Cameras
By Patty Somlo
October 15, 2023
October 15, 2023
I have bought a camera. It’s crazy, I know, living in a house filled with photo equipment of every sort.
On first glance, everything about this purchase seems frivolous. No one buys cameras anymore, do they? We have phones to capture friends and our goofy smiles, the colorful dinner we savored last night, the lake we reached at the end of an uphill hike. The phone is easy and compact. Why would we want to drag around a camera, with its heavier body and lenses?
Perhaps this purchase is part of the sad and oftentimes unreal life I have been lately living, wallowing through the thick mud of grief. I’ve fallen back on a crutch I leaned on decades ago, whenever a man I fantasized was The One up and left me. No surprise, the crutch in this consumer culture is shopping. I’ve bought chairs, both comfy recliners and a set of six cushioned gray seats now set around the dining room table. Hours have sped by while I scrolled through sweaters and yoga pants, shoes and sandals, novels, memoirs, and tomes on grief and meditation. After filling in credit card information and confirming each purchase, I eagerly open emails announcing when my latest treat will arrive.
The camera purchase was something more, and anyone who knows me understands. My cute new Canon Rebel is a way to keep my husband Richard alive.
***
Richard fell in love with photography decades ago. In those days, to get decent pictures required effort. Richard pulled out his camera and snapped, during frequent gatherings of his large, extended Asian American family. Afterwards, he monopolized the one bathroom in his family’s compact Northern California ranch house, using the smelly developing chemicals to bring photos to life.
He and his cousin Denny, who like Richard was enamored with technology of every sort, snuck their cameras into the movies, taking still shots of life moving across the big screen in the dark. Richard, Denny confessed to me after my husband died, couldn’t get enough shots of some beautiful blond Swedish actress in a film they went to see several times. Richard then took his skills out to the football fields and basketball courts, when he became the official high school photographer.
After joining the Air Force, Richard amassed boxes of color slides taken in Turkish villages while he was stationed in a remote base outside Ankara. Since the Turks weren’t fond of Americans at the time, Richard pretended to be a Japanese tourist, though he’d been born in San Francisco and his grandparents had emigrated to the United States from China.
Somewhere along the line, the photography went by the wayside. One day, though, the idea of taking pictures reemerged.
***
Richard and I had been dating for over a year, delighting in our shared love of nature. Every chance we got, he and I headed out of the city to enjoy the splendor you find a short drive in any direction from San Francisco.
During a week-long stay in a spare log cabin on California’s Central Coast, we sipped coffee each morning, perched atop neighboring boulders alongside the sparkling Big Sur River. One morning Richard had an epiphany. He wanted to capture the scene and take it home, so the happiness he felt would continue. The means to do so would be a camera.
One after another, Richard collected pieces of equipment. Before long, he owned a range of cameras and lenses, tripods and film, along with various-sized bags to carry everything. When we went on a hike, Richard forced us to pause, some days every few feet, while he set up and photographed.
I started to feel like he was having an affair with another woman, only his lover was photography. We fought and he took my complaints about abandonment to the extreme, pledging to give up photography forever. Eventually, we reached a place of accord, where he continued taking photos but didn’t spend all our time together doing so.
As a devoted student and detail-oriented person, Richard rapidly perfected techniques to produce good pictures. But the more effort Richard put into his newly rediscovered love, something became clear. Studying the world around him through a lens, Richard was able to capture and convey the joy and awe he felt. In other words, he did exactly what had propelled him back to photography. Through his exquisite prints, he brought home the lovely places we’d been, so we could enjoy being there again and again.
Richard had his first solo exhibit at the University of California, Berkeley. Many more exhibits followed. I helped choose which photos to include, typed and printed labels, bought the requisite cheap wine, cheese and crackers for the opening reception, and helped set everything up. Two years after marrying at San Francisco City Hall, we moved to Portland, Oregon, where opportunities to show his work, as well as hike to awe-inspiring spots and take photos, abounded.
In many ways, Richard’s photography became a normal part of our marriage. Whether we left the city to spend an afternoon hiking on Mt. Hood, hoping to reach a meadow bursting with wildflowers, or flew across the Pacific for a week’s stay in Kauai, at least two cameras, three lenses, and a tripod accompanied us. I grew adept at amusing myself, taking in the scenery or jotting down impressions in a small notebook while Richard searched for the best shots. If the light wasn’t right, he might want to return the next day to the spot or wait, until the sun moved out from behind a cloud.
