Photography is a physical sport. There is the hefting of the camera, of course, and the precision of framing the shot and holding the camera motionless. Between elbows, shoulders and knees, not to mention obliging tree trunks, railings and rocks, the body can become a perfectly respectable tripod.
And, squatting on one's heels at full closeup, one can even eschew the focus ring, and rock back and forth until the tendril or antenna is crisp and clear.
Who else but photographers and cloistered religious get to fall to their knees at will and not be the object of suspicion, curiosity or medical concern ?
On bright, highlight-blowing days the body becomes a brise-soleil, , drenching the subject in moody, saturated shadows.
The secret is this: we may appear to be taking a snapshot, but we are, in fact, praying. Yes, praying -- that fraught and utterly elusive religious imperative, the skyward heave-hoing of signs and utterances, throwing metaphors at metaphors until the smoke detectors scream themselves off the ceiling.
So here's another metaphor: prayer is the colloquoy between what sees and what is seen, the ghostly persona that inhabits the space between eye and object, uniting them beyond difference.
The rest is Ms DsGruntled paddling in the lake of fire and brimstone under the church.