Photography Dream Quotes

No matter how much crap you gotta plow through to stay alive as a photographer, no matter how many bad assignments, bad days, bad clients, snotty subjects, obnoxious handlers, wigged-out art directors, technical disasters, failures of the mind, body, and will, all the shouldas, couldas, and wouldas that befuddle our brains and creep into our dreams, always remember to make room to shoot what you love. It’s the only way to keep your heart beating as a photographer.

they signaled my eternal gratitude to the boy sitting silently in the dark. The boy as gifted at photography as I was at music. He was my heart. The heart freely given to me as a child. The heart that made up one half of my own. The boy who, though breaking inside, loved me so deeply that he gave me this farewell. Gave me, in the present, the dream that my future never could. My soul mate who captured moments.

Soar like an eagle beyond skies of heavens reach; as wings of dreams dance with winds of reality.

When the melody plays, footsteps move, heart sings and spirit begin to dance.

If you've taken a photo with your camera's pop-up flash, you're probably wondering how camera manufacturers list pop-up flash as a feature and keep a straight face. It's probably because the term "pop-up flash" is actually a marketing phrase dreamed up by a high-powered PR agency, because its original, more descriptive, and more accurate name is actually "the ugly-maker.

I have found my way, step by step, proceeding from touch points that have emerged, some through conscious choice and some through dream state discovery.

Not every artistic person should have to be a photographer, but every photographer should be artistic.

Every Ukrainian photographer dreams to take a photo which will stop the war.

Those static images have the uncanny ability to jar the memory and bring places and people back to life. They bridge the present with the past and validate as real what the passage of time has turned into hazy recollections. Were it not for them, my experiences would have remained as just imperfect memories of perfect moments.

You don't need balance if you build the life of your dreams because it is built around everything you enjoy doing and with everyone you love doing it with.

I think there is an element of magic in photography — light, chemistry, precious metals — a certain alchemy. You can wield a camera like a magic wand almost. Murmur the right words and you can conjure up proof of a dream. I believe in wonder. I look for it in my life every day; I find it in the most ordinary things.

I was deep in a dream about photography-walking through a strange city with buildings that stretched so high they disappeared into the clouds. And every time I took a picture of one, it shivered and changed into something else. A sound came from a building behind me-a soft song. I started to walk toward it's open doors, but they closed. I would have to climb in a window- and then I woke up.

i look up in hope, dreaming to be brightened up, and begotten out of this hazy funk, and suddenly, i see my light glowing high above me, she is warming certainty wearing her angelic halo, as my spirits rise up to kiss her, i smile clearly

She noticed the lemony yellow light in her dream and heard nothing of her alarm clock so continued to dream and dreamt of Jamestown and the sound of the foghorns over the water and the gulls and every night that was the breath of the day before.

We travel with our thoughts to great lands.

i dream my photograph, and i photograph my dream...

I looked at the images hanging on the walls, wanting to find those things in her pictures. My favorite was directly across from me: a photo of a beaten, weathered hull of a rowboat. I knew about as much about boats as I did photography, which was next to nothing, but that boat wasn’t going anywhere near the water anytime soon unless the owner decided it would make a mediocre shipwreck to explore while scuba diving. Nevertheless, it faced the out-of-focus lake in the background, almost hopefully, as if it hadn’t yet decided its best days were gone, as if it still dreamed of bobbing peacefully on the waves. “Does that one have a name?” I asked. She smiled. “Seaworthy.

i had a dream of you last night, i was all alone in the desert, surrounded by darkness on a desolate playa, and then you came to me and gave me light, you were the moon...i knew it was you, for you were the brightest of all the heavenly bodies, and something of this sort of certainty come but once in a lifetime

I had a dream about you last night. We were in your old Civic. Nine Inch Nails was turned up on the stereo and I was taking pictures of you behind the wheel with my disposable camera. We went through the drive through at El Pollo Loco, placed an order for a hundred bucks worth of food, and then just drove off at the window. I miss being stupid with you.

While many think I have a dream career, it is hard work, with long solitary hours both in the field and at home in the studio. Often we complain of not having enough time to achieve our personal goals, and when we get off track we can get discouraged and unmotivated. But finding time is often just a re-examining of your priorities, and deciding what really matters to you.