Though he loved taking photographs in the cities we visited and where we lived, his most memorable were captured on longer trips, some distance from home. The more beautiful the landscapes, the more stunning his photographs turned out to be. That was the case with what turned out to be our last major trip, though we didn’t know it would be at the time.
I don’t know how many shots Richard took during our two-week stay. We could see right off that Southwestern Utah was a photographer’s dream destination. When we came home, he spent weeks printing. Small snapshots found their way into a scrapbook, along with colorful maps, menus, and his funny handwritten notes.
On first glance, everything about this purchase seems frivolous. No one buys cameras anymore, do they? We have phones to capture friends and our goofy smiles, the colorful dinner we savored last night, the lake we reached at the end of an uphill hike. The phone is easy and compact. Why would we want to drag around a camera, with its heavier body and lenses?
Perhaps this purchase is part of the sad and oftentimes unreal life I have been lately living, wallowing through the thick mud of grief. I’ve fallen back on a crutch I leaned on decades ago, whenever a man I fantasized was The One up and left me. No surprise, the crutch in this consumer culture is shopping. I’ve bought chairs, both comfy recliners and a set of six cushioned gray seats now set around the dining room table. Hours have sped by while I scrolled through sweaters and yoga pants, shoes and sandals, novels, memoirs, and tomes on grief and meditation. After filling in credit card information and confirming each purchase, I eagerly open emails announcing when my latest treat will arrive.
The camera purchase was something more, and anyone who knows me understands. My cute new Canon Rebel is a way to keep my husband Richard alive.
***
Richard fell in love with photography decades ago. In those days, to get decent pictures required effort. Richard pulled out his camera and snapped, during frequent gatherings of his large, extended Asian American family. Afterwards, he monopolized the one bathroom in his family’s compact Northern California ranch house, using the smelly developing chemicals to bring photos to life.
He and his cousin Denny, who like Richard was enamored with technology of every sort, snuck their cameras into the movies, taking still shots of life moving across the big screen in the dark. Richard, Denny confessed to me after my husband died, couldn’t get enough shots of some beautiful blond Swedish actress in a film they went to see several times. Richard then took his skills out to the football fields and basketball courts, when he became the official high school photographer.
After joining the Air Force, Richard amassed boxes of color slides taken in Turkish villages while he was stationed in a remote base outside Ankara. Since the Turks weren’t fond of Americans at the time, Richard pretended to be a Japanese tourist, though he’d been born in San Francisco and his grandparents had emigrated to the United States from China.
Somewhere along the line, the photography went by the wayside. One day, though, the idea of taking pictures reemerged.
***
Richard and I had been dating for over a year, delighting in our shared love of nature. Every chance we got, he and I headed out of the city to enjoy the splendor you find a short drive in any direction from San Francisco.
During a week-long stay in a spare log cabin on California’s Central Coast, we sipped coffee each morning, perched atop neighboring boulders alongside the sparkling Big Sur River. One morning Richard had an epiphany. He wanted to capture the scene and take it home, so the happiness he felt would continue. The means to do so would be a camera.
One after another, Richard collected pieces of equipment. Before long, he owned a range of cameras and lenses, tripods and film, along with various-sized bags to carry everything. When we went on a hike, Richard forced us to pause, some days every few feet, while he set up and photographed.
I started to feel like he was having an affair with another woman, only his lover was photography. We fought and he took my complaints about abandonment to the extreme, pledging to give up photography forever. Eventually, we reached a place of accord, where he continued taking photos but didn’t spend all our time together doing so.
As a devoted student and detail-oriented person, Richard rapidly perfected techniques to produce good pictures. But the more effort Richard put into his newly rediscovered love, something became clear. Studying the world around him through a lens, Richard was able to capture and convey the joy and awe he felt. In other words, he did exactly what had propelled him back to photography. Through his exquisite prints, he brought home the lovely places we’d been, so we could enjoy being there again and again.
Richard had his first solo exhibit at the University of California, Berkeley. Many more exhibits followed. I helped choose which photos to include, typed and printed labels, bought the requisite cheap wine, cheese and crackers for the opening reception, and helped set everything up. Two years after marrying at San Francisco City Hall, we moved to Portland, Oregon, where opportunities to show his work, as well as hike to awe-inspiring spots and take photos, abounded.
