Attached the Nikon D300 to a monopod with a ballhead and raised it to just over the basket where this group of guys were practicing their game. Fired with a PocketWizard after checking first set of frames for focus and exposure.

Nothing like a set of RGB (and yellow) balloons to help set the proper color balance.

From the Canon G9 set to macro focus. This is the cross in the parking lot at St. Paul Catholic Church on North State.

Here’s the EXIF/IPTC info.

More photos at My Final Photo.

Ever wonder what kind of shovel is used to move hot asphalt into potholes in a parking lot or what type of glove is best for protecting your hands?

I’m on my knees trying to bend my back into a pretzel-shaped western facing arc to give foreground emphasis to the soon to be patched pothole in the grocery store parking hole when I hear the voices.

The first voice warns me that I’m about end up at the chiropractor with a twisted back. That I am really stupid for forgetting to bring along the right-angle viewfinder so I didn’t have contort myself into a freakish position with knees compressed well below horizontal, head parallel to the ground and shallow breathing to compensate for the low shutter speed to go with the high f-stop for greater depth of field.

The other voice has no warning. It’s nothing but questions.

"What lens are you using!"

"What lens is on the other camera?"

"Why two cameras? Are they both Nikon?"

"How many mega-pixels?"

Someone inside a store in the shopping center saw me, twisted and stretched, wanting answers to their important questions, all of them about equipment. Questions important enough to abandon their original purpose for being at the store.

Important enough that perhaps the answers might justify their camera purchase or provide fodder for justifying an upgrade to the next greater mega-pixel range.

Important enough that the answers might help them learn about composition, lighting, timing, or better personal contact with a subject.

Important enough questioning me about technique would be of greater benefit than observing and analyzing.

Important enough to interrupt my work.

Important enough to miss my gentle verbal and body language signals that explaining my equipment wasn’t part of my photo assignment.

No one ran up to the guy at the truck to ask him what type of shovel he used or which glove brand he preferred for working with that particular shovel or how many cubic feet of asphalt the truck would hold or if he carried two shovels, one for a backup.

The shovel, gloves and truck are no more different tools of the trade than my D300s with their complement of lenses and accessories. Less important, perhaps, in their expense. More important in their utilitarian purpose. Yet rarely questioned or discussed by observers with similar items.

Psychologists say we often identify ourselves through our purchases, those things we own that show our status or indicate our wealth.

Perhaps questioning professional photographers about their gear is part of an expression of self, a desire to associate with someone whose talent is visually expressed, always on public display. The greater affinity to our gear translates to a greater talent.

Digital camera costs and availability have compressed the distance between professional and amateur equipment.

The talent space between pro and amateur is not compressed. Marking talent space by associating yourself with more mega-pixels, wider-angle lenses, and  camera style doesn’t make better photos. Technically they are better. Technology provides the improvement.

Aesthetically, the gear doesn’t matter.  Just shoot better photos with what you have.

I never did ask the worker what type of shovel he was using or if his gloves provided better protection than mine or the temperature of the hot asphalt. It just didn’t seem to matter.