"A portrait photographer depends upon another person to complete his picture.  The subject imagined, which in a sense is me, must be discovered in someone else willing to take part in a fiction he cannot possibly know about."

-- Richard Avedon

This sums up my entire current preoccupation with portrait photography.  As I read more about Avedon's work, I am increasingly fascinated by the connection he builds between photographer and subject.

In a way this wordless connection strikes a deep chord with me as an introverted person.  This doesn't just describe portraits.  For me, it describes the underpinnings of how I relate to other people.

At first I wondered if a difficulty connecting with others in everyday life would beget a similar difficulty in pulling the "subject imagined" from those I photograph.

The answer, I think, lies in the integrity of that wordless connection. As I watch people from afar, am I imagining my perceptions of them?  If they don't reciprocate of even know about the connection I feel, is it real?

Or, do I understand people well but just have trouble expressing myself to them?  If this is the case, one could argue my portraits of people are a window to how I see/understand them.

A coworker recently forwarded me an article from the Baltimore Sun about a phenomenon the writer calls "online sociability fatigue."  I call it good timing, because when I got her email I hadn't touched my Twitter or Google Reader feeds in about a week.

As a person with  more than 1000 unread items in Google Reader at any given time, a twice-weekly blog, a Twitter feed for the not-as-blog-worthy tidbits, a Flickr stream, and a healthy addiction to Facebook Scrabble (among other things), it's out of character for me to go even a few days without any of these things.  I even considered getting a smartphone just so I could stay connected and productive during the rare times I don't have access to a computer, like the three-hour drive up to my parents' place in Pennsylvania.  This description doesn't even address the blogging, Facebooking, Flickring and YouTube-ing for work, which is another story entirely.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if I shouldn't be doing more to stop the tide here.  How much is just too much?  I have friends who don't log into Facebook every day and they get along just fine.  Though I don't think it takes up too much of my time, on days when I consciously shun my computer upon returning home from work I do get a lot more accomplished.  I play my flute, I sing classic show tunes, I pick up around the house or plant a new garden.  If I feel especially brave, I might make plans with friends.

Somehow, these seem like the elements of my life that constitute the meat, the stuff that means something.  In the end, the best friendships are ones where I can invite someone over and sit on the porch with a drink for a couple hours (geographic location permitting, of course).  Likewise, at some point I feel like a lot of the time I spend looking at art blogs should be spent exploring with my camera.

We constantly seek balance in our lives, and in many ways the irresistible flood of information coming from the Intarwebs is usurping the grounded, physical time we need to keep it together.  The thought of turning my computer off for a day, even though I still have one at work, scares me a little.  But I think it's something to aspire to.  I think I need to refocus on what I did before the Internet became a way of life (and yes, I do remember).

And, ironically, I'll probably blog about it along the way.

Yesterday I needed a short distraction at the office, so I pulled out my little notebook and paged through all the thoughts I jotted down a couple months ago.  Though I recommend this sort of review for everyone, I happen to have a terrible memory.  Reading my ideas from January can be like having them for the first time all over again, just from a different angle.

In early February, I wrote down a question in response to who-knows-what and stumbled across it in yesterday's reading: "do you more commonly read photos as social commentary or 'captured moments,' design elements?"

Portraits have invaded my mind of late, so I  applied this snippet there.  Portrait photography presents a personal challenge for me in that the subjects often look to the photographer for guidance.  I don't want to have that upper hand, as I am more interested in the "captured moments" and would rather allow natural poses to reveal themselves gradually.

Then again, one of my favorite portrait photographers is Richard Avedon, and his photos are far from candid or photojournalistic.  At the same time, Avedon evoked some essential truth from his subjects that seems inherently them despite his direction.

While I've always thought an effective commentary relied on candid, photojournalistic portraits, the photographer's role is more broad than that.  For example, Avedon took on a far more aggressive role than an invisible observer: he actively identified and pulled defining qualities from his subjects, often through touchy conversations.  Maybe this could be done in the passive style I've taken to in the past, but maybe it couldn't.  I'm beginning to realize I have to take the reigns at some point if I want to make a switch from inanimate objects to people as subjects of my work.