Famously contemptuous of the art of photography, Marcel Proust, of all men, would have understood that the face I am seeking is in the end unfixable. People never stop changing position in relation to us. In the imperceptible but incessant movement of the world, we regard them as immobile in an instant of vision too brief for us to notice the moment which is propelling them. But we have only to select from our memories two pictures of them taken at different times, but similar enough for them not to change in themselves, at least not perceptibly and the difference between the two pictures is a gauge of the displacement they have undergone in relation to us. Even the dead are not immobile and dreams pay no homage to the absurd waking-myth of fixity.

I dreamed Kim Kardashian was sobbing but her makeup was still flawless. She stood on stage in a tight little cleavage squishing dress holding her award in her arms. Her out of focus, uninspired photograph of sunflowers and bluebonnets won Photograph of the Year in her church’s photography contest. I was kind of bitter about it but I didn’t attend her church and I didn’t enter the contest.

In the dry places, men begin to dream. Where the rivers run sand, there is something in man that begins to flow. West of the 98TH Meridian - where it sometimes rain and it sometimes doesn’t – towns, like weeds, spring up when it rains, dry up when it stops. But in a dry climate, the husk of the plant remains. The stranger might find, as if preserved in amber, something of the green life that was once lived there, and the ghosts of men who have gone on to a better place. The withered towns are empty, but not uninhabited. Faces sometimes peer out from the broken windows, or whisper from the sagging balconies, as if this place – now that is dead – had come to life. As if empty it is forever occupied. Reproduced in THE BORSCHT BELT from The Works of Love by Wright Morris by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright 1949, 1951 by Wright Morris.

A Photographer's Poem To take a photograph is to learn new steps Like a toddler's first walk from start to end Visualize a dream, a paradigm, a theme It could be about anywhere, anyone, any moment or anything Let that sink in until your eyes see clearly What image you cease to create to preserve in dearly With a camera you take the picture in mind A photographer's mistake is to leave it behind Take it wherever a journey is to take place There will always be something that comes across your ways

After waking from that magical dream ages ago, little Alice had devoted all her free time to searching the town for anything that reminded her of Wonderland. No place was safe from her explorations: every bell tower she could sneak into, every alleyway she could slip down when her parents' backs were turned. Top to bottom, high and low, nary a stone unturned. (Mostly low: rabbit holes and mushrooms, tiny caterpillars and large spiderwebs, dumbwaiters and surprisingly small doors in other people's houses she really ought not to have explored and opened.)

The silence of the image is equalled only by the silence of the masses and the silence of the desert. The dream would be to be a photographer without a lens, to move through the world without a camera, in short, to pass beyond photography and see things as though they had themselves passed beyond the image, as though you had already photographed them, but in a past life. And perhaps we have indeed already passed through the image phase, in the way we pass through different animal phases, the mirror phase being a mere reverberation of all this in our individual lives.

The last week of shooting, we did a scene in which I drag Amanda Wyss, the sexy, blond actress who played Tina, across the ceiling of her bedroom, a sequence that ultimately became one of the most visceral from the entire Nightmare franchise. Tina’s bedroom was constructed as a revolving set, and before Tina and Freddy did their dance of death, Wes did a few POV shots of Nick Corri (aka Rod) staring at the ceiling in disbelief, then we flipped the room, and the floor became the ceiling and the ceiling became the floor and Amanda and I went to work. As was almost always the case when Freddy was chasing after a nubile young girl possessed by her nightmare, Amanda was clad only in her baby-doll nightie. Wes had a creative camera angle planned that he wanted to try, a POV shot from between Amanda’s legs. Amanda, however, wasn’t in the cameramen’s union and wouldn’t legally be allowed to operate the cemera for the shot. Fortunately, Amy Haitkin, our director of photography’s wife, was our film’s focus puller and a gifted camera operator in her own right. Being a good sport, she peeled off her jeans and volunteered to stand in for Amanda. The makeup crew dapped some fake blood onto her thighs, she lay down on the ground, Jacques handed her the camera, I grabbed her ankles, and Wes called, “Action.” After I dragged Amy across the floor/ceiling, I spontaneously blew her a kiss with my blood-covered claw; the fake blood on my blades was viscous, so that when I blew her my kiss of death, the blood webbed between my blades formed a bubble, a happy cinematic accident. The image of her pale, slender, blood-covered legs, Freddy looming over her, straddling the supine adolescent girl, knife fingers dripping, was surreal, erotic, and made for one of the most sexually charged shots of the movie. Unfortunately it got left on the cutting-room floor. If Wes had left it in, the MPAA - who always seemed to have it out for Mr. Craven - would definitely have tagged us with an X rating. You win some, you lose some.

