2014 - LENS

A creative piece I wrote as part of my coursework at SUNY New Paltz.

I’m walking back from class on my university campus when I see it.

A bench.

It’s off to the side of the main path, on a square of beige concrete. The legs of the bench are made of black iron that curves up and stems out into armrests that look like monocles with the cord hanging sideways. The slats of wood making up the seat that bends up into the backrest are gray and faded smooth like they’ve undergone extensive sanding. And I suppose from all of their temporary inhabitants, they have. There are also two small works of graffiti scribbled on the slat just under the very top one – JFA and MFV.

While everyone else is stepping to the side to walk around me, I have stopped short. It’s weird the way our minds work. The way different people process different things. And based on what? Different backgrounds. Different upbringings. Different schooling.

My mind snaps to my camera case in my dorm room hanging on the corner of the bed. My eyes shift focus and now I’m looking through a lens. I’m seeing this bench as a photograph in a museum or gallery, not a place to sit.

I think about an installation with what I’m seeing as the centerpiece. The showstopper. The Bench.

How would I compose the photograph? Would I have time to use the light meter on my camera to create the perfect exposure, or should I use the automatic feature so as not to lose the moment? Where would I stand? Is the lighting optimum for interesting details and shadows? Wide angle lens? Zoom? Fisheye? Luster paper or matte? Maybe it would look best in black and white.

Should I use my film camera? I think of the old-fashioned camera with the polka-dot strap I bought on Amazon for four dollars because it didn’t come with one. Manually load the film. Crank. Look through. Use the tiny plus and minus symbols as a guide for proper exposure. Click. One of the most satisfying sounds I’ll ever hear, and one of my favorites. Thirty-five more and the roll is finished.

Bring it to the studio. Develop the film. Into the darkroom. I’d head over to my favorite station, the one in the corner under one of the dim red lights that our photo paper is not sensitive to. With my strip of negatives cut neatly into sections with five images each, I’d select my favorite and load it into the negative carrier. With a number 2 filter, a little flat pink square, on top of it and my paper safely stored away, I’d turn on the exposure light to focus and position the image in the frame.

My bench looks weird with its values inversed but I see the final product in my head. It’s ready and the light is turned off. One sheet of paper is placed into the 8x10 frame being careful not to move it and change the composition. Set the aperture, which determines how much light will be let through onto the paper, and the shutter timer, which determines how long. Press the button to expose; wait 9 seconds.

Even though there are about 15 stations in here I come late at night to be alone—I like it best this way. I have my headphones in and my iPod in my back pocket. A song comes on that I don’t like. I want to skip it but I can’t because the backlight from the screen will fog my print.

The paper still appears blank as I carry it over to the trays of chemicals but I know the bench is there now, like a secret. Into the developer. Three minutes. Agitate. My bench slowly fades into existence. Stop bath. Fifteen seconds. Fixer. Five minutes. Water bath. Ten minutes. Fixer remover. Quick rinse. I see the image now. It looks good from in here.

As my eyes adjust to the bright lights in the hall outside of the darkroom I see that it could use just a tad more contrast.

Head back in and start over.

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I remember back in high school when I was first learning this process that every step made me nervous. Before you can even take the exposed roll of film out of the camera, you have to rewind it back into the canister. It really is a simple step but if you forget, after developing you will see that there aren’t any pictures. Only a long, black filmstrip.

Well, my first time, I forgot. I was beyond excited to finally see what would come of all these lessons by doing it myself. Our teacher gave us the go-ahead and I popped open the back of my borrowed film camera. I thought something looked off and it only took me a split second to realize what I’d done. I slammed it closed. It only takes a split second to expose an entire roll of film.

Ruined. My first time and it’s ruined. I carried a lump in my throat as I approached our teacher.

“Develop it anyway,” he said, “so you learn the process hands-on. It’s okay if they don’t come out.”

I was upset but joined the rest of the class in the step-by-step procedure. When we got to the point when you get to see you developed filmstrip for the first time. I began to watch other people. Their eyes lit up seeing the tiny row of purple and black images that they had created.

But some were not so happy. A boy with meaty hands was flattening out his strip and staring blankly at it. There wasn’t anything there. And it’s not even as if he had made the

same mistake I had, because then it would have been black. Instead it was completely empty. Only the clear purplish material sat on the workbench in front of him, now curled back up.

“You never advanced the film when it was in your camera...” Our teacher was looking over his shoulder. “So you didn’t actually expose any images.”

Other kids had less dramatic issues like light stains, fogginess, and lots of over- and underexposed pictures.

I didn’t want to look at mine.

Finally I opened the tank, pulled out my roll, and stretched it out over my head under the bright ceiling light.

Images. They were there. From one end to the other, almost perfect. Only one spot toward the end faded to a solid black for about three inches.

“See..? It looks like you’ve got the best in the class!” Our teacher had appeared on the opposite side of the bench. “Except for this spot here.” He pointed at it and chuckled.

And that’s when I truly relaxed into the art and found rhythm in the process.

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Or maybe I’d choose the digital route.

I’ve had a few sets of digital photographs published in local papers and the campus online publication.

At home this passed summer my friend contacted me about her uncle’s local theatre group in Schenectady. A new show of theirs was opening in a few months and they wanted to get the word out.

I had met the troupe and my friend at a mansion in a very wealthy neighborhood in Albany that had a beautiful garden in the back complete with vine-covered arches and at least two fountains. The director told me what kind of look they were going for and posed the cast accordingly, telling me every few minutes that I could take my creative freedom “as long as they come out sparkling!”

When our session was over, I shook hands with everyone and went home to my laptop. The director told me that they didn’t need the final edited images for a week or so. But being excited for the job and the paper credit, they were ready by midnight that night. It took four emails to send them since the files were high quality and larger than normal.

A few weeks later, there they were. Two large, color photographs on the second page of the Altamonte Enterprise and somewhere in the middle of the Albany Times Union. And on both of these websites there were click-through galleries with about 20 photographs total and the captions I had written to appear with them.

I smiled at the tiny “PHOTOGRAPH BY EMILY DEFRANCO” printed at the end of each one.

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My Nikon D3000 DSLR is a staple of my outfit most of the time. It’s not the fanciest or most expensive one but it’s the same model I learned to use in high school and decided to save up and buy for myself.

With this instrument I would be able to see my bench the second it’s captured. Right there on a digital screen. Instant gratification.

I’d probably opt for auto exposure and auto focus for the time being and then worry about tweaking that later in the editing process. Should there be depth of field? Will there be a lens flare? If there isn’t should I put one? I’d probably take about 30 pictures of this bench before heading back to my room to upload.

The strap would be starting to dig into my shoulder by now and my hair would get caught in it.

Once the files are on my computer I stare at the thumbnails of 30 benches. It’s almost comical. The hours of editing begin. It is very different from the darkroom process but the time is more or less the same to get down to what I really want. Here my editing is done in Photoshop, where I will play with levels and curves and the tiniest of spot correcting tools until it is perfect.

I decide on black and white.

At the end of either process I have a finished print or two sitting on my bed. Should I use a frame? Should it be black or white? How thick? All of this has been just a moment of thought in my busy day. A literal snapshot. The process is never really over.

Tomorrow I might see a streetlamp. Or maybe the perfect tree. Sometimes this is just the way it is.

I want people to understand why I put in the time. To allow for a glimpse into my world. To see what I see.

Life through a lens.