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We live in a world where everything has to happen instantaneously. We need information immediately. We want things done while we wait, and we don't like to be kept waiting for long.

One of the features that I like the most about my camera is that I can capture an image with such ease, view it immediately, adjust it, send it wirelessly to my smartphone, and share it with my three Fs—family, friends, and followers.

But as my photos come so fast and freely, I wonder if I'm losing my creativity because I can take scads of shots, and cross my fingers that one of those shots is usable. I can throw the rest away, without any more cost than a few extra seconds.

The more I shoot with my Nikon D7200, the more I wonder whether a good shot has more to do with the technology than with any actual photographic skill.

And so, I'm starting a mini photo project.

Recently, I have borrowed my father's SLR, the first real camera that I used. It's a fully manual Minolta SRT 101: I have to set the aperture and the shutter speed. I have to manually focus—the sharpness of the photos depends entirely upon my eyes (and now, I wish I had my young eyes). The light meter is basic, yet simple to use as long as I pay attention.

And the images are not recorded on a digital card: they're permanently burned onto plastic film. This is where the real challenge lies. I must think before I shoot. I can't go back, deleting what I don't want, shooting endless amounts of RAW data.

I will have just 36 shots, 36 attempts to capture worthwhile images. And I must be patient in waiting to see the final results.

Last night, I bought a fresh battery for the light meter (this camera is so old that it works without batteries, assuming you know which settings are required for your various lighting conditions) and a single roll of Kodak 100 ASA Ektar C-41 film. I cleaned the glass and brushed the dust out of its innards.

I plan to shoot only when I absolutely feel I'm taking a worthwhile shot. I will shoot around Ottawa, but since I have no deadline for finishing the roll, I may also bring the camera with me to New York City, when I go in May.

I've taken some decent photos with digital SLRs over the past couple of years. Now is the time to see if I remember how to truly take a photograph.

To see if I remember how to slow down, take my time, and be patient.

I absolutely love this lens: a 58mm f1.2 Rokkor. It weighs almost as much as my Nikkor 24-70mm f2.8 zoom.

Stay tuned.

Where In Ottawa XLVI

Okay, I'm changing the game.

For almost four years, I have posted photos of locations around Ottawa and have asked you to identify the spot. The photo is a closeup or an odd angle, so as to give you as little help as possible. Some of you have been able to quickly determine the location: others have waited for the daily clues, in the hopes of putting it all together.

Sometimes, the clues are tough. Last month, for the first time in the contest's history, no one guessed the location and no one won. I was beginning to think that you have lost interest, but the number of views to the post tells a different story.

I also goofed, in not providing clues over the weekend of the contest period. Only four clues were provided, from Tuesday to Friday. Weekends are tough for me: I spend my Saturdays, running my kids from lesson to lesson, and then spending quality time with them. I make no apologies for that: it's all about priorities, right? On Sundays, I do chores and try to exercise.

So, I don't really have time to think up clues and monitor my post for winners.

And so, I'm shortening the contest period. Again. Starting today, you have only five days to solve the challenge. Actually, it's four-and-a-half days. The contest starts at 9:00 on a Monday morning and ends at 9:00, Friday evening.

Here are the other rules for Where In Ottawa:

• If you think you know the location of the structure in the image, leave your guess in the Comments section of this post. Answers sent to me by Twitter, Facebook, e-mail, or any other method than by writing a guess in the Comments section do not qualify for this challenge. I will not reply to any other form of guess.
• If you were with me when I took the photo, you may not participate in the challenge.
• If you have won Where In Ottawa in the past, you may still participate.
• You may leave as many guesses as you want.
• Starting tomorrow, I will leave clues to the location in the upper-right column of this post, adding a new clue each day until the challenge is solved.
• Clues will also be accompanied by a new photo with a new view of the location. While the clues will accumulate in the right-hand column, the photos won't. Only one photo will appear each day and will replace the previous photo.
• If the challenge has not been solved by 17:00 EST on Friday, April 10, the challenge will end and I will reveal the location on Monday, April 13.
• There is no prize for winning the challenge. You only come away with a feeling of pride, having proved that you know this city.
• The winner will be announced at the first available opportunity.

Are you ready? Here's the new photo:

Think you know Ottawa? Prove it!

Photo Friday: Then and Now

In March of 1989, I had just started dating the woman who would later become my wife. I was 24, was the assistant manager for a camera store, was driving my third car, and loved to spend my free time driving around, with or without my girlfriend, taking photos with my Minolta X-700.

On a warm, sunny afternoon, I ended up at Hogs Back Falls, and I took lots of photos. We have two major sets of waterfalls in Ottawa, and by far, I feel the falls at Hogs Back are the most dramatic. On an active fault line, the rocks jut out randomly, split the running water into separate channels. Years ago, people would swim here, jumping off the rocks into the cool, deep pool.

Nowadays, signs warn that that activity is prohibited.

Near the falls, a canteen sells food and drink during the summer months. Over the years, the canteen has changed hands many times and is currently run by the Lone Star.

The roof, which has always reminded me of an old carousel, has changed colors over the decades. In 1989, when I had paid a visit with my manual, 35mm camera, the roof had undergone an fresh coat of red and white paint. Against a clear blue sky, the contrast was stark.

