There’s a passage from Moby Dick that always makes me chuckle.
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
Boredom and disillusionment can eat away at one’s spirt, but there’s a potent antidote: adventure, always adventure, whatever form it takes for you.
In my case, when I’m tempted to knock people’s hats off their heads, I capture street portraits instead.
There’s something bracing, nerve-jangling, and incredibly enlivening about photographing strangers, with their bright surfaces and unfathomable depths.
I don’t have an urge to explore the sea. No, strangers are ocean enough for me.
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