At one level, you could argue that every eruption of the geyser is unique, with a different quantity of water or pressure, or different wind conditions, or a different sky in the background.  So, by taking the picture, you will be capturing something in a way that no one has done before (or, likely, will ever do in the future).  This line of reasoning presupposes that uniqueness is a valuable quality in photography (I’ll let that supposition just hang there for a moment).  At another level, you could argue that even though others have taken pictures of Old Faithful, you (personally) have not and so this is a new photograph for you.  At yet another level, you could argue that photography is not merely about chronicling but also about interpreting and sharing experiences, thus taking the picture has less to do with uniqueness and more to do with capturing an experience.  I suppose there are still more levels of argument by which you could justify taking yet another picture of Old Faithful.

 

The above image was from my third trip to Yellowstone, and I have taken pictures of Old Faithful each time I have been there.  I almost didn’t take it.  My children were all armed with their cameras and poised to photograph the long-anticipated event; I was content to let them do the honors.  Then, at the last second (and, naturally, with the “wrong” lens on my camera), I had a change of heart and decided to take a few “snapshots” anyway.  (I differentiate my images as “snapshots” or “photographs” — the former being more casual and less committed and the latter being a much more serious affair, along with higher expectations.)  What caused the change of heart?  I’ve pondered this questions several times since that day.  This image breaks little new ground.  Compositionally, stylistically, and journalistically, this image is bereft of pizzazz.  Yet, of all the images captured that day, the ones of Old Faithful were my highest priority for viewing on my PowerBook that evening.  I had only recently gotten my EOS-5D and really wanted to see what 12.8 megapixels could do for the detail in the plume of water droplets.  I was not disappointed.  There was a textured, shimmering and sparkling quality to the water.  All over again, I felt that kid-like wonder and amazement at what the camera had captured for me during the 1/1000s it looked at the geyser (and which I did not see during the entire 60 seconds that I looked at the geyser).  Especially with the full-resolution version, I enjoyed the image for the chaos it revealed, and for the fractal nature of the textures therein.  Looking at the picture, I’m reminded of the sulfurous smells, the warm sun light on my arms, the squinting from the brightness of the scene, and sounds of the water emerging and rising from the geyser and then falling and slapping against the ground, and the sounds of other observers in the crowd as they emoted their “oohs” and “ahs” and broke into wild applause.  That’s what this photograph does for me.

 

Ultimately, this was a photograph I created for me and not necessarily for anyone else.  I’ve enjoyed it at certain levels and, based on what I learned in the discoveries of this image, I have ideas of new things I want to try the next time I’m there.  Those photographs (from “next time”) may also not break any new ground in general, and may not add appreciably to the corpus of images that Google knows about, but they will represent for me another step on my photographic journey — a new collection of knowledge and insights gained, multisensory associations made, and a fresh reminder of the marvelous Yellowstone experience and the joy of sharing that experience with my family.  This is why I persist in taking pictures of “overworked” subjects.  Next time, I’ll be ready with the “right” lens.