"We need to chase down our authentic core. Every time we unearth a clue, every time we discover a piece of the puzzle that is “us”, we must chase it. We can’t just ignore what we know to be true about ourselves."
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ON PHOTOGRAPHY
It is 5am, and I’m downstairs on the couch, sitting right up against the front window. I reach my fingertips out, and feel the remains of the night chill on the glass. It’s beginning to get light outside, but there isn’t any colour yet - just a vague pastel blue grey. There’s a tree by the street, every leaf still and monochrome like a pencil sketch. I know that each minute that passes now will lift those leaves into more vibrance, along with the sky, the streaky clouds, and the limestone wall along our garden bed. And sometime between now and then, the sun will have risen, and the day will become distinct.
January to me feels like this time between first light and sunrise. A no-mans-land of vagary and indistinct shapes, each new day bringing a little bit more colour and clarity to the year, but, who really knows when the sun will actually crest the horizon. After the mad hustle of December, January is a reprieve for some, a recovery for others, a reward for yet other others.
I don’t know if it’s because I have kids, or because I'd shot weddings for so long, or both, but January was never any of those things for me. It was just, messy. School holidays meant a kind of responsibility-overload, paired with the hourly deadlines of editing the outstanding weddings of the last 8 weeks, and then topped off with all the existential questions one asks of oneself each new year:
“where am I going?”
“what really matters in life?”
“did I live a life worthy of living last year?”
In those past years, the only way to survive was to compartmentalise. In this moment, I am fully present with the kids. In this next moment, I am fully present with my editing. The next moment, going for a walk, spending time with loved ones, laughing at a thing.. It went moment by present moment, each of them disconnected from the other.
It’s not like that anymore, thank goodness. For something unsustainable, I sustained it for too long. But, January is still messy.
This year, I’m finding it useful to assign a plot archetype to the month of January. For me, it’s a VOYAGE AND RETURN plot. A protagonist heads out into the big world, experiences some things, and returns changed somehow. There’s a transformation, or an elixir brought back, or whatever else. So I’m looking back over the month as if I have just returned from a great voyage, and I’m sifting through my pockets of experiences, searching for elixirs.
With the sun already warming up the sky, and the leaves across the street bright and dancing in a new breeze, I find that my pockets are full of elixirs. I have a hope here, that I feel so deep. It will support us the whole year I reckon. Rach and I have communities that we can work with and play with, who love us and believe in great things. I find so many vials of encouragement, gifts from distant lands reminding us that we are all connected, and all valuable.
January hasn’t been a mess. It has just been a journey, and we have returned with dusty clothes and happy kids, a renewed focus and a burning drive to create things in the world.
We’re tired, but we are together, and we are as excited about the year as those dancing leaves seem to be about the new day.
I love this week between Christmas and New Year. Nobody seems to know what to do. Some shops are closed, some are open, most of the population have headed away from the city for their holidays, and those that are left wander the streets like kings of the apocalypse, owners of a ghost town. None of the usual rules apply.
It's a limbo week, as the year wraps itself up, and everything new is right there on the horizon. Fresh starts and open skies, just over that ridge. And as we walk towards the shiny lights, we discard the luggage of the year, letting go all the victories, the defeats, the joys and the hurts, so that we can start again.
This year for me was all words, and no pictures. For fifty-two weeks, I only wrote. As a photographer, who was only known for being a photographer, this was a different path, and certainly not one that any business coach would advise. "Leverage your imagery" they would say. "Don't waste that talent."
But, way back in January I wrote about "chasing ourselves" no matter the cost. That is, leaning in to who we are becoming - whenever we discover another piece of ourselves we chase it down, and we keep growing.
And that's really what I did this year. There were so many pieces of myself that resonated so strongly around meaning, relationships and storytelling that I wrote all year about it, and had the pleasant surprise of not running out of things to say.
I've loved every moment of this process. It was hard sometimes in those zero-degree mornings to get up and write, and it was hard after a 15-hour day to head out to a bar and write, but every single time I did it, I loved it.
Story theorist Robert McKee once wrote that when we experience a story, we are seeing the storyteller's own map of the hidden order of life. In all the things I've written, some of them simple stories, some of them a little more complex, what has risen to the surface are ideas around meaning, connection, conflict, relationships, identity, work, authenticity, truth, awareness, love, and whimsy. And all of it, wrapped in this frame of "storytelling," and "story-living."
If these elements were my personal map of life's hidden order, I'd be okay with that.
I'm excited about 2022. I'm excited to write more words, and perhaps also play with some pictures again. Or video. Or paint. Maybe some interpretive dance. I'm sure the medium doesn't matter as much as any of us think. But whichever form it takes, I hope I can keep accessing my map of life's hidden order, and when I share it, I hope that you will take only what is useful for your own world, at the right time.
Thank you for your encouragement over the year. Thank you for reading and commenting and sharing. I know I'm just writing for myself ultimately, but it's really fun to hear how these words resonate with others. We really are all in this together.
