For most of us, when we first started to paint outdoors and began to view Nature with a "painter's eye," the sheer abundance of beautiful form and color became an overwhelming burden. Painting alone didn't seem sufficient to capture all that beauty—after all, making a proper painting took a couple of hours, yet so much else demanded to be recorded! There are only so many hours in a day. So, the camera became a quick solution. Besides painting, we snapped photos to satisfy our craving to have it all.
For me, and perhaps for you, the choice of whether to paint or take pictures became a struggle. In two hours, I could either go home with a single painting—or hundreds of photos. Of course, I always did both. But I couldn't take photos while painting; and while taking photos, I couldn't be painting. Other than snapping a reference photo or two in the midst of painting, the two activities couldn't timeshare. And I was torn. While painting, my eye was often pulled away from my scene to some other captivating effect of light and color; while taking photos, each scene cropped within my camera's viewfinder tugged at my heart with a luring "Paint me!"
Back in those days, I had a caveman-era Nokia. It was about the size of a rubber doorstop and looked somewhat like one, too. And it did have a camera, although the photos it took had all the quality of what you might see through a hotel door's spyhole. It was pretty useless for photos, not to mention for making a call more than a mile from a cell tower.
In addition to the phone, I took a Canon point-and-shoot, a Powershot Elph. It took reasonable photos (although today the 3-megapixel images, what with no fancy HDR rendering, disappoint when I look back at them) and it was a lot less bulky than my Olympus 35mm DSLR. Although it did fit in my pocket, it wasn't something I normally took when I went out; it required a special effort to remember it. And the battery didn't last long, either. I often forgot to charge it or to bring extras.
Ultimately, this failure resolved my struggle. Leaving the camera behind, although it put me in the original state of being surrounded by so much beauty that I could never capture it all, let me focus on the painting. But by then, I'd become used to (though not jaded by) the beauty. No longer overwhelmed, I was able to paint and not worry about what I was missing. My outings became of two sorts: ones to paint, others to photograph. If I took my paint box, I didn't take my camera; if I took my camera, I left my paint box at home. It was a happy divorce with everyone satisified by an equitable arrangement.
But then along came the smartphone. I have a Pixel 7 Pro, and it takes great pictures. What's more, thanks to the demands of a variety of apps that insist I stay connected, I take it everywhere. I would no more leave it behind than I would my right hand. So: Paint, or take a photo?
Fortunately, I'm more disciplined than in my early days. I can manage to juggle painting and photography without too many regrets in ignoring the luring whispers of some beauty I chose not to admire in paint or pixels. I've learned that some things aren't meant to be painted or photographed but just enjoyed.