By Cari Kilmartin
Alright, I’ll just come right out and say it — I am not a good photographer. In theory, I trust my taste and eye, but the technological side of photography has always stumped me. I’ve never been able to pay attention long enough to grasp the art of exposure, shutter speed, aperture (I even had to Google these examples). But as a newly minted camera owner (my maid of honour gifted me an old Canon Rebel) and someone with access to a creative outlet (this newsletter), I’ve been searching for a way to do something a bit artsy and different.
For those of us who don’t consider ourselves to be particularly artistic naturally, it’s all too easy to dissuade ourselves from taking on creative endeavours. For myself, some of the reasons I tend to shy away from “creative spaces” are still a bit of a mystery, but I think it’s at least partially rooted in a deep-seated aversion to being bad at things. I write myself off from the get-go, rarely allowing myself the grace to be a beginner, and end up stymying a part of myself in the process.
While scrolling Pinterest recently, I came across a short clip of people taking photographs outdoors while blindfolded, and immediately knew it was something I wanted to try. It seemed the perfect way to partake in photography while sidestepping my compulsive need to feel skilled; it promised a kind way to shut my brain up and let a different part of me take over.
So here is some of what I captured, and a bit about what I noticed as I blocked my sight (and with it my ability to judge) and allowed other senses to take over.
To be honest, I thought this whole process was going to be a walk in the park, but when I got outside and put on the blindfold for the first time, I almost immediately froze. I hadn’t anticipated how vulnerable it would feel and had no idea how to start, so I just slowly sank to the ground and sat down in the middle of a field, in the middle of downtown Edmonton, waiting for…something — anything — to happen, to give me direction.
And then, geese! Though often the villain in Canadian anecdotes, their honks here were a gift, encouraging my ears to step up to the plate and provide the guidance I was waiting for. I panic-pointed the camera in the direction I heard squawking, and voila.
The path I took for this blind photography endeavour is one I’ve walked many times before, so as I approached this area, I felt confident I knew where I was. Aware of my proximity to the river, it was the sound of water rushing at an unnatural pace that gave it away, to say nothing of the hard concrete underfoot and the slight but notable city sewage smell.
As I was not super keen to walk around the Edmonton river valley blindfolded and alone, I brought Seb along to help guide me and provide moral support (though, it’s worth mentioning that he did in fact walk me into a pole). Once we were right along the river, I heard a couple distinct “kerplunks,” and knew that my husband was throwing rocks in the water, as he is prone to do (I think it’s a guy thing?).
In the spirit of full disclosure, I feel compelled to tell you that I asked Seb to give me a countdown as he threw this particular rock in. Even so, when going through the photos later, I was shocked to discover that I managed to capture this moment.
With sight off the table, I relied most on sound and smell during this process, and I was mildly comfortable with that. As a picky eater, I’m accustomed to leaning on smell as a first line of defence against fiendish foods, and as someone who regularly neglects to wear her glasses, I’m often left squinting and having to find other means, like my hearing, to navigate life. But with this photo, touch was the main sense at play. It was terrifying, and made me feel far too exposed.
I can’t recall what I was hoping to capture, but I do remember reaching out (with a healthy dose of hesitation and fear) and having my fingertips meet coarse tree bark. My brain said “tree” and that was quite enough for me, so I gladly retracted my hand, pointed the camera up, and got out of there. Now, examining this photo from the safety of home, it’s one of my favourites, and I find it intriguing that the spookiness I felt when taking it seems to linger.
Most of this adventure took place in open, primarily natural (or natural-ish) spaces, but the few moments spent under this bridge were palpably different and signalled a change in location to my senses. Though it was the evening and the air had that cool, spring feel, the chill that lingered in this space was all its own — a smidge more damp, colder. Sound was somehow both muffled and made louder. While the treed walking paths along the river drowned out the city noises, the concrete walls here created an echo chamber and amplified the hubbub.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words…but this one is definitely worth less. I knew I was on stairs (truly remarkable awareness, I know) and wanted to capture the moment and movement, so this photo is taken mid-stride. This is probably on par with what I would have captured with my eyes open, so I consider it a success on many fronts.
After conquering the stairs, I knew I was close to our apartment building (the big block on the left), and knew more or less what direction it was in, so from across the busy street I snapped this shot, then jaywalked home (after removing my blindfold).
Looking back on this now, having just moved out of that apartment in exchange for rural life last week, I can’t help but think this photo is perfect. I’m fairly confident it was not as dark out as this suggests, but my temporary blindness and longstanding inability to properly adjust the camera inadvertently constructed a photo that, to me, captures the sun setting on our time in Edmonton: an accidental goodbye to my home in the big city.
Love reading your writing. And what a crazy idea- blind photography. Fun and funny.