And Rach, thank you for giving me that soft but oh-so-powerful permission each day to spend the time.
With so much love, and giddy excitement for the new year.
This week Rach and I attended a book launch for a dear friend of ours, John Woodhouse, whose book I had designed. It's an enormous art book, so the launch was also a one-night exhibition, with framed proofs of images from the book up on walls for purchase. A few hundred people attended - artists, collectors, models, restauranteurs, business owners, photographers, writers - the group was extraordinarily diverse.
As we mingled and flowed around the artworks, we would strike up conversations with strangers, sharing what we loved about a particular piece on the wall, or what we loved about John. Just as each artwork was born out of nothing, each of our conversations and connections were now doing the same thing. Nothing into something. I was loving the evening.
A half-hour into the event, I was being introduced to someone, and it went like this:
“Nathan is a writer - he writes inspirational words… He’s an inspirational writer. You write inspirational words too, don’t you? Beautiful. You two should talk..”
And we talked. My new friend quickly clarified that no, she’s not an “inspirational writer,” she just writes as honestly as she can, and she hasn’t even done that much lately. And I qualified myself too, explaining that I don’t even understand the term, but it didn’t sound as complimentary as I’m sure it was intended. “Inspirational” sounds like some kind of advertising angle, or self-help guru. Here, have a warm fuzzy to get you through your day.
Not that it matters, really. In writing, in art, in life, we all do things, and everyone else makes it mean something for themselves, and we have very little control over it.
Sometimes the things people conclude about us are complimentary, and we feel great about ourselves. Other times, it’s hard judgement, and we feel horrid. Either way, us humans seem to have this uncanny habit of subscribing to it.
We just go there, immediately.
“She said I was rude to her friends! What a bitch!”
“He called me fat! He’s so mean… but he’s right, I think.”
“They gave me an award! I. Am. Amazing!”
“I didn’t win the award! I'm so crap and talentless.”
“She told me I’m boring… I am so boring.”
“2000 likes! I am so popular!”
“Only 39 likes.. I am such a nobody."
"There's a comment on my feed about my face. Am I ugly?"
We take these tiny comments from others, and we blow them up, we call them truth, and we put so much head and heart space into them. We subscribe.
There is a character in episode five of BJ Novak’s wonderful new show, The Premise, who describes her Instagram commenters as truth-tellers. "They are objectively right” she declares, because they are distant and don’t know her, so can’t be subjective. And her own voice doesn’t matter, because she is too close to herself, so can’t be objective.
Obviously it’s pretty extreme to write off the opinions of anyone who actually knows us, and trust only in the opinions of strangers. But it’s equally extreme to only believe ourselves, our “inner voice” and ignore any praise or criticism from others: how would we ever grow?
So where do we land, then? If everyone is just doing their best to fill in the gaps of their understanding of each other, no-one is going to get it right. We’re all essentially playing Marco Polo in the dark, hoping someone will guide us towards our best selves.
There is a well-known phrase in storytelling, “show don’t tell,” that encourages the writer to let the character come to life through their ACTIONS, not through any words the writer might say about them. If the character is brave, for example, we don’t write “Emily was a brave woman.” Instead we place Emily in a situation that elicits a response, and when she acts bravely, the audience draws the insight of bravery for themselves. The words aren’t truth. The action is truth.
Extending the concept, if Emily were to SAY something like “I am so brave,” it would also not mean anything until she acts. If she says “I’m fun” or “I’m so boring” or “I am not rude” or even “I am inspirational,” none of the words really matter.
Once she acts, then the audience knows the truth. She has to SHOW, not TELL.
To combat all the words, the judgements, the criticisms, the praise, perhaps we could just turn down the volume, and NOT subscribe. Perhaps we can use all that energy that we would have used to reply, defend, share, amplify and put it towards DOING something. Just doing the things that resonate with who we want to be.
People can call me an “inspirational writer” and they can call me a “shallow romantic dreamer.” They can say I’m a super privileged white man, and they can say I’m too young and optimistic. They can even say I’m a bad father, while others tell me I’m dad-of-the-year. And then I can say even more things about myself, just to try and keep up with it all.
But the best thing I can do, and the only thing that can really make any impact, is this:
KNOW what I think is important in life.
DO things that support that.
For me, here’s what I think is important:
I think we are all built to witness - to interpret our world and each other. We are built to inspire, encourage, excite and inform each other.
So when somebody makes what I say or do MEAN something for them, even if it’s different to what I intended, I will try and be interested, instead of defensive. They've seen something I haven't, and it could be useful for me to hear it, without taking out a whole subscription to the idea.
Because I’m still learning about myself, it’s all just words anyway, and tomorrow I’ll be getting right back into the truth-doing.
I discovered this in a notebook from a few years ago, and after all the conversations Rach and I have had this week I think it must relevant somehow… If you’re not feeling very unique this week, then read on..
--
Yesterday evening I found my ten-year-old, Jeremy, flopped on his bed, tears rolling down his face, eyebrows all furrowed and eyes kind of furious.
