In retrospect, trying to coat watercolor paper with a light-sensitive chemical solution in a tent at night in the mountains was probably not my best idea, but it sure made for an interesting memory. I can still remember the two of us, my fiancée and myself, trying desperately not to spill the chemicals on our sleeping bag at what must have been midnight. It was exhilarating: the newness, the willingness to try despite the freezing cold, the inability to see our hands in front of our faces, the cramped but still somehow usable working space; and all of this in spite of the sheer exhaustion of spending most of the day shooting only to have to spend the evening setting up camp. We managed to get several pieces coated, although not everything turned out be usable. To our credit though, we managed not to get any of the chemicals on the sleeping bags and still produced some usable prints the next day, so I consider the night a huge win.

We learned several things that night. Thing one: midnight is a bad time to try and coat photo paper, especially when you’re both exhausted and neither of you know how much light you can get away with working by without exposing it. Thing two: dirt and sand make for very interesting albeit unintentional textural elements. Lastly, thing three: circumstances are just that: circumstances.

It sounds silly, but so often I hear ”Oh I am just not there yet,” or “oh, now is not the right time,” Followed by some lame excuse about their circumstances and their constant fear of not being ready or good enough. I think we, as artists, are some of the most sensitive people I have ever met, and I often wish I had a dime for every time one of us says we are not ready or we will get to (insert crazy idea or project here) once (insert lame excuse or silly expectation of readiness here that we believe will magically make the circumstances better). In the end, the things I am most proud of are the things I wasn’t ready for; the decisions I made without fear and then realized all too late I’d jumped off a cliff with no parachute, yet somehow, even as I am falling to what will surely be my death, I make wings out nothing and suddenly I am flying. My first cyanotype series was kind of like that: learning to fly while falling, except instead of literally falling I was battling sheer exhaustion, bouncing from campsite to campsite while desperately trying to scrape together money just for food let alone chemicals and paper.

In life, we all take risks, but so often we limit ourselves because of the circumstances we find ourselves in rather then seeing them as opportunities to grow. For me, this experiment wasn’t just about learning to print, but also about realizing that no matter the circumstance, no one is ever completely ready for life and constantly waiting for the perfect set of circumstances is a surefire way to never actually do anything.

For me, growing past my circumstances meant desperately coating paper in a tent at midnight followed by crashing on my dad’s couch an hour away (two in traffic…) while trying to jury-rig his kitchen into a darkroom complete with nonexistent chemical trays, and realizing that, no, cookie sheets do not in fact make a good substitute for chemical trays. (Most light sensitive chemicals react to metal. Finding this out after a batch of prints develops pure blue with no actual picture after all that hellish in-tent coating is absolutely heartbreaking. Bathtubs work a lot better as long as they’re not being used… Sorry Dad.) It meant hiding unlabeled glasses full of light-sensitive chemicals in cupboards and trying to remember to warn people not to drink or let light hit them. (Nobody died, but we did have to re-mix one batch of chemicals that had gotten exposed when someone needed a plate…) It meant pulling our hair out as we tried desperately to figure out the correct adjustments to make in Photoshop and the just-right print settings to create an actually usable negative. (This is a lot harder than it sounds. I’d get technical, but you probably don’t want to know and I charge money to teach you if you do.)

It also meant trying not to lose my mind out of sheer rage when my dad’s landlord, while giving me a lecture about keeping walkways clear, (that nobody uses, that I’m not actually blocking, and that are plenty wide enough for people to just walk around my workspace… I had made very sure of that…) picks several of my developing prints up and waves them around in the sunlight thus ruining them. Yes, I know there’s something on the ground. I put it there. It’s in the process of exposing, and I’m standing right next to it to make sure nobody steps on it. No, please don’t move it, and dear god please don’t stand in front of it; you’re creating shadows and I have no clue how that will affect my final print. You’re moving it. Well shit; at least don’t shake it… okay, you’re shaking it now. Well damn. I guess I’m re-doing this batch. Maybe next time I’ll try the sidewalk half a block away where there’s another patch of sunlight?

Discovering how exactly to make the perfectly imperfect prints we wanted was an adventure, and although we made so many mistakes, we learned so much from it.

We learned how light-tight is actually light-tight, and what we can get away with for how long. Even when textbooks and Google screamed at us that none of what we were doing would work, we somehow defied the odds and created beautiful pieces. We built parachutes while falling and created masterpieces. We learned so much in such a sort time because we weren’t afraid to jump.

I learned how to make photo prints while couch-surfing and camping when I barely had enough funds to survive. Heck, I graduated because of those prints, and nobody was the wiser. If I can do it, then I guess there really isn’t any reason not to try. Circumstances are just that: circumstances. In the end, what do you have to lose?

By the way, in case you’re reading this: thanks, Dad, for putting up with me and lending me your couch, kitchen and bathtub for my crazy photochemistry experiments. I couldn’t have graduated without you.

Join me next week as we say good-bye to our tent, and after 16 long weeks I finally get my degree. I’ll share with you some of my most memorable experiences, some lessons we learned along the way, and most importantly I’ll introduce you to the unsung heroes who made all of this possible. See you then!