The Shot They Said Was Impossible
“You won’t get the shot.”
Those were the words of a veteran photographer as I set up my gear at the Korean War Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. He had worked for the Smithsonian, had far more experience than I did, and he wasn't being dismissive or unkind. He was looking at the scene through years of technical experience - the difficult lighting, deep shadows, reflective stainless-steel figures and unforgiving night sky - and telling me what he genuinely believed: the photograph I was describing probably wasn't going to work. I respected his experience then, and I still do. But while he was looking at the technical limitations, I could already see the photograph I wanted to make.
It was a humid July evening, and shortly before I parked, the sky opened up. Not a gentle summer shower. Not a sprinkle. I'm talking cats-and-dogs, seriously, THIS is what I'm going to get? rain. So I waited. About twenty minutes later, it stopped - and suddenly what had seemed like terrible luck became an advantage. The downpour had cleared many of the visitors from the memorial, and everything left behind was wet, reflective and more saturated. The conditions weren't what I had planned for, but they had given me something I hadn't planned for either. Sometimes photography is as much about recognizing what a moment gives you as it is about getting what you originally wanted.
I made my way to the memorial and began setting up. I had a very specific image in mind: the American flag prominent in the composition, with the figures of the memorial emerging from the darkness behind it. I wanted nearly everything in black and white, with only the flag remaining in color. Most of the photographs we associate with the Korean War were made in black and white, and I wanted that history to echo through the image while allowing the red, white and blue of the flag to remain firmly in the present. The selective color wasn't something I decided afterward because it looked dramatic; it was part of the photograph I had envisioned before I pressed the shutter.
And that other photographer's words were still in my head: You won't get the shot. Maybe he was right. There was only one way to find out. I stayed. I waited. I adjusted. I made several exposures, working through the difficult light and the conditions in front of me until I had what I came for. The photograph wasn't made because I knew he was wrong. It was made because I needed to find out for myself.
Looking back, that's what I remember most about that night. Not proving someone else wrong, but trusting what I could see in my own mind long enough to try. Experience matters. Technical knowledge matters. Listening to people who know more than you matters. But there are also moments when another person's experience tells them something can't be done while your own curiosity keeps asking, But what if it can?
Sometimes the only answer is to stay, wait, adjust—and press the shutter.
More than twenty years later, I'm still glad I did.
The photograph from that rainy July evening is now part of my print collection and is available through my Etsy shop. [View the photograph here.]
Until next time - keep finding the beauty in the details.
All images Copyright © Janet Davis. All rights reserved. Artwork may not be reproduced or resold without the express permission of the artist.
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