In many ways, Richard’s photography became a normal part of our marriage. Whether we left the city to spend an afternoon hiking on Mt. Hood, hoping to reach a meadow bursting with wildflowers, or flew across the Pacific for a week’s stay in Kauai, at least two cameras, three lenses, and a tripod accompanied us. I grew adept at amusing myself, taking in the scenery or jotting down impressions in a small notebook while Richard searched for the best shots. If the light wasn’t right, he might want to return the next day to the spot or wait, until the sun moved out from behind a cloud.
Though he loved taking photographs in the cities we visited and where we lived, his most memorable were captured on longer trips, some distance from home. The more beautiful the landscapes, the more stunning his photographs turned out to be. That was the case with what turned out to be our last major trip, though we didn’t know it would be at the time.
I don’t know how many shots Richard took during our two-week stay. We could see right off that Southwestern Utah was a photographer’s dream destination. When we came home, he spent weeks printing. Small snapshots found their way into a scrapbook, along with colorful maps, menus, and his funny handwritten notes.
The view of Zion National Park’s massive rock formations we saw on a walk alongside the Virgin River hangs above a gray and crimson chair, where I sometimes sit in the living room to write.
Along the Virgin River, Zion by Richard L. Fung
Across the room to the right of the front door hangs a photo of the multi-colored rock we passed in the eastern portion of Zion, on the way to our bed and breakfast cabin.
Along Zion, Utah by Richard L. Fung
Best of all can be found in the master bedroom, above the dresser I ordered after we bought this house in Northern California, after twelve years living in Oregon. Sunlight dances with the fragile-appearing hoodoos in Bryce Canyon National Park, a dreamlike vista that looked too beautiful to be real the day we hiked into one of those canyons, stopping every few feet so Richard could focus his lens.
Bryce Canyon by Richard L. Fung
Each time I look at those prints I feel immensely grateful for the years Richard and I had together. It’s often said when a loved one is gone that at least you can cherish your memories. Since Richard’s death following four and a half years of treatment for stage four cancer, I have spent hours alone with mine. Thankfully, in case I ever forget, I have his photographs all around me as a sparkling reminder.
***
The back pain began less than two months after we returned from Utah. For some reason, Richard’s doctor didn’t order an MRI. The x-rays and consultations with a spine specialist indicated mild arthritis, nothing more. Richard got weekly massages and chiropractic manipulations, neither of which helped. Months after the pain first appeared, he asked his doctor to refer him for an MRI.
The phone call came that very night. I heard Richard say the word lesions. The ache in my stomach signaled that I already understood what that word meant. To be sure, I dashed to the other room, picked up my phone, and did a quick search.
Of all the terrible news we would face in the ensuing four and a half years, that night stands out. The MRI showed tumors in Richard’s spine, likely malignant. He would need more tests, but it looked as if my husband had cancer, spread from some organ to his bones.
Before the chemo and cancer wreaked havoc with Richard’s body and hiking wasn’t possible, and prior to the start of the Covid pandemic, we took a final nearby trip to a favorite California spot, the Lakes Basin Recreation Area, an hour’s drive south of Lake Tahoe. On the hike we always took and loved, Richard made it to the top, a feat I hadn’t thought possible. As usual, we ate our lunch sitting atop rocks, on Silver Lake’s shore. Along the way, Richard snapped scores of photos.
***
The back pain began less than two months after we returned from Utah. For some reason, Richard’s doctor didn’t order an MRI. The x-rays and consultations with a spine specialist indicated mild arthritis, nothing more. Richard got weekly massages and chiropractic manipulations, neither of which helped. Months after the pain first appeared, he asked his doctor to refer him for an MRI.
The phone call came that very night. I heard Richard say the word lesions. The ache in my stomach signaled that I already understood what that word meant. To be sure, I dashed to the other room, picked up my phone, and did a quick search.
Of all the terrible news we would face in the ensuing four and a half years, that night stands out. The MRI showed tumors in Richard’s spine, likely malignant. He would need more tests, but it looked as if my husband had cancer, spread from some organ to his bones.
Before the chemo and cancer wreaked havoc with Richard’s body and hiking wasn’t possible, and prior to the start of the Covid pandemic, we took a final nearby trip to a favorite California spot, the Lakes Basin Recreation Area, an hour’s drive south of Lake Tahoe. On the hike we always took and loved, Richard made it to the top, a feat I hadn’t thought possible. As usual, we ate our lunch sitting atop rocks, on Silver Lake’s shore. Along the way, Richard snapped scores of photos.
Sand Pond by Richard L. Fung
Salmon Lake Lodge by Richard L. Fung
One by one, he sold the best of his prized cameras. With each sale, he vowed to keep a select few. As his condition worsened with the cancer metastasizing to his brain and his energy plummeting, he let go of nearly all his favorites.
