The Chicken and the Pig

My last post about entitlement sparked a lot of discussion. Many photographers wrote to me afterwards with thoughtful questions. One question came up again and again:

What do dedication and commitment actually mean?

For me, they are everything.

Without dedication and commitment, I don't believe you get very far—not in photography, not in art, and probably not in life.

Let me tell you a story.

I love an American breakfast. This story begins with bacon and eggs, but it isn't really about breakfast.

Years ago, I traveled from Germany to the Nevada desert to photograph Fly Geyser. It sits on private land near the site of the Burning Man festival, and gaining access wasn't easy. It took me two full days before the owner finally agreed to let me in.

As he opened the gate, he asked,

"How long do you think you'll need?"

I looked up at the completely empty sky and replied,

"As long as it takes for the clouds to come."

There wasn't a single cloud in sight.

He smiled and said,

"We'll be back in three days."

So I unpacked my 4×5 and 8×10 cameras and waited.

Three days passed.

No clouds.

When the owner returned, he asked whether I had my photographs.

I didn't.

Fortunately, he agreed to let me stay.

Four more days went by.

Still nothing.

Just unbearable desert heat, bottles of water, a few bags of chips, sunscreen, and rattlesnakes—which, after a while, I started naming simply out of boredom.

At night I slept in my rental car.

My flight back to Germany was getting closer, but every morning I looked at the sky, hoping today would be different.

It never was.

Until the very last day.

Just before I had to leave for the airport, and only minutes before the owner arrived to close the gate, a tiny cloud appeared on the horizon.

It slowly grew.

Changed shape.

Drifted across the sky.

And then, for just a few moments, it floated into exactly the position I had imagined for an entire week.

I worked quickly.

Some exposures on colour film.

Others on black and white.

I knew the moment would only last a few seconds.

As I exposed the very last sheet of film, I heard the sound of the owner's truck approaching.

After seven days in the desert, I finally had the photograph I had come for.

On the drive back to the airport, I stopped in the tiny town of Gerlach for breakfast. By then, everyone seemed to know about "the German photographer waiting in the desert for a cloud."

I ordered bacon and eggs.

As I looked down at my plate, a thought suddenly came to me.

The chicken had been involved in my breakfast.

The pig had been committed.

That simple thought has stayed with me ever since.

To me, it perfectly describes the difference between being interested in photography and truly dedicating yourself to it.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with photography as a hobby. It brings joy to millions of people, and that's wonderful.

But for me, photography is something else.

It isn't what I do.

It's who I am.

I want to create work that hasn't existed before. Work that says something meaningful. Work that, perhaps, will still matter long after I'm gone.

That kind of work asks for commitment.

Not once in a while.

Not only when inspiration arrives.

Every day.

So I'll leave you with one question.

In your photography, are you the chicken...

...or the pig?

One is involved.

The other is committed.

The choice is yours.

It always has been.