Two minutes before that, he was happily working through his Harry Potter Lego castle, generally joyful and chatty.
This huge crash in emotions was triggered by one little experience: Shasta, his younger brother, asked him for help with a new drawing app on his iPad. It was an app that Jeremy himself found just a few days earlier. He loves to draw, and wanted to create some new styles and comics, so researched the right tools, and eventually found this one.
Jeremy was so excited about this new tool, and had been studiously learning how to draw things. He had just started his first comic panel.
And then, disaster hit.
His brother got excited and inspired by what he was doing, and asked if he, too, could have the app. I saw no problem in it, and said yes, and all of a sudden Jeremy’s energy dropped a little.
Twenty minutes later, Shasta is asking for help, holding up a screen already filled with drawings and colour and comics that look as good, if not better, that Jeremy’s own work.
I can imagine what happened next in Jem’s mind, because we still do this as adults:
First, a sharp feeling of injustice, that someone just stole the “thing” that makes us, us. Then, jealousy - this other human is producing really good work. And they seem to be doing it with more ease than we ever did. And lastly, resignation - that compounding sense of “what’s the point, now?”
And, what is the point? Someone else can do what I’m trying to do, and it seems better, and they make it look easier. So, why bother anymore?
It’s pretty disappointing. All of a sudden, the desire to create dries up, the feeling of uniqueness and individuality crumbles to dust, and we are left with frustration, jealousy and often anger at that other “better” person.
So, I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, watching this little face leak angry tears down hot cheeks, and I ask “is this because of Shasta and that app?”
Jeremy’s gaze is locked on a spot on the wall, but fresh tears appear on his lashes. He nods, and says, “Shasta didn’t even care about drawing until I got the app. He just did it because I’m doing it!”
“Does it matter?” I reply. “That he has the same app as you? You guys produce very different work, so no one would compare and say one is better than the other?”
“But it was MY thing. And now he’s doing it too!”
And there it was: “It’s my thing.”
—
Comparison breaks us, and I hate it. I’m sure it wasn’t meant to, but over thousands of years of us humans relating to each other, we have managed to turn comparison into something dark. Now when we see a difference in another, instead of applauding the diversity, we make a judgement of better and worse.
And ownership diminishes us. It tells us that we are what we own. It makes us believe that our uniqueness comes from the tools or titles or toys we hold, instead of the vast galaxy of resource that exists in our physical, emotional and spiritual being.
Who you are is found in the totality of your being. Everywhere you’ve been, everything you love. Everything you believe. All that you allow to waterfall through your heart and onwards into others. As far as unique and beautiful humans go, you’re freaking untouchable.
And you know what the great irony is? I KNOW this about Jeremy, but he’s going to spend the next decade slowly believing it for himself. So every time he turns to me with defeat in his eyes, I’ll tell him again, “you are beautiful and unique, little one. Do your thing, stay open, relax, it’s ok. Keep the channel open."
__
“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.”
- Martha Graham
“You are an explorer, and you represent our species, and the greatest good you can do is to bring back a new idea, because our world is endangered by the absence of good ideas. Our world is in crisis because of the absence of consciousness.”
- Terence McKenna, ethnobotanist (1946-2000)
I never wanted to be a photographer.
I wanted to be a storyteller. I wanted to tell people stories about themselves. The kinds of stories they should already know, but had somehow lost along the way.
Stories like,
“You are amazing.”
“You are resilient.”
“You are broken, but also whole.”
“You are love(d).”
So I picked up a camera, and stepped into the world of weddings, and showed these amazing couples the sparks between them. I wanted them to know that the most magic thing about their wedding wasn’t the party, nor the vows and promises. It wasn’t even that they were loved.
The most magic thing, was that they themselves, were love. That’s the story I’ve been telling in every wedding I’ve every shot.
“Rachel Callander, award-winning photographer, gives up wedding photography to evangelise the Health System.”
“Nathan Maddigan, award-winning photographer, gives up wedding photography to persue authentic story craft.”
It doesn’t matter, really. What the papers say. What the fans say. What the critics say.
What matters, is that we chase ourselves.
What I mean is, every day of our lives, we are learning more about ourselves, what we love, what we believe in, what we despise. And the more we learn, the greater the responsibility to act.
We need to chase down our authentic core. Every time we unearth a clue, every time we discover a piece of the puzzle that is “us”, we must chase it. We can’t just ignore what we know to be true about ourselves.
I’ve done it, the ignoring-my-true-self thing. I experience a moment of revelation, of what I truly love in life, where I actually want to put effort in to achieve. And then I shut it down. I’m afraid of the work, or of failure, or of success. So I push it down, and ignore it.
And when I do that, I shrink a bit. I become smaller, weaker. And I’m reminded of Viktor Frankl’s words,
“When a man cannot find meaning, he numbs himself with pleasure.”
And I’m reminded to return to the chase, keep learning, trying, changing. To not give in to the fear or give up for the comfort. To honour everything that is weird/unique/different in me, honour the calling, and to keep chasing.