We continued to take short day trips to the beautiful Northern California coast. Richard could manage short walks on flat ground, so we visited favorite trails with little or no elevation. At the end of the Abbotts Lagoon Trail in Point Reyes National Seashore, where the lagoon begins to flow into the ocean, Richard paused to capture a great white egret feeding on the shore.
On a last visit to our local Sonoma Coast, Richard no longer had much energy to walk. As usual, we stepped onto the rock overlooking the ocean at Bodega Head, peering out to see if we might glimpse a spouting whale. I held onto his arm, to make sure he didn’t fall. Using my phone, I snapped the pictures this time.
When he no longer had enough stamina for walks, Richard began taking photographs of flowers. Each Monday morning while I was shut away in the bedroom meeting with my caregiver support group on Zoom, he drove to a nearby grocery store and bought me bouquets of mixed flowers. Using a new macro lens he’d ordered for his Sony digital camera, he shot closeups. Like his landscapes, the flowers seemed saturated with extra doses of color.
He also photographed the old roses blooming against the back of our house. Not only was he enamored with the look of these oversized blooms. He nearly fainted from breathing in the sweet fragrance. As his world narrowed, the pleasures he took in the smallest things heightened. When he barely had the strength to make it out to the backyard, I picked roses and brought them inside for his senses to savor.
Before that point, he still sat at his computer and made beautiful prints. I helped him set up the folding table to cut mats, and then he matted and framed the flowers, just as he would have done for an upcoming exhibit. He hung the flower prints on the walls of the narrow hallway, which we then dubbed The Hall of Flowers.
In his final weeks, Richard slept more than he was awake. Evenings, I sat alone in a large red comfy chair, gazing out at the backyard, wondering how I would survive without him. Places I might travel came to my mind, as well as returning to some lost loves, like drawing. Perhaps I might learn to use one of the digital cameras he still had. This might be a small way I could be with Richard, even when he was gone.
***
Following Richard’s death, when I couldn’t even figure out how to remove the closeup lens on the Sony digital, the camera Richard preferred at the end, I decided to look for a new more user-friendly camera to start. After my purchase arrived, the camera seemed like an alien that had invaded my life. Learning to use it seemed unlikely. I set the box down at the end of the dining room table, Richard’s old spot. At one point, I acknowledged the purchase might have been a waste of money.
One day, though, I picked up the tiny Get Started brochure included in the box and followed the step-by-step instructions. Everything went well. But as often happens with me and technical guides, I soon hit a wall. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get the Wi-Fi function, enabling me to send photos to my phone, to work.
They say that time heals all and so it has been with my camera wounds. One by one, I pressed buttons and tested shots. A lifetime of learning remained but at least it was a start.
***
I meet with a wonderful group of fellow mourners in a bereavement support group, once a week on Zoom. Each of us is in the process of something contradictory. We are trying to grieve the enormous loss of the person we loved most. This hard work inevitably involves letting go. At the same time, we desperately want to somehow hold on, to not forget, and to keep the best parts of those precious relationships alive.
***
Recently, I packed my bag and flew to Richard’s favorite place, Kauai. Like Richard, I made sure to take my camera and battery charger. Unlike my late husband, I didn’t bring at least two more cameras, extra batteries and a tripod.
Some of his ashes came with me in a narrow bamboo urn. One perfect morning, I stood in the soft wet sand and released him, to mingle with the trade winds, the ocean waves, the frequent showers and the rainbows.
***
I don’t imagine I will ever take photos that come close to the masterpieces hanging on walls throughout my house. That is not the point. I will, though, carry my beloved husband with me whenever I press the viewfinder to my eye.
Just the other day I was out in the backyard testing the camera’s features. The afternoon was overcast, with rain predicted. I bent down to take a closeup shot of the rainbow-colored flowers blooming on a plant for which I can’t remember the name. As I pressed the shutter button halfway down, I could hear Richard saying, “Flat light.” He was reminding me of that all-important aspect of both photography and life. Always remember to wait for the moment when light finally peeks through the darkness.
We continued to take short day trips to the beautiful Northern California coast. Richard could manage short walks on flat ground, so we visited favorite trails with little or no elevation. At the end of the Abbotts Lagoon Trail in Point Reyes National Seashore, where the lagoon begins to flow into the ocean, Richard paused to capture a great white egret feeding on the shore.
