The camera vs the artist

People say this to me a lot. They mean it as a compliment. A friendly observation. A harmless little quip. But every time I hear it, I imagine walking up to a chef after an exquisite meal and saying, “Wow, your stove really cooks great food.”

Ah yes, the camera. My trusty sidekick. The real talent. The one that spent years sketching figures in the margins of notebooks, learning the curve of a spine, the slope of a jawline. The one that walked the halls of the National Gallery as a kid, staring up at grand oil painted faces of kings and queens and thinking, "How do I do this now? In this world?" The one that studied not just light and shadow but emotions, insecurities, the way people brace themselves when they expect disappointment.

The camera, of course, is the one that learned how to speak gently to nervous souls, how to pull laughter from a place they forgot they had. The camera is the one that spent years understanding the language of a furrowed brow, a hesitant touch, a breath held too long. The camera did all of that. Not me.

And yet, people say it, and I just smile. Because maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I don’t need to correct them. Because the truth is, this was never about me anyway.

You step in front of my lens, and something happens. You become both the brush and the art. The light bends for you, the shadows carve around you like a Michelangelo sculpture just waiting to be revealed. I just help it along.

So sure, if you want to think it’s the camera, go ahead. I’ll let you. Because at the end of the day, I still get to make something beautiful with you. And that’s the only part that ever mattered.

-Marvin