I recently rediscovered a big psychological hole in my photography practice. The Medieval Faire. I go every year, and with all the participants and visitors in costume, it's a great opportunity for pictures. And I forgot my camera. Correction: I forgot to bring a memory card for my camera, making it a worthless weight that I left in the trunk. And sadly, I think this oversight is Freudian, but let me backup to tell you the first part of the story.
Did I tell you about my camera? It's a pink Pentax. Yes, I said pink. I ordered it from a one-day one-sale kind of place, and it was a bit of an impulse buy. Sort of. I'd been watching cameras and camera prices for a while. I knew Pentax was a solid brand as they've been around for years. In fact, my very first SLR camera, back before the digital age, was daddy's Pentax he gave me for graduation. I checked reviews and found favorable information there. The price was good. And I could get something a little unusual but not ridiculous: a camera with a purple body. Only when it arrived at my office it wasn't purple (which would have been different without drawing a lot of attention), it was pink. Bright Barbie Pepto Bismal pink. I'm not really a pink kind of girl, and I was fairly disappointed. But I was determined to make the best of the situation, showing it off to family and friends with joy and laughter. How fun is this?! Inside though, I worried. Would anyone take me seriously with this? It's a pink camera for crying out loud! It could only be worse if it was pink GLITTER! Anyway, I put my fears aside and started dragging my camera with me for the occasional shooting expedition.
And then came the 2011 Medieval Faire. I dutifully strapped on my still-new very-pink Pentax, and headed to Norman, OK with My Amazing Boyfriend, his two kids, and my youngest daughter. And I shot this and that and was having a lovely time.
We stopped at one of the blacksmithing booths for the kids to get nails that had been hammered into tiny swords. Sadly that year, there was a burn ban in effect, and the smiths were not allowed to run their forges, but they still had their gear and costumes, just something less of a show than we were used to. At one booth, a strapping young fellow had a Canon strap across his neck and a pretty hefty camera in hand. A visitor/photographer approached, and asked him a bit about his camera. And proceeded to tell him about the girl he had seen earlier with the pink Pentax. The newcomer shook his head and said, “It doesn’t compare.” I just—stood there. Didn’t do or say a thing. Thankfully, our photographer/smith didn’t really respond. I thought about it a lot the rest of that day, and for many days after. Weeks even. It occasionally still haunts me. When I got home, I put the Pentax away and barely touched it for most of the next YEAR.
Part of me wants to be The Girl with the Pink Pentax. Part of me wants to embrace this fun, unusual, attention-drawing camera. That part of me knows it’s less about the camera and more about the photographer. That part of me dreams of portrait shoots with darling little girls and enchanting them with my bright pink “girlie” camera, setting them at instant ease with my less intimidating equipment. Another part of me can barely take myself seriously, much less expect others to. And I think that is precisely why I managed to forget a memory card at this year’s Medieval Faire.
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