On a last visit to our local Sonoma Coast, Richard no longer had much energy to walk. As usual, we stepped onto the rock overlooking the ocean at Bodega Head, peering out to see if we might glimpse a spouting whale. I held onto his arm, to make sure he didn’t fall. Using my phone, I snapped the pictures this time.
When he no longer had enough stamina for walks, Richard began taking photographs of flowers. Each Monday morning while I was shut away in the bedroom meeting with my caregiver support group on Zoom, he drove to a nearby grocery store and bought me bouquets of mixed flowers. Using a new macro lens he’d ordered for his Sony digital camera, he shot closeups. Like his landscapes, the flowers seemed saturated with extra doses of color.
He also photographed the old roses blooming against the back of our house. Not only was he enamored with the look of these oversized blooms. He nearly fainted from breathing in the sweet fragrance. As his world narrowed, the pleasures he took in the smallest things heightened. When he barely had the strength to make it out to the backyard, I picked roses and brought them inside for his senses to savor.
Before that point, he still sat at his computer and made beautiful prints. I helped him set up the folding table to cut mats, and then he matted and framed the flowers, just as he would have done for an upcoming exhibit. He hung the flower prints on the walls of the narrow hallway, which we then dubbed The Hall of Flowers.
In his final weeks, Richard slept more than he was awake. Evenings, I sat alone in a large red comfy chair, gazing out at the backyard, wondering how I would survive without him. Places I might travel came to my mind, as well as returning to some lost loves, like drawing. Perhaps I might learn to use one of the digital cameras he still had. This might be a small way I could be with Richard, even when he was gone.
***
Following Richard’s death, when I couldn’t even figure out how to remove the closeup lens on the Sony digital, the camera Richard preferred at the end, I decided to look for a new more user-friendly camera to start. After my purchase arrived, the camera seemed like an alien that had invaded my life. Learning to use it seemed unlikely. I set the box down at the end of the dining room table, Richard’s old spot. At one point, I acknowledged the purchase might have been a waste of money.
One day, though, I picked up the tiny Get Started brochure included in the box and followed the step-by-step instructions. Everything went well. But as often happens with me and technical guides, I soon hit a wall. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get the Wi-Fi function, enabling me to send photos to my phone, to work.
They say that time heals all and so it has been with my camera wounds. One by one, I pressed buttons and tested shots. A lifetime of learning remained but at least it was a start.
***
I meet with a wonderful group of fellow mourners in a bereavement support group, once a week on Zoom. Each of us is in the process of something contradictory. We are trying to grieve the enormous loss of the person we loved most. This hard work inevitably involves letting go. At the same time, we desperately want to somehow hold on, to not forget, and to keep the best parts of those precious relationships alive.
***
Recently, I packed my bag and flew to Richard’s favorite place, Kauai. Like Richard, I made sure to take my camera and battery charger. Unlike my late husband, I didn’t bring at least two more cameras, extra batteries and a tripod.
Some of his ashes came with me in a narrow bamboo urn. One perfect morning, I stood in the soft wet sand and released him, to mingle with the trade winds, the ocean waves, the frequent showers and the rainbows.
***
I don’t imagine I will ever take photos that come close to the masterpieces hanging on walls throughout my house. That is not the point. I will, though, carry my beloved husband with me whenever I press the viewfinder to my eye.
Just the other day I was out in the backyard testing the camera’s features. The afternoon was overcast, with rain predicted. I bent down to take a closeup shot of the rainbow-colored flowers blooming on a plant for which I can’t remember the name. As I pressed the shutter button halfway down, I could hear Richard saying, “Flat light.” He was reminding me of that all-important aspect of both photography and life. Always remember to wait for the moment when light finally peeks through the darkness.
Patty Somlo’s most recent book, Hairway to Heaven Stories, was published by Cherry Castle Publishing, a Black-owned press committed to literary activism. Hairway was a Finalist in the American Fiction Awards and Best Book Awards. Two of Somlo’s previous books, The First to Disappear (Spuyten Duyvil) and Even When Trapped Behind Clouds: A Memoir of Quiet Grace (WiDo Publishing), were Finalists in several book contests. Her work has appeared in Guernica, Gravel, Sheepshead Review, Under the Sun, the Los Angeles Review, The Nassau Review, and over 30 anthologies. She received Honorable Mention for Fiction in the Women’s National Book Association Contest, was a Finalist in the Parks and Points Essay Contest and in the J.F. Powers Short Fiction Contest, had an essay selected as Notable for Best American Essays, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net multiple times.