Beyond the Frame: Solitude, But Not Alone
For many years, I tried to make two photography trips each year—one in late spring and another in the fall. In June 1998, I spent a week exploring California's Central Coast, visiting some of the historic California missions and experiencing the dramatic coastline of Big Sur.
On the first afternoon, I stopped at my favorite of all the California missions, Mission La Purísima Concepción, outside Lompoc. Unlike most of the missions, La Purísima has been extensively restored, and it is surrounded by largely undeveloped land. Walking onto the grounds, you can almost feel yourself stepping back more than 200 years, to a time when the mission was a center of religious and community life. That afternoon, I had brought my large-format camera, looking for photographs to make on both black-and-white negative film and color transparencies.
I entered the chapel and continued through it into the sacristy, eventually finding myself in the Contra, a small room off the sacristy, perhaps ten by twelve feet. There was a single window on the west-facing wall, and the doorway aligned with those of the sacristy and chapel beyond. Natural light entered from both directions, softly illuminating the room. There was nothing in the room except a solitary, well-worn wooden bench, positioned where the light coming through the doorways fell upon it. The light from the window added to the scene, but none of it was direct. It was quiet, simple, and beautiful.
I immediately recognized the possibilities for a photograph. I set up my tripod in the far corner, removed my Zone VI 4×5-inch field camera from its bag, and mounted it on the tripod. I selected my Schneider 90mm lens, which would give me a sufficiently wide view to take in most of the room, with the bench as the subject.
As I prepared to make an exposure on black-and-white film, something happened that I hadn't anticipated. I felt something. It was warm, familiar, and eventually, peaceful. And I knew, from other experiences I'd had, that it was the very Presence of God.
There was nothing dramatic about it. No voice, no vision, no extraordinary event. Just that unmistakable feeling of warmth, familiarity, and peace. For a few seconds, I simply stood there, allowing myself to experience it. I made no attempt to take a photograph. Although the feeling itself was brief, I remained there for a while afterward, letting the stillness linger.
I had entered that room looking for a photograph. I hadn't been looking for a spiritual experience. Yet, there it was, completely unexpected, and deeply personal.
Over the decades, I've made many photographs that I consider favorites. Some bring back the feeling of standing beside a mountain creek, watching the light fall across a distant mountain range, or seeing Delicate Arch illuminated by reflected light.
But this photograph is different.
When I look at it today, I don't simply remember the light, the old wooden bench, or the quiet beauty of that little room. I remember what I felt there—the warmth, the familiarity, and the peace of God's Presence.
The photograph captured the room, the light, and the empty bench. But it couldn't capture what made that moment so meaningful to me.
I was alone in that room. But I was not alone.
Comments