Photography thoughts

As I was out photographing some hunter/jumper horse classes today I had the photographer that was contracted to shoot the whole show, ask me about how much I charge for an 8"x10" photograph. I told him that I didn't really sell my photos to anyone, and he seemed offended that anyone would travel across the state to take photographs, just to take photographs and not to make money from it. Has photography gone from being both a profession and a hobby to being purely a profession? I really don't make money from my photography and I have only sold 1 piece and that was to a friend. Every other piece that has been in a show has yet to sell and therefore has been put on my wall. I really do go out over half the state of South Carolina just to take photographs. I know it is a novel idea, to do something you enjoy and not care about how far you have to go to do what brings you pleasure. For me photography has a cathartic effect which is why I always seem to be doing it on the weekends. Then I went back this evening after feeding the dog and cat to photograph a mini-prix jumping competition and was told that I couldn't photograph it because the owner had hired a professional and that unless I wanted to pay a $500 vendor fee I couldn't photograph the event. As far as I could tell the photographer that was hired was fine with me shooting but if my shooting was to spook a horse he wanted my name on file as not being associated with him and I would be on my own if someone were to sue. Needless to say, I didn't have $500 to pay to be a vendor and I didn't plan on being anywhere near the ring to distract the horses or riders. Then at the singing of the national anthem the guy they had singing it managed to flub it so that pretty well ruined it for me and I left after the first competitor. Maybe I will just avoid shooting there since they seem to be so photographer unfriendly.

A poem I wrote a few years back

One Thousand Times

One thousand times a coward lives
and still I am not dead. How
I wish to be with you
but cannot bring myself to ask
you out, not even once. I
kick myself each time I miss
a chance to take a chance
to better know you. Your smile,
as white as snow
in the Andes mountains, has me trapped
like a puppy in a pen. Your movement
is poetry, strong, elegant, refined
as a ballerina in Swan Lake
as you pirouette side to side
forward and back, hitting the ball
not looking back. Your tan skin
soft as satin entrances my mind
thrills my eyes, temps my fingers,
sends neurons firing,
messages flying
like tennis balls
across the court
back and forth
head to heart
into the net,
into the net that is you
and I have yet to touch you, feel you.
I am alive but am I really
alive or just floating like a fly in honey
trapped by curiosity, marking time
until the end of life when the final bell tolls.
One thousand times a coward dies
but did I ever live?