My point is, "commentary" and "captured [authentic] moments" aren't mutually exclusive.  Many portriat photographers build a very deliberate image from the human subject, and I'd like to explore this further.  As I said in my last post, though, I'm an introvert.  I have trouble building normal friend-relationships with people, let alone forming a precise photographer-subject relationship with people I may or may not have an existing connection with.  It's worth a try, though, and maybe -- in the same way that introverted people sometimes make the best actors -- it will be more comfortable than I expect.  Either way, I'm eager to find out how to achieve natural, engaging portraits with a consistent aesthetic style -- and I'd love to hear your thoughts on different approaches you've seen or tried.

Image copyright Richard Avedon.  View more at http://www.richardavedon.com/

Plans for a new photo project have given way to an abundance of introspection lately on art and self, and how the two intertwine.  The past two years represent an incubating period for my work, a time of smaller-scale projects to keep active as the next exciting idea worked its way to my doorstep.  While far from meaningless, these images still tend to portray scenes and subject matter I enjoyed photographing.  Here I emphasize the fact that the first few sessions or rolls preceded the complete formation of the idea.

Recently, a larger idea has preceded actual photographs and I've been preparing myself for a lengthier, heavier project.  As happy as I am for the breath of fresh air and the flood of new inspiration, this project means something far beyond rolls of film and aesthetic infatuations that got me thinking.

Stretching even farther, I would say I now want to create art with far more personal meaning, work that expresses fundamental aspects of self I've previously left unexplored.  Though I consider my series of nighttime industrial scenes as well as my reclamation images fairly well-developed projects, they act much like I do in everyday life: they make compelling insights, but don't necessarily bare the soul of the artist.

Artists play many roles, but most importantly they encourage the audience to consider a subject in a different light.  Visual art challenges our assumptions and preconceptions.  It questions common ideas and images.  But what happens when we bump up against subject matter that lies outside our comfort zone.  What if, in the process of discovering the images, we find we are less comfortable than we thought with the inherent publicness of art?

The images we create are intrinsically linked to our selves, a visual representation of our thought processes.  My feeling has always been that the best work is done just outside our comfort zones.  Just like you should always apply for a few jobs you're underqualified for, you should never be afraid to challenge yourself with a new project you're not quite sure how to manage.

I'm interested to know any current or historic examples of how introverted artists approach their work.  Is personal subject matter somewhat more abstract, just as we tend to speak more abstractly to suggest at -- but still skirt around -- an issue?  What about more thoughtful, but external, content, like lonely buildings or decaying industrial structures?  Or do many artists find it easier to express themselves directly through art?  It all stretches in front of me, to be discovered over the course of an exciting new project.  You can expect lots of writing and preliminary photos in months to come.

Last Friday I had the opportunity to attend Big Art Day, an annual event at Kutztown University that connects fine arts alumni with current and prospective students. As a recent graduate doing marginally cool things and eager to reconnect with my professors, I broke out of my reclusive shell and made the trip up to central Pennsylvania.

The whole day proved valuable for me in terms of networking, touring new facilities, visiting with old classmates and professors, and taking in presentations by fellow alumni. One of the kernels that got me thinking was the mantra we all hear as creative people: the most important thing you can do to help your craft is practice it every day. Write. Photograph. Sketch. Do something.

I really take issue with the image of The Artist as this bottomless vessel of inspiration, and It's important to acknowledge the struggles artists experience throughout their creative lives. We all go through times when we just have to keep doing it despite not exactly overflowing with pride at the work we're producing. It's this perseverance that sets successful artists apart.

By the end of Big Art Day, I knew I had to get back in gear. As a somewhat intellectual artist, I constantly have to fight the inclination to put the cart before the horse. Unlike folks who always keep busy in their sketchbooks and feel most comfortable experimenting visually, I like to produce art within the structure of An Idea. While I've created great end products, the in-between is often lacking. After all, no one can expect excellent ideas every single day.