Put that thing down, girl. Don't you know it steals part of your soul, that little mechanical masterpiece you hold so frivolously? Don't you know it's not just mine it seals into its gears and trick mirrors, but yours, too. What you feel at this moment, what you hope for, what your dreams are, what you think your future will unfold like, it steals it all from you, too. You aren't safe just because of the side of the lens you're on. And later, when everything is said and done, and you want to forget everything that happened in these walls, when you're all alone, this picture, this piece of your soul you didn't even know was gone, will haunt you. It will come bearing knives and AKs and nine millimeters, and it will destroy you from the inside out. Put that damned thing down and stop acting like any of this is something worth remembering.

In the past, people were vaguely fearful of photographs, believing the camera's exact reproduction of their own image would steal their souls. Not only did these images survive for much longer than their subjects, they were also endowed with an aura of magic the subjects lacked. A superstition, but one whose traces can still be felt today. People sense that the photograph captures an uncanny moment in the interstices of reality, enhancing reality's eeriness, the root of which is unknown, and fixing that moment in place like a death mask. Photography differs from the art of painting in that capturing or exposing such a moment happens neither at the will of the photographer nor the one who is photographed. What is photographed is a ghost moment, clothed in matter. Photography is the dream of comprehensive meaning. Each object has parts of itself that are invisible. This territory, which neither the photographer nor the subject can govern, constitutes the secret kept by the object. Unrelated to the intention of either photographer or subject, within the magic of photography dwells a still, quiet shock. Try to imagine our house one day when we ourselves are no more. Somewhere in that house is the ghost of us, which will pass alone in front of a blind mirror, revealing our own blurred image.

Some people are lucky enough to find their passion and spend their life pursuing it. Whether it is photography, accounting, sports, or law enforcement, they immerse themselves in the occupation that suits them. They refine their craft and look forward to a lifetime of going to the office knowing they love what they do and there are no regrets. When a life is irreversibly altered in a way that prohibits a person from continuing along their beloved path, they may feel depressed, angry, or like the shell of the person they once were. When the life is intentionally altered by someone else, the person can be left in a purgatory of sorts, hoping in a child-like fashion that things may somehow reverse themselves and they can return to the profession they loved so much. Mario is the epitome of a man whose dream was stolen, and he hasn’t quite found a way to accept or believe it.

I dream for an absentee and oft maligned device—the accident-maker, the soul-taker, my camera; its factory guaranteed third eye, without which I am duly dim and memory denied. No pictures for my contrived Arbus to declare, excepting some stitch of Sexton manages these sentences of despair.

My husband and I have always been good at creative visualization. Before we quit drugs and got married he’d place tabs of acid on his eyes to see things that weren't there. I'd lay blank sheets of photographic paper on the cornea of developing solution to conjure images. We'd always coaxed dreams from paper, and believed them.

What I like about The Wolf-Man is that his problems can’t be solved; a person’s life exceeds the neat arrangement of a detective story. A mental image from a dream or memory does not lead to a corresponding fact, but only the creation of more images. The human mind is not a perfect index of observable reality. We are not machines made for recording and storage. Thus begins our fascination with photography and film…

Life is a photo album. Loaded with some black and white memories, some colorful dreams, some abstract expressionism and some out of focus images.

photography is also multiply concerned with projection — the projection of images onto the retina; the projection of the photographer’s ideas and thoughts onto and into  images, and our unique interpretation of each particular photograph we see, coloured by our own personal histories our conscious memories and all the unconscious fantasies that we have little access to, except via, parapraxes, slips of the tongue, or own analyses… but particularly via dreams, what Freud called “The Royal Road to the unconscious” .

We are all photographers, that’s how we remember things; with pictures in our minds. Some of us have good taste and passion to make it an art form and just a few warriors who know the technicalities and marketing make a living out of it.

If you are a model and want to do your dream photoshoot in the United States, then JackStudios Photography Studio Rental in NYC is the best option. Jack Studios' facilities are open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and 365 days a year. Contact us at 212.367.7590 or cs@jackstudios.com at any time, and we'll make the necessary arrangements or visit the link to know more!

