Seeking Community
March 26th, 2009,I’ve noticed recently that the internet sometimes seems so big to me that it becomes almost self-defeating. When seeking pro-photo communities, for example, the number of options are overwhelming and strangely deceptive.
To start with, there are so many communities where people share images and talk photography that I could easily spend all my time reading them. Ideally, I’d like to limit myself to communities that are strictly professional for my shop talk, but contain potential art buyers for the display of my work. Or perhaps I should find a community that is multimedia, but shares my interest in subject matter. Then, too, I need somewhere that keeps me abreast of the technology and equipment news, without getting sucked into the mindset that my equipment determines what sort of photographer I am.
Even among my social and hobby-based online communities, there is a tendency to get stuck in the trivial details. One hobby-based site I am generates at least 200 messages a week arguing over terminology.
I recently attend WPPI, a pro-photography convention focusing on Wedding and Portrait photography (two areas that I spend a lot more time thinking about than involving myself in). I picked up a number of memberships in the heat of the moment, and now must evaluate exactly how much time I have to spend reading all these conversations. Several of the books that I picked up also have online communities built around them. Should I even check them out? What value could they provide to me?
I have been traditionally hesitant to join art-based communities like Deviant Art and Etsy, or participate heavily in networking sites like Model Mayhem. My dubious reasoning for this is that I would prefer people to come to MY site. Yet, all of these places provide a built-in audience much larger than I could ever hope to generate on my own.
My purpose for joining these websites, taking part in these communities, is to build what I refer to as My Army Of Dreamers. I’m seeking friendships that will encourage my own creativity, push my efforts, and support me in those moments of self-doubt which plague all creative professionals. Yet, I am often reminded of a parable from Art and Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland:
A pottery class is divided into two groups. The first group is told that their grades will be determined entirely by the quality of the single best pot they make. The second group is told that their grades will be based entirely on the quantity of pots produced, regardless of quality. The first group spent the entire semester debating the nature of The Perfect Pot, and while they had many nice theories, the work they produced failed to live up to their own beliefs about such perfection. Meanwhile, in addition to producing a large number of pots, the second group made better pots, faster and more consistently. The moral to the story is obvious: talk is cheap; doing it is what makes you good at it.
(Tangent: Whenever I quote that book, I have to include my other favorite anecdote. A frustrated young piano student complains to his mentor, “It just never sounds as good as it does in my head!” The mentor sagely replies, “What makes you think that is ever going to change?”)
This, then, is the dilemma: I want a community to support my endeavors, but I worry that I’d be better off spending all that time just taking some darn photos.