This calls to mind an entry in my paper journal from my first VISTA year. Coming out of college, my VISTA program felt like the hugest challenge I'd ever accepted. Despite my insecurities and wonderings – “what if I don't do enough, can't do enough?” -- I came out of my year of service far more confident than I had arrived. As time went on, I realized the value of remaining. Most endeavors don't require you to be a superstar, they require perseverance and consistent hard work.

For my work, this means accepting the ebb and flow of creative inspiration. More specifically, it means committing to updating this blog on a schedule rather than fussing about people potentially discovering it during a down time. It means taking photographs every day even if I don't have a strong idea for a project. Maybe it even means selling some of those “every day” photos to support my increased production.

None of this is particularly difficult, it just requires daily attention, something we may at times be hard pressed to provide even to our significant others. But it's the most important part of the creative process – not selling work, getting gallery representation, being awarded grants, nor thinking of the Best Idea Ever. Nope. The true success, the sole path to all that other stuff, is keeping the momentum going even when things aren't great.

Photo from expired 110 cartridge film.  I try to take photos with my Focal Micro 110 every day.

As often happens in this town, I found myself enjoying some delicious food with a friend the other day. Also not uncommon, we got to discussing our respective careers, shifting landscapes at our offices, and our plans for the future.

The conversation made me wonder: where am I going? Does it matter? A successful career can be defined as continually working to find the best “fit.” I see a problem immediately: I don't necessarily know what that best fit is. Last night I hosted an event for our VISTA team called “Life After VISTA,” where some of our VISTA alumni returned to talk about how they prepared for the end of their year and transitioned into a professional career. One woman said “don't feel bad if you still don't know what you want to do.”

During my meal with my friend I hinted at something I haven't considered for a few years: working for myself, doing freelance jobs, and pursuing my art as a (but not the only) primary career. I talked about applying for a few grants for my own work (imagine that) so I could spend more time on my photography.

One of the college professors I learned the most from tried to give us realistic expectations: it's very difficult and very lucky to be able to forgo a “day job.” With that in mind, though...where do I fit? It's a question I've been asking for years now.

Most likely I'll choose to pursue a career somehow connected to national service. However, it's a good exercise for everyone to give some serious thought to their career from time to time. Answering the questions “where do I fit?” “what am I truly passionate about?” and “am I really happy when I wake up in the morning?” is helps us to define where we are, where we're going, and how we can direct our efforts to get the most out of our precious hours, days, and years.

Luckily for me, I have a contract that lasts until August 2009, so my career reflections aren't too rushed at this point. But come May, I can imagine I'll be thinking a lot more about how I want to proceed with my career as it relates to grant-writing, visual arts, and national service.

Over the holidays I happened to meet an old friend of a friend, described and introduced to me as “also into photography.” I feel like an expectation comes with meeting another artist that we will automatically forge a connection based on our shared occupation. This woman happened to live in New York, drawing and taking photos and working behind the scenes for the popular ARTstor digital image database.

As I stood in the front foyer at my in-laws' house, somewhat enamored and thinking how much this new person reminded me of a friend in Baltimore, I thought for a minute about my path thus far. I always wonder what impression I make on people who are much more cut and dry Artists than I am. Do I look like I've copped out by shunning the New York art universe and making my own way in a much smaller city? Should I be applying for a job at the BMA next year, visiting DC more often, looking for residencies, considering my current day job a step along the way or even a stall point in the process?

Much of my motivation to join AmeriCorps stemmed from a disconnect I felt, the lack of desire to move to New York, keep up with the gallery scene there, try to “make it” in the capital of the art world. Art students (or this one, at least) feel a lot of pressure to focus on New York, on the big biennials and the new superstar artists. After college,, I'm sure there was a mass migration northward to test all the skills we'd learned not just at making art, but also shamelessly marketing and selling ourselves to galleries in Chelsea. And then there was me, following my husband to a career in the Baltimore/DC area and looking for a day job I could fall in love with.

