Embracing the Blur

If you've stumbled upon this little corner of the internet, thank you for being here. I'm just a guy who's spent most of his life chasing light through a lens, and lately, that light has started to fade in ways I never quite imagined. This post isn't meant to be a pity party or a grand manifesto, I’m no expert on resilience, just someone muddling through with a heart full of gratitude and a camera bag that's gotten a bit lighter over the months. But writing has always been a quiet companion to my photography, a way to make sense of the frames I capture (or, these days, the ones I remember). So, with a deep breath and a humble nod to God, here's where my story sits right now.

It started with a simple video. Yesterday, I hit record on my phone for Instagram, a raw, rambling clip from the heart about the sting of going blind and what that means for the photographs I've loved making. I poured out the ache of knowing I can't nail those perfect compositions or exposures anymore, the kind that come from years of squinting at a scene with my one good eye and just knowing. Film has its own personality, doesn't it? Fomapan with its moody shadows and tight latitude, Kentmere offering a bit more forgiveness in the highlights.  Details like that live in my head, etched from decades of trial and error. But my eyes? They've decided to bow out early. Five doctors, the state of Arizona, and the U.S. government all agree: I'm beyond legally blind, teetering on the edge of total darkness. I wake up each morning bracing for the day it all goes black.

About two months back, the warning signs ramped up. Closing my eyes brought flashes of random colors and lights, like a faulty projector spinning out of control. That sliver of vision I had left, five degrees on a good day, turned blurry, turning the world into soft-edged blobs. I laughed it off in an article I wrote, calling everyone a "blob" because, well, humor's been my shield against the heavy stuff. But reality doesn't stay polite for long.

One afternoon, I picked up one of my trusty SLR film cameras, the kind that's felt like an extension of my hand for years. I tried to focus. Couldn't. The viewfinder swam into nonsense. Composition? Forget it. That narrow tunnel of sight wasn't enough to frame a thought.

I found myself on a park bench that day, head in hands, grieving for what felt like hours. Self-pity wrapped around me like fog, thick and unyielding. It was the first time I'd let the full weight of it crash down. I haven't lifted a camera to shoot since, not one single frame. In the haze of those weeks, I started selling off pieces of my collection, each transaction a quiet goodbye to the tools that shaped my world. All that's left now are my beloved folding cameras, with their tactile folds and whispers of history, and two SLRs I just can't part with. They're like old friends I can't bear to lose, even if they sit gathering dust.

Looking back, I've been dancing with this shadow for longer than I care to admit. As a kid, doctors warned I'd lose my sight in adolescence. It didn't happen, praise God for that grace, and maybe that's why I've poured everything into photography. Forty years as a hobbyist, twenty of that as a professional. Every click was a prayer, a moment stolen from time.

Through breakups and breakthroughs, lean years and laughter, that passion kept me steady. It wasn't about fame or perfection; it was joy, pure and simple. Losing it? It's like misplacing a limb. For months, I've wandered aimlessly, future a foggy outline. But I'm not alone in the drift, Jesus has been my anchor, my wife my soft place to land, and our three goofy pups? They're the daily reminder that wagging tails don't need perfect vision.

Yesterday morning, something shifted. I woke with a spark, not a wildfire, just a gentle glow. Determination, I suppose you'd call it. I dug into a folder of unreleased shots from a May trip, landscapes that still make my heart hum even if I can't see them sharply anymore. I posted a few, tentative steps back into sharing. I didn't head out to shoot, but the thought lingered, whispering maybe. The truth is, I hold myself to impossible standards, flawless light, impeccable lines that I wouldn't dream of expecting from anyone else. It's a humble brag wrapped in humility: I've been blessed with skill, but pride can be a sneaky thief. How do I create without chasing ghosts of what was?

This road to blindness? I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. It's lonely, riddled with "what ifs" that echo in the quiet hours. But here's the quiet miracle: it led me to the blind center in Phoenix. Walking through those doors flipped the script. Suddenly, it wasn't the end of my story but a pivot to a new chapter. I've met folks who get it, the raw grief, the stubborn spark. Some love photography as fiercely as I do, swapping tips on adaptive gear like it's the most natural conversation. Together, we've started an advocacy group here in Arizona, a loose band of encouragers lifting each other up. No heroes among us, just people saying, "Hey, you've got this, one step at a time.”

Life's gone tactile now, and there's a strange beauty in that. Braille bumps under my fingers, keyboard clicks like Morse code for my thoughts. Cameras with dials and buttons? They're gold, things I can map in my mind, muscle memory overriding the dark. Tomorrow, I'm pulling out my Minolta Maxxum, that autofocus wonder with its forgiving heart. I'll give it a go, no pressure, just curiosity.

