A Still Life in Motion : Discovering the power of music and motion
I’ve been a photographer for about 40 years now, which sounds impressive until you realize it mostly means I’ve spent a large portion of my life staring through viewfinders and muttering about lighting. I’ve shot print, slide, film, digital—you name it. My first digital camera saved images to a 3.5” floppy disk, which meant I could capture about three mediocre photos before needing to swap disks like I was loading software in 1995. My first “real” digital camera used a 2GB memory card. I paid $400 for it without hesitation, and I still remember feeling like I’d bought a ticket to the future.
Over time, the gear got better. The files got bigger. And at some point along the way, I started pointing my camera underwater. What began as a casual side project quickly turned into a full-blown obsession: full-frame cameras in dive housings the size of small appliances, dual strobes, arms, clamps, enough lighting gear to rival a small theater production. But here’s the thing—these modern cameras aren’t just good at taking stills. They’re absurdly good at video, too. And once I dipped a fin into that world, I found myself hooked.
The thing is, video is a whole different ballgame. With still photography, you’re chasing that one frame. One great moment. Click. Done. But with video, you’re telling a story over time. You need movement, pacing, continuity. You start thinking in scenes rather than snapshots. You don’t just look for beauty—you have to choreograph it.
Today, I found myself packing my video gear for a dive in Lake Superior. The forecast was gloomy, with cloudy water and flat light—basically nature’s way of saying “stay in bed.” But I hadn’t shot video in a while and figured it’d be fun to brush up the skills. Maybe capture some B-roll of the shoreline, the gear, the drive up to Two Harbors. Stitch it all together with some moody music and pretend I know what I’m doing in the editing suite.
Editing underwater video is a bit like ironing a jellyfish—awkward, slippery, and no one really knows what color it’s supposed to be.
Turned out to be a rather nice morning, actually. Clear skies. The wind from the previous day had stirred things up, so visibility was a cozy ten feet, give or take. But that’s Lake Superior for you—if it’s not cold or dark, it’s probably lying.
I ended up with a few decent clips—some moody diver silhouettes, a wave-washed shoreline—and spent the afternoon happily disappearing into the editing rabbit hole. And editing, let me tell you, is a world unto itself. If photography is like catching butterflies, editing video is like assembling IKEA furniture without the manual, while blindfolded, underwater. Music selection, color grading, transitions—it’s a symphony of tiny decisions. One minute you’re trimming a clip by half a second, the next you’re deep in existential debate over whether diver silhouettes call for ambient piano or something with a bit more twang. And oddly, I kind of love it.
Shooting video makes you see your dives differently. You become hyper-aware of motion—your own, your buddy’s, even the gentle pulses of you fin kicks. Still photography lets you pretend you’re graceful. Video reveals the truth in all its awkward, buoyant glory.
Stills capture that one perfect moment, frozen in time. Video, though—even when the footage is so-so—can still come alive. Add a bit of music, a few careful edits, and suddenly that murky, uneventful dive feels moody, even meaningful. The light wasn’t great, the fish didn’t show, but set it to the right soundtrack and it becomes a quiet, emotional story. That’s the magic of video—it doesn’t need to be perfect to make you feel something.
So yeah, I’ll keep switching between stills and video. One catches a moment. The other builds a mood. Both remind me why I keep coming back to this cold, murky, oddly lovable lake. Because whether I’m chasing the perfect shot or just trying to stay in frame, it keeps me seeing the world—and myself—a little differently each time.
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