Sure, working at a museum or gallery would be great, in theory. But just because it's an “art job” doesn't mean it's going to be ultimately fulfilling. I'm sure that was on my mind when I wrote the following in my AmeriCorps*VISTA motivational statement: “My career should be something that makes me proud, something I can't stop smiling about, when I'm doing it or when I'm telling others about it.” After years of working in retail, I knew a day job was never just a day job.

Right now I'm involved in a career path I'm willing to petition the President about. Honestly, no matter what some of my art professors may think of my progress, I feel extremely lucky to say that. I'm still taking pictures, still entering juried contests, still looking for grant money, still thinking and writing about my art. I'm also serving my country and extremely proud to do so. When my term runs up next August, regardless of what I choose to do post-VISTA, I will be a lifelong advocate for national service. My experience over the last year and a half has impacted and changed me tremendously, set me on a path I never would have expected in the months preceding my college commencement ceremony.

Again, I feel truly blessed to be here. My path as an artist may not be the stereotypical image of success, but that's okay with me. I feel great when I come home every evening, and that's what matters. Artists or not, it's what we're all looking for.

I've had a few interesting conversations this week around self-publishing in general and blogging in particular. A coworker and fellow blogger shared my sentiments about blogs: sometimes it's just so difficult to keep the momentum going.

The question I've been playing with – and relating to the relative difficulty of maintaining a serious blog – is, what validates self-published work? Before the internet allowed us infinite possibilities for self-promotion, creative work passed through a limited number of routes to reach the public eye. Written work like mine would need to be picked up by a newspaper, a magazine, a publishing company even.

Now, with a truly global market for ideas, self-promotion has become an art in its own right. Words + Images exists not because an editor thought it worth printing, but because I imagined it and created a home for it and made a commitment to complete one post weekly, no later than Tuesday morning. Promotion, visibility, recognition, and success are not guaranteed, and standard rules of advertising do not apply. Instead, underground phenomena spread virally, promoted by millions of Gen Y'ers and Millenials vying to be the first to discover the newest cool thing on the internet.

Is this what validates self-published work? Trying to get one's work seen – whether in a gallery, magazine, book, etc. -- in traditional media can be incredibly demoralizing, and self-publishing can at times feel like an easy way out. Lately I'm inclined to feel otherwise. Keeping this blog going is a labor of love and it relies entirely on my own personal motivation to keep making the time commitment week after week. Not only have I continued to write for Words + Images, but I have spent many a weekend correcting bugs, solving emergencies, and attending to other overhead.

I'm of a mind that self-publishing and the internet have provided the next evolution of “art for art's sake.” With it we see a liberation of the artist, and a new kind of dedication: one that doesn't rely on acceptance letters or royalties or good reviews, but solely on the creator's will to keep it alive even when it seems no one is looking.

This weekend we spent a three-day weekend in Brigantine, NJ for some well-deserved beach and family time.  I debated taking my whole camera bag, supposing that my purse-sized Lumix would do the trick.  In the end, though, I almost always end up packing all my gear in case I should be overcome by a sudden urge to take pictures that require Camera Raw, 10 megapixels, off-camera lighting, or a tripod.

Nothing like a relaxing weekend at the beach, enjoying the company of six people crammed into a two-bedroom bungalow.  Oh, and some ambitious photography projects on the side.

Predictably, I was somewhat disappointed in myself when I returned home with no pictures, but I'm left to wonder: do I beat up on myself too much?  Like in every other aspect of my life, do my high standards hinder me more than they help?

In college, I had a professor who firmly believed visual art -- and painting in particular -- should be our whole lives.  Unless we walked/ate/slept/dreamed painting, we could not call ourselves true artists.  This mentality dealt the final blow to my enthusiasm for a visual arts degree in large part because I gave up on some big dreams earlier in life because I couldn't bear the thought of that fierce intellectual monogamy.  Now someone was trying to force it on me, something I just couldn't swallow.

The bottom line is photography will never be my whole life.  Nor will writing or music or sewing curtains for the spare bedroom.  Sometimes a walk on the Atlantic City boardwalk is just that, a walk on the boardwalk.  No analysis, no careful and particular observation, no being left behind because no one wanted to wait for me to create the perfect shot.  There will be weekends for that.  I can plan a whole series of work around the Jersey Shore, allot entire weekends to my images.