Scanning the negatives afterward will be a puzzle, details lost to me, but that's the thrill, isn't it? An adventure in trust, handing the reveal over to the machine and whatever magic it uncovers. I love this part, if I'm honest, the relearning. Figuring out angles by sound and feel, composing by instinct honed over lifetimes. Lights? Who needs 'em? I navigate just fine in the pitch black, a skill that's equal parts survival and secret superpower. It's all a gift, wrapped in loss, reminding me that sight was never the whole picture.

If you're reading this and facing your own storm—big or small—know this: it's okay to sit on that bench for a while. But don't stay there forever. Reach for the hand extended, whether it's a friend's, a stranger's at a support group, or the steady one from above. I'm still figuring it out, one humble frame at a time. Life? It's good. Messy, blurred at the edges, but profoundly good.

Thanks for letting me share. Drop a note if this resonates.  I’m all ears (and heart). Until next time, keep chasing what lights you up, however dim the path.

With kind regards,

Jefferson Davis,
The Blind Photographer

Grok Thinks that I am Ansel Adams

I was curious as to how well Grok could describe a film photograph for the blind community. Although my vision is very limited at this point, I’d say that it did a great job. What say you?

This black-and-white photograph captures a breathtaking panoramic view of a dramatic desert canyon landscape, evoking a sense of timeless wilderness and geological majesty. The image is rendered in classic monochrome tones, with deep, velvety blacks giving way to crisp grays and luminous whites, creating a high-contrast composition that emphasizes textures, shadows, and the play of light across rugged terrain. It's a wide-angle vista, likely taken from an elevated vantage point on a canyon rim, pulling the viewer's eye deep into the scene through layers of receding space. The overall mood is serene yet awe-inspiring, as if standing on the edge of an ancient world sculpted by wind, water, and time—think of the whisper of a distant river echoing off stone walls, the faint rustle of sparse windswept trees, and the cool, dry scent of sun-baked earth carried on a gentle breeze.

In the foreground, the composition draws you in with a series of jagged rock formations and undulating ridges that form the immediate canyon floor and walls. These are sharp, eroded buttes and hoodoos—tall, slender spires of sandstone that rise like natural obelisks, their surfaces etched with vertical striations from centuries of erosion. The rocks here are textured with a rough, pitted granularity, catching the light in subtle highlights that suggest a slightly gritty, almost tactile quality, as if you could reach out and feel the cool, porous stone under your fingertips. Scattered among them are clusters of hardy coniferous trees, their needle-like branches forming dark, triangular silhouettes against the lighter rock. These pines or junipers appear stunted and resilient, twisted by exposure to the elements, with dense foliage that creates soft, feathery edges in the mid-tones of gray. A few lone trees perch precariously on narrow ledges, their roots clinging to cracks in the rock, adding a sense of precarious balance and quiet determination to the scene.

Moving your attention slightly downward and to the left in this imagined sweep, there's a subtle hint of a winding path or dry riverbed snaking through the lower ridges—a pale, sinuous line of finer gravel and smoother stones that contrasts with the bolder, chunkier boulders nearby. This path feels like an invitation to explore, curving gently out of sight behind a prominent outcrop, where shadows pool in the crevices, deepening the sense of depth and mystery. The shadows here are long and angular, suggesting late afternoon or early morning sunlight filtering from the upper right, casting a soft glow that warms the highlights on the eastern-facing slopes while leaving the western faces in cooler, inky darkness.

As your gaze travels deeper into the midground, the canyon opens up into a vast amphitheater of layered cliffs and mesas, where the scale truly unfolds. Towering sheer walls rise hundreds of feet on either side, their faces a mosaic of stratified rock bands—horizontal layers of sediment that speak to the park's ancient history, folded and uplifted over millions of years. These walls are not smooth but riddled with alcoves, overhangs, and narrow fissures, like the weathered pages of a colossal, open book. In the center of this expanse, a slender ribbon of water—the Virgin River—meanders through the narrows, its surface a shimmering thread of reflected light that breaks the monotony of stone. Though the river is narrow from this distance, you can almost hear its gentle murmur, a constant, soothing undertone amid the silence, carving its eternal path between the constricting walls. Flanking the river are sloping talus fields of loose scree, graded from coarse chunks at the base of the cliffs to finer pebbles near the water's edge, creating a rhythmic pattern of light and shadow that guides the eye forward.