Today, there are multiple colours that adorn the canteen roof. I'm not as fond of the current colour choice: I prefer the simplicity of one primary colour and white. I prefer the colours that seemed to say that you're in Canada.

But, 26 years later, it is still one of my favourite spots.

Happy Friday!

Hold My Hand, Part 1

It was yellow, but a spot of red had somehow ended up in one spot. As the plastic disc moved toward my friend, Keith, who would catch it, toss it to my sister, Holly, who would, in turn, send it back to me, I saw the red twirl like a wash cloth in a spin cycle.

It looked like a brush stroke of paint. It hadn't arrived to me that way when Holly threw it to me, so the red must have come from me.

I looked at my right hand, the hand that had sent the yellow Frisbee, and saw a small pool of fresh blood in my palm. A narrow streak lead from the palm, away from my thumb and down past the wrist, where it continued around to the other side. I had to twist my wrist the other way to see where the blood continued.

The laceration was more than two centimetres long, on my forearm, just below the wrist. The skin had spread and I could see bare bone. The bright-red blood flowed freely.

We had been playing on our side lawn, our house being on the corner of Chesterton Drive, and Woodmount Crescent, in Nepean. With such a large space to play, and with a front lawn and back yard, we had a virtual park on our property. But my father, who bought and sold cars, also used a small portion of the side lawn on which to park a car that he was selling privately.

Usually, the car would not be an issue. It was out of the way, near the street and next to the single-laned driveway. We had plenty of room to play. But when Holly had thrown the Frisbee to me, before I sent it on its bloody way, it had bounced off my hand before I could grasp it, had hit the lawn on its edge, and rolled under the 1974 Datsun 240Z, near the front wheel.

I ran after the Frisbee, grabbed for it, and as I pulled it out from just under the wheel well, I had grazed my arm against the shiny metal mud flap. It hadn't hurt, I hadn't felt anything other that the touch of skin on metal, I didn't know there was a problem.

Until I passed the yellow disc.

Keith, the eldest, was calm and collected. He ordered Holly to run to his house, to get his mother, who was a nurse at the Riverside Hospital. He told me to grab the wound, to try to squeeze the spread skin together, and to apply pressure. I did so, but the blood was a steady drip and I was starting to shake. He took me gently by the arm and, in a hasty walk, lead me into my house.

We went straight to the bathroom that was off the kitchen eating area. Keith turned on the tap and moved my wrist under the cold water, told me to remove my other hand while he washed the wound. The bone turned a bright white that outshone the cleanest sheet of paper. The blood mixed with the water and ran down the drain, mixed with pink soap suds.

My knees gave out on me, and made contact with the floor. Seeing my reflection in the bathroom mirror, the colour had left my face.

Keith maintained his grip on my arm, had helped ease my descent, and assured me that I would be okay. He called out from the bathroom, to my mom, who was upstairs and didn't know about the commotion that was going on. As she came down the stairs, Holly and Mrs. H— where there, Keith's mom carrying a First Aid kit.

My arm was expertly secured, and my mother was told to take me to the Riverside Hospital. Mrs. H— would call ahead and let her staff know that we were on our way.

The emergency waiting room was only moderately full, and as I arrived there was only one new patient whose injury took priority to mine. Another kid, a little younger than me, who had been playing baseball. Another player had swung a bat, not knowing this boy was behind him, and had caught him in full swing, square in the mouth. Broken jaw and missing teeth. Bruises bigger than dinner plates^*.

But my wait wasn't long and the nurses had checked my bandages when I first arrived, had confirmed that Mrs. H—'s handiwork had held firm. Before I had a chance to get comfortable in my chair, my name was called and two nurses ushered my mother and me down the hall and straight into an operating room.

The surgeon arrived quickly. One nurse assisted him while the other nurse, a large, motherly woman of my mom's age, comforted me and explained what would happen to me. She removed the gauze bandages and inspected the wound.

Five stitches: that's all it would take.

She showed me the tools and explained the procedure. I was going to be given a couple of injections: one, to freeze the nerves so that I wouldn't feel any pain; the other, a booster inoculation against tetanus or whatever infections could try to attack.

"You can hold my hand," she said in a gentle voice, and I placed my left hand in hers. It was a warm, soft hand, with plump digits. Feeling her hand, lightly squeezing mine, I felt calm. Not relaxed, but I was assured that I was safe and that no further harm would come to me. I had cut my wrist to the bone, but I was going to be okay.

The doctor had me lie on the operating table and extend my right arm onto a side board.

"You will feel a couple of pin pricks," the nurse warned me. "If you like, you can squeeze my finger." I wrapped my tiny fingers around her index finger, turned away so that I wouldn't see the other nurse stick the needles into me.

When I felt the first needle go in, I felt a slight pain, and I squeezed tight. And twisted, unintentionally.

I could see the shock in the nurses face, hear her take a deep gulp of breath. I released my grip before I caused any more pain.

"I'm sorry," I said, releasing her finger and trying to remove my hand from hers.

"It's okay," she said, "you don't have to stop holding my hand if you don't want to."

My hand stayed put and she gave me another gentle squeeze. The warmth comforted me while I felt the tug of threads passing through my flesh, pulling tight.

Though my mother told me, afterwards, that my face showed anything but comfort.


^* Thanks to The Smiths, "The Headmaster Ritual."

Wordless Wednesday: Riding the Hog's Back