Maybe it's also okay for me to come home from a weekend at the beach with no photography to show for it.  Maybe, for this weekend, I was defined by my place in my family as opposed to my place behind the camera.  While I sometimes envy people whose cameras are a permanent part of them, even they go through dry spells.  I'll never be shooting constantly, but I hit a pretty good rhythm with consistency.   Some days other pursuits just take precedence, and that's an important part of how I live and work.

This isn't something I should feel guilty about.  I am not a single-minded person with a perfectly crystallized identity and direction to my life.  I am a grazer who wanders through and past just about everything.  I used to beat myself up over this part of myself, but I've come to know its unique pleasures and advantages as well.

Even if to the outside world it looks like I'll never get my act together.

Most people with visual art degrees don't end up "using" their degree as a primary career.  While I would argue the meaning of "using" any kind of college degree, I certainly can't claim to have landed an "art job" after graduation.  I've taken what I feel must be a common route and begun a career in the non-profit sector.  (As a side note, that explains my disappearance for two weeks as I most certainly did use my degree to help write 17 grants to help local schools).

Sort of disenfranchised by the "art world" and sick of feeling like New York City was the center of everything that mattered, I struggled in my last semester of undergrad to figure out what "career" really meant to me.  I knew one thing: it didn't mean money and corporate success, though I know I could succeed in that sense if I had the inclination.  So I signed on for a year of AmeriCorps*VISTA (think domestic Peace Corps) and found a niche in a quirky but awesome non-profit here in Baltimore.

I made a choice.  Plenty of my former colleagues are probably sucking up to galleries trying to get representation, and I know a few have found very well-deserved success.  But I made another choice and created a different identity for myself.  Now I have a choice again.  My VISTA year is ending, and as of August 15 I am no longer property of the U.S. Government.

What will I do?  I have a choice to stay in the vein of urban public education, stay in the vein of urban youth, stay in non-profits, or start over entirely.  This process of reinventing myself every year or two has to stop.  For one, I have a lot of trouble concentrating on the "fun" side of life when all I have done for the past six years is change concentrations, schools, jobs, and towns.  By signing on for a year-long contract position, I've forced myself to make another choice and another change.

Though my diploma calls me an artist, I could be happy at any job and do well almost anywhere I landed.  The question is, how many of those jobs really matter?  Last night as I was falling asleep I thought of all the children I have gotten to know in Baltimore this year and wondered where they were sleeping, what their houses were like.  I wondered how, having done so much, I can just walk away, another college-educated white person who has done a year's time in the inner city trying to make the world a better place.  That's not me.  Personally, if I believe in something I want it to be a way of life.  I can't walk away from all those children to work in the coat room at the BMA, or even to be an office manager at Baltimore Office of Promotion and the Arts.  Can I?

Again I'm at this crossroads with my career, wondering which identify I want to run with this time: the visual artist; the nerdy kid who loved physics, calculus, and psychology (though not necessarily in that order); the writer; the Habitat for Humanity volunteer; the underpaid non-profit employee who worked overtime with a team to put in $250,000 in grant proposals last week; or the woman who worked tirelessly in a public school in Baltimore for the past year.  Somewhere, sometime in the next few weeks, I'll find it.

I have been asked twice in the past few weeks to give my opinion on traditional vs. digital photo processes.  I find it interesting that this remains an argument in the photographic universe, and even more interesting that many people seem to take an either/or approach.

Digital photography is here to stay.  There are those of us who fought the dominance of cassettes over CDs, email over snail mail, and even questioned the necessity of high-speed internet when dial-up started to become obsolete.  Once an advance in technology comes down the line, it is impossible to roll it back, for better or worse.  Throughout history there are plenty of occasions when our ingenuity has led us down a not-so-nice road, but there is no “un-discovery,” only a need to consider carefully what we have made.

