Photography

My father always took photographs. Its one of my earliest memories I have of him. We also had an 8mm movie camera that you had to wind up to use, but it was always an add on. Photographs are what I remember. When he could, my Dad took slides, and if we nagged him enough on a Sunday evening, we’d get to haul out the projector screen and watch pictures from our last holiday in Etosha, or my Dad’s trip to London or Paris. If we got lucky we’d even have popcorn with it.

I remember my Dad leaving on his overseas trips. He’d go for a month (flying was an event in those day), lugging a suitcase of photographic eqipment with him. I kid you not. He had a Hasselblad at the time (those who know cameras also know they only come in sizes similar to bricks). It had the advantage that you could swap between colour and black and white film without changing spools. Very neat. Then there was the tripod, and the wide ange lens, and 3 telephoto lenses. And the light meter. And the cleaning kit. And a separate box for the flash unit.

I was given the Hasselblad when I was thirteen. It crapped itself shortly after that, but it instilled in me a passion for taking photographs that is still with me. These days cameras are smaller, and easier to use. I don’t travel with a whole suitcase of equipment. But I always have a camera with me.

He took this pic years ago, when I was about 8. It’s a scanned copy of a damaged slide. We were fighting veld fires in the Eastern Free State, late at night. My Dad doesn’t take photos anymore. But I still send him my pics. And we still talk about travelling. That’s something else I got from him.