On the Ferry to Bainbridge Island

Earlier this month, my wife and I traveled to Seattle for a quick getaway to celebrate a significant birthday.

Being the amateur photographer that I am, I agonized my choice of camera for the trip. Did I want to shoot it digitally, or should I take a risk and shoot it on film? Remembering the positive experience I had shooting our trip to Southern California on several rolls of Kodak Gold 200, I was leaning toward a film camera.

When we made our plans, we knew the weather would be a little dicey. This is the Pacific Northwest in late winter, after all. Not wanting to expose one of my good film cameras to the elements, I originally planned to reach for my Nikon FM10. One reason why I enjoy using that camera so much is that, since it’s lower in the pecking order, it’s far more carefree to have along when traveling. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal if it got a little wet.

But as we got closer to our departure day, we realized that we got lucky: instead of persistent clouds and rain showers, the forecast pointed to a brief dry spell. Back in the closet the Nikon FM10 went and out came my through my Nikon F with a workhorse Nikkor 50mm f/1.4 lens. And rather than shooting in color, I brought plenty of Ilford FP4 Plus black and white film.

One afternoon, we took the ferry over to Bainbridge Island to visit some shops my wife wanted to check out. The journey across Puget Sound turned out to be a wonderful opportunity for some candid people photography.

Because of my noisy shutter, I knew in many instances that I had only one shot to get it right. There would have been no second chance. Making multiple exposures of the same subject would have only drawn attention to myself and possibly some nasty glares. The last thing I want to do with my photography is make myself look like a jerk.

As I sat inside the ferry, I noticed all kinds of opportunities for some more candids. At first, I was a little timid. But I later realized that, from the outside, there was a strong glare off the window that allowed me to shoot from the inside with far more inconspicuousness than what I had realized earlier.

To be sure, there’s inconspicuousness, and then there’s creepiness. The former doesn’t necessarily mean the latter. One thing I am learning more generally about street photography—at least, that is, how I want to practice it—is that the artistry lies not in sneaking around with a camera or, on the flip side, in shoving a camera in someone’s face but instead in showing those subtle and genuine moments in people’s everyday lives that make one smile or that render them in a contemplative way.

I’ve written about how I appreciate people photography even though I am not a people person. Those feelings persist. But the difference here was that I found myself in a much bigger city than where I typically photograph.

In Seattle, I was struck by how different my experience was in a truly big city. On sidewalks bustling with energy, there’s so much more to take in. And when doing so, one can melt into the crowd so much easier than one can do in emptier small-town environments.

Or is it that people in bigger cities inhabit their own little world far more than those in smaller towns? Was the inconspicuousness I felt merely an illusion? Was it indifference more than anything else?

Whatever the case may be, the theme behind Alan Schaller’s Metropolis is far more apparent to me now. In spite of the apparent connectedness that the internet has enabled, society as a whole and urban dwellers in particular are actually far more disconnected and oblivious to each other today than in years past.