In a given body of work, the choice between film and digital can have a profound effect on the content and meaning of the photographs, a fact that often seems overlooked in the ideological debate of old versus new.  We need to make the choice consciously and intelligently, the same way we choose a film speed to attain a specific look and feel to our images.

This intelligent choice forms the crux of my view on the matter and brings out a critical issue presented by cheap digital technology.  The digital camera revolution, with more than a little help from the internet, has brought photography to the masses like never before. 

The difference between consumer film cameras and professional photographic ones has usually been clear.  The Pentax 35mm point and shoot that carried me through middle and high school took snapshots.  My finished film and prints came from the one-hour photo and I placed them into fuzzy, leopard-print albums for safekeeping.  The big SLR had many more moving parts and I developed those prints myself.  At that point I was taking photographs.

Cheap consumer digital cameras have opened the floodgates for free, unlimited high-resolution pictures.  Even digital SLRs are now within everyone’s reach.  When I was in Europe, the vast majority of American tourists I saw had dSLRs.  However, I doubt many of them were utilizing the full potential of their equipment simply because they were using them as glorified point and shoots, setting the camera on full auto and snapping away.

The key here is conscious choice.  If I photograph the ruins of Bethlehem steel with really fast, really grainy black and white film, I alter the content of that work when I go back and shoot the scene at ISO 100.  Likewise, digital photographs provide a different process and a different feel.  The fact that black and white prints are made by hand and digital prints are computer- and machine-generated is significant.

Digital photography as a professional tool presents us with some responsibility.  Knowing and experiencing both processes is essential to developing a full mastery of the medium.  Choosing one over the other should be something every photographer can explain.  When using a digital SLR, I find it necessary to use all manual controls to achieve the image I want.  This is important. 

Creating truly great photographs should still require us to stop and consider the scene, adjust the aperture, shutter speed, and focus, and carefully frame the shot.  We should still look at the light meter.  Photography hasn’t changed that much.  It is still about a lot of exploration and intelligent choices with some happy accidents mixed in, all of which should be made by our own hand.  Digital has a lot of tempting shortcuts, but we must learn all the techniques of the medium if we want to mature as image-makers.  Otherwise we are just taking very pretty snapshots.

I received my acceptance package from MICA in the mail on Saturday.  Despite my uncertainty about what I'd like to do after my AmeriCorps*VISTA year ends on June 24th, being accepted into a supposedly very competitive graduate program is a validating experience.  My scholarship letter cites my "outstanding qualifications" and "superior achievement in visual arts."  I may be hard on myself much of the time, but these words do manage to make me feel like perhaps the struggle of my undergraduate years and the hard work I have put in afterward was good for something.

Incidentally, my entire visual art portfolio was photography even though I concentrated in painting for my BFA.  Once again I am reminded of the intense struggle I felt every day in the painting studio.  I continually felt unable to live up to my professors' expectations and unable to compete with my peers.  How much of this came from my own high standards for myself I will never know, but I do think one professor in particular made me realize painting was not my true calling.  He was passionate, maybe even maniacal, about painting and favored students who felt -- or at least expressed themselves -- similarly.  He must have seen some sort of potential in me or he never would have tried to push me so hard, but I always ended up feeling like he was trying to wrench something out of me that just wasn't there.

In the end, I have realized (or rediscovered, since I was hell-bent on becoming a professional musician between fourth and tenth grade) that I just do not think visually.  It is why I cannot draw objects from memory and struggle to draw from a subject sitting in front of me.  It is why I painted more for the experience of the paint than I did for the images.  Maybe it is even why I often get lost, unable to visualize a map in my head.  Certainly it is why I found 4 Weeks to an Organized Life With AD/HD to be so unhelpful.

But if I'm not a visual thinker, why this continued interest in the visual arts?  Why am I still drawn to photography, and why did I submit a portfolio to a visual arts graduate program?

I really think photography allows me freedom from my inability to visualize.  I am at home behind the viewfinder because for once, my image has been laid out before me in perfect detail.  I can adjust angles and depth of field, work little by little until I have the frozen image that explains the scene exactly as I saw and felt it.  There is no other way to preserve it.  I adore photographs because they preserve a thought, a memory in a way my mind usually cannot. 

