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Progressively Blind Photography
As someone on the cusp of complete blindness, I’ve found joy and frustration in equal measure within the vibrant online communities for the blind and visually impaired. Social media groups buzz with stories of adaptation, innovation, and triumphs over adversity, reminders that we are not defined by our lack of sight but rather our spirit. This morning, whilst scrolling through my feed, I stumbled upon a post from Blind New World that caught my attention. It linked to an article in Amateur Photographer titled, “How Can a blind photographer take such great photos? Find out here.” As a photographer who’s been chasing light and shadow for nearly 40 years, selling prints and services for two decades of that time, any whisper of a fellow blind photographer pulls me in like a moth to a flame.
I double tapped the link, settled back, and let VoiceOver voice paint the words across my mind. At first, a smile tugged at my lips. Here was someone like me, turning limitation into art. But as the article unfolded, that smile faded into a thoughtful frown. The photographer in question, Gary, isn’t blind, he’s visually impaired, navigating the world through a haze of blurriness that, while challenging, still grants him glimpses of clarity I can envy. Don’t get me wrong, I am genuinely thrilled for Gary. His work is remarkable, a testament to persistence and creativity in the face of adversity.
Yet, I could not shake a quiet pang of disappointment. The title’s promise of a “blind” photographer felt like a gentle sleight of hand, one that blurred the lines between our experiences in a way that left me feeling a tad unseen. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but it highlights a broader truth I’ve pondered often: visibility in the photography world, especially for those of us with disabilities, often hinges on connections, contexts, and sometimes, a certain alignment with the cultural and political currents.
From my own perspective, I’ve watched patterns emerge in the stories that break through and get attention. Time and again, the blind photographs who grace magazine pages or TED stages seem to hail from he art world or carry a progressive left wing banner. It’s an observation born of countless hours of reading articles and being involved in photography for decades. These individuals often arrive at photography with a pre-existing platform, galleries whispering their name or networks amplifying their voice through he lense of activism. In an industry where “edgy” and “avant-garde” can open doors, a narrative laced with political fervor for the left or artistic pedigree travels far. It’s the old adage of “it’s not just what you, but who you know”.
I write all of this not with bitterness, but with humility and the hope that one day I will get recognized for my work, not for a political stance. I’ve captured deserts that whisper of ancient secrets, canyons where rivers carve stories in stone, and everyday moments in parks. Like Gary, I shoot in black and white and love contrast. My work doesn’t sell. I have done everything possible to get my work out amongst the public, but it hasn’t caught the eye of a sponsor or a spotlight article.
The gentleman in this article says that he can’t use film cameras any more. That’s a choice. My vision is far worse than his, and I still shoot film and develop it at home. It’s not easy, but I do it because I love it.
What do you think? Have you encountered a “blind” story that didn’t match the label?
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White Cane Day Disaster
Today, October 15th, marks White Cane Safety Day, a national observance in the United States that’s been celebrated annually since 1964. It’s more than just a date on the calendar; it’s a powerful reminder of the incredible contributions blind and visually impaired individuals have made to the world, from innovators like Louis Braille, who revolutionized reading for the blind, to countless artists, scientists, and leaders who’ve shaped society because of their unique perspectives. But it’s also a stark call to action for all of us, especially motorists. The white cane isn’t just a mobility tool, it’s a symbol of invisibility. It screams, “We can’t see—please see us.”
As someone who relies on that very cane every day, I set out this afternoon with a mix of pride and purpose, heading to the post office on what should have been a routine errand. White Cane Day always stirs a bit of optimism in me, a hope that awareness will bridge the gaps in understanding. But reality has a way of humbling us, doesn’t it? Let me share what happened, because these aren’t just stories, they’re the everyday truths that underscore why this day matters so much.
I approached the crosswalk near my neighborhood, cane tapping rhythmically against the pavement, ears tuned to the symphony of traffic and distant engines. That’s when it happened, an electric car glided up silently, like a ghost in the machine. I stepped into the crosswalk and suddenly, a sharp honk pierced the air. The driver had the nerve to blast their horn at me, as if I were the one at fault for not leaping out of their path. I didn’t hear the car approaching; those whisper-quiet EVs are a nightmare for anyone navigating by sound alone. My heart raced, but I stood my ground, cane firmly planted. Blind pedestrians always have the right of way, and moments like this? They’re a brutal reminder that not everyone knows or respects that rule.
Shaken but determined, I continued to the post office, weaving through the parking lot with careful sweeps of my cane. As I walked behind what I assumed was an empty pickup truck, listening for any signs of life, the engine cranked to life. The driver, a kind-hearted lady as it turned out, must’ve been in a rush. Before I could react, shout, or sidestep, she began backing up. Thud. A light bump against my side, enough to send a jolt through me but not enough to knock me down. I might have a bruise blooming on my hip tomorrow, but honestly, no big deal in the grand scheme. She apologized profusely and asked if I was okay. “I was looking right at my backup camera,” she explained, “but you were in its blind spot.” She promised to double-check her mirrors next time, and I could tell the encounter shook her more than it did me. It’s encounters like this that humanize the statistics, turning abstract awareness into real empathy.
These aren’t isolated incidents; they’re the threads in a larger tapestry of hesitation that keeps many blind people sidelined from the streets. No matter how rigorous our Orientation and Mobility (O&M) training is, learning to navigate intersections, gauge traffic flow, and trust our senses, there’s always the wildcard: distracted drivers, overlooked signals, and yes, those insidious electric cars that sneak up without a whisper. It’s why we pause at curbs a little longer, why we grip our canes a little tighter. White Cane Day shines a light on this, urging society to not just recognize our achievements but to actively make space for our safety.
So, on this October 15th, let’s lean into the day’s dual spirit. Celebrate the blind trailblazers who’ve enriched our world, from Helen Keller’s advocacy to modern tech wizards coding accessibility into our digital lives. And to every driver out there: Scan those blind spots, yield at crosswalks, and remember what that white cane means. See us. Hear us. Make room for us. Because in a world that’s increasingly quiet and fast, awareness isn’t optional, it’s essential.
If you’ve got your own White Cane Day stories or tips for safer streets, drop them in the comments below. Let’s build a more visible path together.
Stay safe out there.
