Write four lines of prose about: the cameraman. Or camerawoman. It matters not to me.
Today's prompt inspired by a little photo expedition I took to the orchard to capture this year's apricot blossoms. More specifically, by my assistant:
I let Max take shots on my iPhone while I used my camera. I ended up taking 14 pictures, while he tallied 70. Oh, right - it was 68 pictures and 2 short, accidental videos. Some of them were actually pretty cool, in my opinion. Like this one:
I've got a couple more pictures of Max, and one in particular is just... I love it. I'll share it tomorrow, but for now I want to treasure it and indulge my greediness by keeping it to myself (and Kat).
He captures history with a serenity that belies the turmoil seething within him. His camera holds steady, whether it is focused on a rare piece of art in a silent museum in New York or a firefight in the chaotic streets of a remote Eastern European village.
The reporters he works with admire his courage and professionalism and technical expertise.
And have not even the slightest suspicion that he plans to create some history of his own... one day.