While I can always remember the tone of a voice that has called my name, photographs allow me to look into the eyes of someone I have lost.  They also evoke the spirit of a scene as I felt it at the moment I released the shutter.  While I dream of taking a sketchpad, india ink, and brushes along on an upcoming trip to Europe, I know I shouldn't even bother.  I should buy a special journal and an extra memory card.  I should take hundreds, even thousands of photographs.  I should write out all the words in my head while I'm sitting outside a cafe in Venice because this is how I will capture it.

As I continue to explore who I am, not who I convince myself to be, I am learning all over again that I think in music and eloquent words, but I see through my photographs.

Becoming a college student again: it's a thought that rolled around my mind many times today. As I made my journey through Bolton Hill, crossing Mount Royal Avenue on foot and strolling into the heart of the MICA campus, I slipped between scores of art students on their way to and from class and surprised myself at how well I blended in. I looked like one of them, for sure, and for the first time I was adrift in a sea of people like me.

This was hardly a homecoming experience. After spending many months of my undergraduate career wishing I could share company with people like me, after eagerly plotting my escape from James Rouse's utopian city because I feel like there isn't a soul I can relate to in the whole town, the irony is not lost on me.

Suddenly I had to ask myself, is this where I will reach my full potential? Running up against everyone's expectations – family, friends, portfolio reviewers, teachers, even myself -- I am left with the realization that this choice is my own, and I need to approach it one-on-one, leaving all those others behind. So I am left alone to navigate this space in my life and land upon what is right for me at this moment.

My fullest potential may be waiting for me somewhere completely unlikely, a place where I will truly shine. Though I may still look like a college student on the outside, on the inside I already feel very far removed from the university. I question whether I want to fight this inertia and change direction now, when I have so much momentum in such a positive direction. I question whether I have ever stood above the rest and thrived in a place where everyone is reaching for the same thing.

In the end, it's all just choices, kinks and bends in a path that keeps leading me forward. Again I am reminded that promise is everywhere, that is one of the blessings of my life, and for now the biggest hardship is choosing between two parallel opportunities.

I have a tendency to buy quirky garments at thrift stores, only to re-donate them months later and purchase replacements which may or may not be consigned to the same fate. Last night as I was folding freshly washed t-shirts, I began thinking about the history of objects as they pass from one person to another.

A shirt is purchased at a trendy secondhand shop in Pennsylvania. Its novelty appeal for having a foreign-language slogan screen-printed on the front saves it from the purge when I move to Maryland, and it is packed away in a white trash bag labeled “summer clothes.” Later, I realize I have not worn it in months and place in the Free Box at work [http://www.greaterhomewood.org/, wishing it well in a new home.

I'm not sure if someone adopted it at work or if it was taken to the Goodwill when the Free Box got too full. I'm also not sure what path the shirt took to reach me at The Attic, where I purchased it for more than it was probably worth.

Years ago, I explored this idea with a camera. I had just visited a website which I cannot locate now, but was similar in spirit to Book Crossing. Disposable cameras were released into the wild and passed from person to person, with each taking one frame before sending the camera on its way. When a roll was finished, the camera would be mailed back to the artists, if they called themselves that, and the roll was posted on the website.

At age 17 I was even then a lover of words and images, so I began a similar project of my own. In a box tagged with return postage, I placed a disposable camera and a reporter's notebook with specific instructions: take a picture of something very important to you, record the frame number, and write a few words about what the photo was about and why you had chosen that subject for your single frame on this communal roll.

My plan was to present photos and stories together somehow, weaving together a collective tale of scenes, memories, snippets of life experiences. I was prepared to wait for up to 4 years -- I had learned to expect as much from the original website, which listed cameras as being in the wild for 2-4 years on average. My first person was chosen carefully: a coworker at the grocery store where I earned my gas money, one of the quintessential aging ladies behind the service desk, the glue that holds together the front end. I trusted her and knew her well enough to explain my project without awkwardness, but I knew the box would not cross my path before its due.

