I am confident my status as an amateur is safe, both as a writer and as a photographer. Writing was an important part of my employment from 1959 to 1978, and photography was a part of my employment from 1963 to 1978.

I never earned my living as either a writer or photographer. I would have starved. I have thought a lot about writing. Photography is more something I have simply learned gradually and simply done. I am grateful to The Hays Daily News and the Salina Journal and a few other publications for finding my writings fit to print. I am grateful to the venues here in Hays that have been hosts to my two photo exhibits this year, and to the venue in Salina where I will have a small exhibit starting July 2. The sponsors of the Salina exhibit asked me to prepare a presentation. This request has prompted me to think about photography in a new (for me) way. Some of the thoughts that have occurred to me on the topic seemed also to lend themselves to broader application

I am not bragging that I have no credentials or art-photography training, just as I don't brag that I have no training as a writer. These are simply facts. What I can say is that the absence of conventional training in either area might -- just might -- produce an unconventional view, voice or eye. The odds might be against the existence of a net advantage resulting from an absence of training, but it might happen.

In the spring of 1964, I was attending a course at old "Temporary Building E" (gone now), on the National Mall across from the National Gallery of Art. I had a one and one-half hour lunch break every day, which I always spent in the art gallery. I think I must have developed some sort of unconscious feel for relationships of shapes and dimensions. I didn't immediately connect this feel for composition with my photography. I was at the stage of simple delight with the capturing of images and carrying them away in a box. In Japan, later in 1964, one of my co-workers, himself not all that interested in art, but having been acquainted with basic compositional formulae (1:3 ratios, diagonals, S's, curves, framing) passed those on to me.

At once, I began seeing these formulae in published photographs, but also, more importantly, in the world around me. I began, gradually, to see the world with the camera's eye, even if I had no camera with me.

I won't itemize all the fine camera gear I acquired in Japan, 1964 to 1967. Good equipment helps, but I found it is not primary. During that time, I had access to a photo lab. I was able to "push" black and white ASAs to 2400 and beyond. One of my favorite photos, "Grandfather," was shot out in the street with only the illumination from shop fronts. I found such chemically facilitated feats satisfying, but it became clear that the most important thing was spotting a subject that "grabbed" me. I was too young (mid-20s) at the beginning to recognize the "grabbing" qualities of very many of the potential shots around me. Most of my photography in Japan and all over the Far East during those years was 35mm color slide work. Shooting slides was good for me, because I came to think in terms of framing exactly the composition I wanted. This meant that I was coming to some degree of recognition of what was there and what I wanted to do with it. I still shoot that way, even though I now shoot digital.

Though I started out with a formulaic approach to taking pictures, I developed new formulae for myself. Even better, I began to have confidence in what delighted me, even if the shot did not conform to a formula. Something that began to dawn on me (I think) in those years was that compositional relationships of objects was not merely a two-dimensional function within the frame, but three-dimensional, from foreground to deep in the distance within the frame.

Regarding the use of flash, I've always avoided it. This is not a criticism of others; but, for me, flash almost always works against what I am seeking in a photo. This may be because a flash photo usually seems (to me) invaded or disturbed. Ordinarily, when I photograph, I don't touch and don't disturb. All that having been said, two of my favorite photographs were the accidental result of my having failed to turn the flash off on cameras that default to "flash on" mode. One was Fantasia on an Old Mill. I was photographing an old mill and mill-dam at Brandon, Vermont. It was well after sunset, and nearly at the end of civil twilight. I intended to use available light, as I usually do, but accidentally left the flash on. Apparently, the falling water at the mill-dam filled the air with tiny droplets, and the droplets close to the camera reflected back the flash, producing an effect like floating semi-transparent spheres of differing sizes within the frame. The other was North Atlantic Sunrise Seascape from the Queen Mary 2. Part of the ship's mechanisms were emphasized in the foreground because of the accidental flash, producing a contrast between the transient works of man and the enduring sea. The lesson, I suppose, is to gratefully accept the benefits of the accidental or providential.

I think original ideas are rare, in the sense of emerging "out of the blue" in the minds of geniuses. I am not alone in thinking almost all human progress is a function of the convergence of necessary pre-existing knowledge or conditions. When the necessary conditions are in place, the next step is nearly inevitable. I don't think the telephone was invented by Alexander Graham Bell only. I don't think the theory of evolution was conceived by Charles Darwin only. My currently most delightful experiment -- photo prints on tabloid size sheets of rough watercolor paper -- was inspired by someone else's idea. During a Hays Art Walk a couple of years ago, I saw a 4-by-5 print by another artist, done on watercolor paper. I liked the idea, though I didn't think the small size exploited the concept to full effect. I figured I could do something with the idea. I found I could boost the brightness and otherwise tweak the image a bit, and achieve an almost Monet-like effect on a fairly large scale on the tabloid size rough watercolor paper. I wouldn't think of claiming credit for the idea, but I'm pleased with what I've done with it.

The key ingredient to whatever success I enjoy as an amateur photographer came, at least consciously, as I began to be old. That key ingredient is poignancy. The photo must, in some way, tug at the emotions. Sponsors or venues for an exhibit want a name or a theme to a photo exhibit. When first asked, I looked at the work I intended to exhibit and tried to identify a common theme. What I came up with was Compositions in the Transitory and the Enduring.

Of course, we can all recognize that even the enduring is transitory -- just in a slower cycle. (Even the mountains are but a moment in geological time.) That which exists for a short time only tugs at our emotions because our own mortality is always close to the surface of our consciousness. Those considerations aside, it is the moment that is never to be repeated. The light will never be the same again, on that combination of subjects, with the photographer in readiness. Another source of poignancy is, within the same frame, contrasting that which is obviously temporary with the relatively permanent. There may be some new breakthrough in the offing for me; however, for now, poignancy is pivotal.

As things are for me now, I am simply grateful that others enjoy my work.

I enjoy sharing it.

Weeden Nichols is a retired soldier, amateur photographer, former athlete, competitive bridge player, social justice worker and Scottish heritage enthusiast.