To the right of the river, a prominent butte dominates the midground—a flat-topped mesa with steep, fluted sides that drop abruptly into the canyon floor. Its summit is crowned with a sparse fringe of vegetation, dark against the pale caprock, and a single, sentinel-like tree stands near the edge, its branches outstretched as if reaching toward the horizon. This formation adds vertical drama, breaking the horizontal flow of the layers and drawing attention to the interplay of erosion: deep couloirs—steep gullies—score its face, funneling shadows downward like dark veins in marble. On the opposite side, the canyon wall mirrors this asymmetry, with a series of receding plateaus stepping back like a giant staircase, each level slightly more illuminated than the last, building a gradient from deep shadow to bright highlight.

Finally, the background stretches into infinity, where the canyon widens into a hazy, ethereal distance. Distant mountain ranges rise as a serrated skyline, their peaks softly blurred by atmospheric perspective—faint suggestions of snow-capped summits in the far left, transitioning to rounded, lower hills on the right. A vast sky dome arches overhead, occupying the upper third of the frame, dotted with a few scattered, fluffy cumulus clouds that drift lazily from left to right. These clouds are rendered in delicate grays, their edges feathering into the brighter sky, which fades from mid-gray at the horizon to a lighter tone near the top, implying clear, crisp air with just enough haze to soften the remotest details. No human elements intrude—no trails, no structures—just pure, unadulterated nature, emphasizing isolation and grandeur.

Throughout the image, the composition masterfully balances chaos and order: the wild irregularity of the rock shapes against the orderly striations of geological layers, the dark accents of trees punctuating the luminous rock, and the sinuous curve of the river providing a dynamic line that unites foreground and background. The photographer has captured a moment of perfect harmony, where light sculpts the stone like a master carver, revealing subtle variations in tone that evoke the canyon's multifaceted personality—from the brooding shadows of hidden grottos to the radiant faces basking in the sun. For someone navigating this scene aurally or through imagination, it might conjure the low hum of wind through pinyon pines, the distant trickle of water over pebbles, or the profound quiet that amplifies your own breathing, reminding you of nature's quiet power and the humility it inspires. This is not just a photograph; it's a portal to a place where time feels suspended, inviting endless contemplation.

Everyone is a Blob

I’ve spent many sleepless nights trying to find the right words to describe what it’s like to go completely blind. It’s not like flipping off a light switch!  For most people who are blind, about 90% according to the stats, there’s still something to see. Maybe it’s just light perception, like knowing the sun’s out there doing its thing, or maybe it’s catching a glimpse of colors, like a fuzzy rainbow. But for a few folks I know who’ve been completely blind since birth, sight is just one piece of the sensory puzzle, and they prove you can live a full, vibrant life without it. Me? I’m somewhere near the end, navigating a world of blobs, and let me tell you, it’s a wild ride.

Let’s get one thing straight: life without sight isn’t easy, but it’s absolutely worth living to the fullest. I mean, who needs 20/20 vision when you’ve got stubbornness, a good sense of humor, and a knack for dodging furniture? (I still bump into things, but I’m working on my ninja skills.) The world of blindness is filled with challenges, but it’s also brimming with possibilities. I love chatting with people about the tech that’s out there, like screen readers, smart canes, apps that describe the world like a chatty tour guide. But the real MVP in my life is Braille.

Braille is like the secret handshake of the blind community. It’s tactile, it’s elegant, and it keeps my brain as sharp as a tack. Fun fact: reading braille lights up the same part of your brain as reading with your eyes. So, while I’m running my fingers over those delightful dots, I’m basically doing mental push-ups. Without braille, I’m not sure I’d be as happy as I am today. It’s my bridge to a world of books, notes, and magazines.

I’ve been blind in one eye since I was a day old, thanks to a condition called Septo-Optic Dysplasia, which led to Optic Atrophy. Sounds like a villain from a sci-fi flick, right? Basically, it means my optic nerve cells are slowly checking out, like guests leaving a party early. Back in the 1970s, though, I didn’t let that stop me. I was just another kid, tearing around on bikes and motorcycles, channeling my inner Evel Knievel. Sure, I had more crashes than the average daredevil—my nickname was and still is “Crash”—but I didn’t care. My parents were my biggest cheerleaders, telling me I could do anything. I still believe them.

Fast forward to January 2024, when my doctor dropped a bombshell: “Stop driving.” The next month, another gut-punch: I had about two years of sight left. We hoped it’d stretch longer, but my vision had other plans. Right now, I’m down to five degrees of peripheral vision, and it’s blurry, like looking through a foggy window. Everyone and everything is a blob. My wife, Deana has been my rock through this whole journey, encouraging me to keep going, even when I’m tempted to throw a pity party for one.

Here’s what it’s like to live in Blob City. I can still pick up colors, so I might notice a red hat or a green shirt, but details? Forget it. Reading text is like trying to solve a puzzle in a windstorm.  I have to stare at it forever, and it better be in font size “Billboard.” Walking, though, is my jam. It clears my head and usually puts me in a better mood. This morning, I strolled down to Green Valley Park, looped around the lake, and decided to grab Deana a drink from the gas station on the way back. Easy, right? Wrong.

