Jim Hare classic posts Archives

Depth of Field...In Memory of...

Depth of Field - 1999
(from Webster's)
depth of field, n. the range of distances along the axis of an optical
instrument, usually a camera lens, through which an object will
produce a relatively distinct image. Also called depth of focus.
[1910-15]

My father sent me one of his photographs recently. It is a twelve by
eighteen inch country landscape from somewhere on the central
California coast. In the background are foothills, covered with the
solid brilliant yellow of the blooming mustard so typical of the area.
In the foreground is an old barn, its grayed wood sagging from age.
In front of the barn, and a little to the side, is a lone figure, an old
woman, facing away, with her shoulders hunched and her hands
pushed into the pockets of a multicolored wind breaker. The woman
is my mother. The picture is unusual and touching because my
father’s photographs rarely have any people in them, and because
looking back, I realize her hunkered posture was a sign of the
emphysema that was to come. Mother no longer ventures outdoors.

Now he has given away his camera and all the other paraphernalia
that went with his extensive hobby. Photography has gone the way
of golf, flying planes, and deep sea fishing on the beloved boat he
used to own. His hobby now is caring for Mother. It is a full time
activity for him these days. It is a touching end to a relationship that
sometimes seemed to lack a certain feeling and warmth through the
years. I admire his unwavering and absolute dedication to my
mother, and I also mourn the closeness and understanding he and I
never had.

Gazing at the picture reminds me of all this poignant stuff and more.
My father’s technical skill is all there in the picture. The overall
composition is tasteful, and the color is excellent. The paralax of the
views that he and I hold is there too. He has made the barn the focal
point, while the haunting figure of my mother is a step or two this
side of the vast depth of field which extends all the way to the hills,
and she is just slightly blurred. And on the back of the print, he has
written its title, “Mustard.” He and I can look in the same direction
and see such different things, a parallax view, to be sure.

And what is the distance of that depth of focus from my mother to
the yellow hills in the background? About the same, I’d judge, as the
gulf that has separated me from my father’s understanding.

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