More than 6 years later, I still think of that box from time to time. Where is it? Did someone open the gift early, developing the pictures themselves in selfish curiosity? Is the box resting in a closet somewhere, the pictures screaming to escape the confines of their shell? Whose closet? Is it still in Pennsylvania? I don't remember the camera often, but when I do, these questions burn in my mind.

Perhaps I should try again, but what caused my experiment to fail the first time? Perhaps it would help to establish a home on the web for my traveling camera, allowing recipients to log its progress from place to place. Perhaps now that I know how to conduct myself like a professional artist and make a project look legitimate, people would feel more accountable when they received the camera.

Or maybe the project could take a different form. I could use it as a study of my workplace, or the seventh graders at the school where I work. People connected by an office, a school, a block, could spin a collaborative story, capture places that had impacted them in their neighborhood. 36 sets of hands could trigger the shutter, and the film would return to me wrapped in plastic and cardboard. Finally, and object that is able to recite its history, its path.

This could be the community project I've been itching to start. It wouldn't be too intensive, so I could start it before moving to Baltimore and before I truly feel I have the time to give to a major project. Over the next couple weeks I will roll this over in my mind a few times. Maybe the project that had me so fascinated hopeful as a 17-year-old kid will be dredged up and resuscitated after all.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the whole grad school equation and how it fits into my other immediate goals. Many people have told me I am trying to do too much, and for the most part I have dismissed them as not knowing me, not knowing my ideal operating conditions. Doing too much is in my nature. How would I survive without that constant pressure?

There comes a time, though, when I do question myself and wonder what privilege has been afforded me that I don't need to listen to others' advice. Maybe everyone else is right. But then what of my plans?

As a rule, I tend to over-plan my life. This would not be a problem if I was just trying to be prepared for any outcome, but I am most often creating a complex, carefully constructed ideal view of my future. With this mindset I set myself up for failure and disappointment every time.

Slowly, I am realizing I have to know how to be at peace with any solution. In the long term, I won't get anywhere by trying to achieve every single goal to its fullest. Everyone knows I can set goals and achieve them. I have nothing to prove but my ability to set the right goals and maintain my sanity.

So what of my plans?

Part of me has always felt I am entitled to an advanced degree: to be categorized in a certain way by my family, to feel satisfied with myself, and to prove that I stand on even ground with my partner if he chooses to go back to school. The only problem is, none of these are really great reasons to commit more money and years to my education. There are many definitions of success, and just as I have proven that success does not mean the highest-paying job, I need to realize success does not mandate a master's degree, either.

I would be truly happy in the MACA program at MICA, and I doubtless have the capacity to dedicate my life to it and be very successful. It is “what I want to do,” but it is one outcome out of many. My decision to return or not return to school is just that. It is not a betrayal of myself, my parents, or anyone who has written me a letter of recommendation.

For sure, I will apply to the MACA program. Until the reply deadline of April 1st, I will keep it in my hands as piece to my puzzle, turning it this way and that to see how it could fit.

But then there are other plans, other successes: moving to Baltimore, buying a house, getting a “real job,” saving money for someday children, settling into a life that promises to last more than a year or two. If going back to school compromises my personal career more than it promises to advance it, maybe I will defer for a year. Maybe I will accept the job that will surely be waiting to meet me at the end of my VISTA year. After all, they say one year at this particular job is equal to seven years experience in the non-profit world. There is no way I can fail to find a good job I will love.

I need to create my own definition of success and figure out what is most important to me. I cannot have everything I ever wanted, nor can I resent the fact that I chose one positive outcome over the other. And really, that's what I'm doing. My life is full of fantastic options. I can't have them all, but I can pick and choose to find the winning combination. After all, isn't that what makes options great?

I've always been successful in life, but the question I am asking myself now is, did I finesse it? Sure, I've proven time and again that I can sidestep prioritizing by working on everything at once. My life is reaching a point, though, where I want to slow down and take the time to do a few things very well. I guess it's not about fitting all the pieces into the puzzle, but collecting a lot of pieces so I can choose the ones that make the best picture.