough to know better; enough said.
My access to historic art started at a very young age, as Cleveland is known for having a great museum, and the schools took us there each year. Even in elementary school we went to see the art teacher, who believe it or not taught art.
Having an art teacher that can open the creative hemisphere of a child is like a magic trick; you can watch them blossom. Regular trips to the wonderful zoo was something always to look forward to, and I spent many hours observing the wild animals from around the world.
One Summer's day, in Grandma's Pleasant Valley gardens, I spotted my very first hummingbird. That one single moment under those fruit trees, surrounded by so many fragrant flowers, stuck in my head and remains to this very day. I was told you couldn't take their picture, and this fascinated me all the more. I even wrote reports about hummingbirds with pictures I'd drawn. Oh, the Pleasant Valley nature of childhood.
As I was in my teenage years, my parents moved us out to Wyoming, which was just a big place on my sister's wooden map puzzle. Didn't seem to be many trees, or art teachers either; in fact, the High School had no real art teacher at all----she was the girls P.E. teacher. And yes, culture shock set in when the click of cowboy boots was heard in the halls; and they smelled of what!?
Even in elementary school I learned that artists didn't fair too well; my reports on them told me that much anyway. I wanted to be an artist first of all, but didn't dare tell anyone that deep secret. Besides, so many of them were miserable, starving wretches with a substance abuse problem. I so loved to paint and sculpt, and even assistant professors liked my artwork; and they're the worst critics.
A family business purchase, and the mounting stress of a 24/7 life, led us to a canyon I'd
fallen in love with the very first time I saw her. Living in the Wind River Canyon has been a dream come true, and that comes straight from the heart. The very first Summer I started to paint the trim on our little cedar home, a hummingbird flew by while I was high on a ladder; and that is the single moment that started all of this artist crap again----laugh if you must, but that little male Rufous Hummingbird changed my life.
The gift of an ancient Nikon film camera was frustrating; I couldn't get the final picture to satisfy the image of the hummingbirds I'd had in my mind. I was complaining about film and it's limitations to a smart, old man with a white beard who suggested I look at digital cameras. A dozen years ago they still seemed a little primitive, or so I thought. Digital imaging equipment didn't come cheap then, or now. My hardworking, understanding wife is my biggest fan, and that's encouragement for any creative pursuit.
Living and working as a wildlife photographer in the middle of the Wind River Canyon has it's drawbacks; there's no city services, other than electricity. Our mail is more than a dozen miles away! No phone service, and now we have three satellite dishes on our little cedar cabin: How else could we find out if the world ended? Heck, I can't even get a pizza delivered way out here! Every thing I need has to be shipped in from Earth. I could use one of George Jetson's flying cars about now----what happened to those?
In a book that's still somewhere in a basket by my throne, it's said that a wildlife
photographer gets paid in sunshine; and the writers weren't kidding. There isn't much of a budget for people to buy artwork, and I seldom make more than a couple of K a year. But I'm not really complaining, I'm just surprised at the outcome.
Photography in the 21st Century is more art than my shutterbug Grandfather could ever have understood. I "see" photographs in my head, sometimes many years before I can realize a framed award-winning hummingbird picture. I'm freezing my fingers, or dying in the Summer heat, for that eye-blink moment. I spent thousands of hours, last hummingbird season, for a few fleeting seconds of adrenaline: The photograph of the Rufous Hummingbird on the right is one I'd imagined in my mind a decade ago, and last Summer I finally captured that thought on my sensor.
The obvious question is, "Why do this for no money?" Honestly....it moves people's emotions, and that will connect them to what's really important in my work----the wildlife and the amazing gifts of Mother Nature should be cherished, not hung on a wall.
*Photography and Wind River Canyon Blog by Michael John Balog - Hogbats Photography - Wind River Canyon, Wyoming.
Thank you for all the wonderful support.
MjB