Sometimes you see a photograph, a long novel pops up in your mind! A photo that draws you into a world of thoughts and dreams is undoubtedly a good photo!

Wedding photography is my absolute dream job, I am actually besotted with everything about weddings. Even when I am not out there photographing heartwarming celebrations, I am often found mentoring and running workshops for fellow photographers too. I just love spreading my passion for the industry.

There are two types of consciousness [optical and the instinctual] are intimately linked.For in the most cases the diverse aspects of reality captured by the film camera lie outside the 'normal' spectrum of sense impression.Many of the deformations and stereotypes , transformations, and catastrophes which can assail the optical world in films afflicts the actual world of psychosis, hallucinations, and dreams. Thanks to the camera, therefore, the individual perceptions of the psychotic and the dreamer can be appropriated by collective perception. The ancient truth expressed by Heraclitus, that those who are awake have a world in common, while each sleeper has a world of his own, has been invalidated by film - and less by depicting the dream itself than by creating figures of collective dream, such as the glove-encircling Mickey Mouse

i dreamed, to breath, to sigh, to float, above clouds, over watertops, through fields of flowers, across sunrise and sunset painting romance impressions, all throughout my every atom. for the longest time, i waited, for my dream flower

there is such an unfortunate irony in photography these days. for as people pursue desires to visit and capture images of unspoiled landscapes. they inadvertently in the process turn these beautiful locations into anything but unspoiled, regardless of ideals of conservation. and more-so, so many ruin natural beauty by exploiting these magical places with their greed and dreams of success, and regrettable egos with overdeveloped look-at-me-syndromes...sadly sometimes, for so many of us, now the only way today to truly protect an unspoiled place is to not share its beautiful photo or location with anyone, anymore

Avanthika Studios stands as a testament to the enduring power of vision, dedication, and innovation in the world of Photography. What began as a dream has evolved into a creative powerhouse that has left an indelible mark on the Indian Photography. Avanthika Studios remains poised to adapt and lead, ensuring that it remains a vital force in the ever-changing world of Indian cinema. Its legacy of creativity and excellence serves as an inspiration to filmmakers, artists, and dreamers, both within and outside the industry. Avanthika Studios envisions a thriving ecosystem of content creation where traditional and digital media coexist harmoniously. The studio aims to continue nurturing talent, producing diverse and engaging content, and contributing to the growth of the Indian entertainment industry.

Lesy argues that the dream had collapsed by the end of the last century—not in the inhuman cities but in the farming communities; that the whole country has been crazy, and for a long time.

The true hunter does not exist to hunt, he exists to fulfill the relationships he has with the world, with the land, his family, his dreams and whatever he is doing at that moment. When the hunter achieves balance, he finds what he is hunting for, and the moment when the photo is captured, the arrow released, is like letting out breath – it is inevitable, effortless.

(Back to our halls) Like a dumb ass I went to college, (assuming I pass all my boards. Senior year is almost over, and the calculation is the final test I will take. For the past four months, I’ve had all my various board exams-math, science, oral magic, and written proficiency, sociology and psychology, and photography (a specialty elective)-and I must be getting my scores one-time in the next few weeks ago it was not long ago or so it seems to me. Solitary of them will become my husband after I graduate, girls who don’t pass get paired and married right out of high school.) The evaluators will do their best to match me with people who received a similar score in the evaluations. As much as possible they try to avoid any huge disparities in intelligence, temperament, social background, and age. Of development you do hear occasional horror stories: cases, where a poor seventeen-year-old girl is given to a wealthy old man, is the delirium dream, which is dumb, dumb, dumb. The stairs let out their awful moaning, Jenny, appears before me. She is nine and tall for her age, but very thin: all angles and elbows, her chest caving in like a warped sheet pan. It’s terrible to say, but I don’t like her very much. She has the same pinched look as her mother did. The assessment is the last step, so I can get paired, paid, and laid, in the coming months, the evaluators will send me a list of four or five approved matches.

I warn her not to chase money— chase a dream, like underwater photography or hiking, build your own boat and sail around the world, serve and protect the earth, that’s the kind of stuff brilliant minds pursue, not moneyed soul-shrinking status sh**— integrate your heart and soul into your walk, talk, hands and thrust your voice up to the sky as you sing your life out pure, free, hard and strong against any wind.

The beauty of Photography is not in what you see, its art lies in your dreams.