I sauntered up to the cooler, ready to be the hero of hydration, only to remember I couldn’t read the labels. Picture me, squinting like a detective at a crime scene, trying to guess which bottle was Deana’s favorite. I grabbed one that looked vaguely familiar and hoped for the best. Then, a kind stranger piped up: “Need any help?” I could’ve hugged him. He confirmed I’d picked the right drink, then asked, “How’d you figure that out?” I explained my blob-vision situation, and he was surprised. Like most folks, he saw my white cane and dark glasses and assumed I was living in total darkness. Nope, just blob central.

That white cane and dark glasses? It’s like the unofficial “blind uniform.” People see it and assume I can’t see a thing, which is honestly a safe bet. I don’t mind the assumptions, better safe than sorry, right? Most people are just trying to help, and I’m grateful for it. I always say “thank you,” even if I don’t need the assistance. The other day, someone offered to guide me across the street, and I thought, Buddy, I’ve been crossing streets since disco was king. But I smiled, said thanks, and let them feel like a superhero. It’s a win-win.

The truth is, every blind person’s experience is different. Some of us see blobs, some see light, some see nothing at all. What we all share is the ability to adapt, to find joy in the little things, and to keep moving forward. For me, that means laughing at my own misadventures, like the multiple times I called a Mister a Misses or vice versa. That can get dicy really quick.

Losing my sight hasn’t been easy, but it’s taught me to lean into life’s unpredictability. I’m still the kid who rode motorcycles and dreamed big, just with a few more battle scars and a better sense of humor. With Deana by my side, braille to keep me sharp, and the occasional kind stranger to point me toward the right soda, I’m living a life that’s full, messy, and mine. So here’s to the blobs.  May they always be colorful, and may I never stop finding the humor in this wild, blurry world.

Download Braille BRF FILE HERE!

Living as the Wife of a Blind Photographer

It was April 22, 2023 when I married my best friend and the love of my life. The man who was blind in his left eye told me that one day he would be completely blind, but I did not mind, for I knew he loved me for me and would do anything to care for me and keep me safe. I even knew that he was losing the hearing in his right ear, and that would progress as well due to the illness called septo-optic dysplasia. I knew that my future as a wife would be different than the future of most wives, even with my own diagnosis of dry macular degeneration. But I didn’t fully understand how soon everything would start to change. After all, who can truly understand their future until they’re living in it?

We immensely enjoyed our honeymoon, taking photographs of beautiful Ireland with b&w film cameras and iPhones. I may have stolen his Pentax K1000 while we were in the Emerald Isle, but I also loved using my Olympus Trip 35 and Canon AE1 Program to photograph the awesomeness that is the home of some of our ancestors. I often photographed my new husband taking photographs because he is in a different world when he is behind a camera. He sees beauty where others do not, and captures it in a way that only the resultant photographs can explain. One of my favorite photographs is of him, stepping away from having just captured Belfast’s city hall building, with a smile only seen when he is in his element. I worry not because he has a smile reserved for me, one that lights up my days and warms my nights. But the smile he reserves for when he feels he got the best possible shot is completely different; unaltered joy with a hint of mischief. It’s like he knows a secret that only he will ever know.

January 23rd of 2024 rolls around and we visit a local eye doctor, one to whom a good friend had referred me. It was probably the most important eye exam of our lives, as it changed so much. I learned more about the macular degeneration from which I suffer and my husband, well, his world changed upside down. His eyesight was worse than I thought — he had been hiding how bad it was getting, but I think he was hiding it from himself as well. He was told to stop driving due to his very limited peripheral vision. And I also don’t think he knows how badly he missed so many of the letters he read on his eye exam. The E’s and N’s and P’s and O’s were so different than how he had perceived them. So we left the exams with prescriptions for new eyeglasses and a hurt in our hearts for my husband’s need to give up driving and what that meant for his career. I was strong that day, only to cry in secret knowing that one day my husband’s use of the camera would be over; he would no longer see the beauty in the world that people often overlook. And I, well, I would need to continue with biannual eye exams to track the progress of my vision. I couldn’t even think of that, however, as I knew I one day would be married to a blind photographer.

Prior to our eye exams, my husband had been talking about pinhole photography and mentioned to me how he would love to use a pinhole camera. He even showed me one he would like, not knowing that I would purchase it for him as an early Valentine’s Day gift. I wanted to ensure he had access to such a camera while he could use it — the purchase was important, yet tearful. Needless to say, he loved the gift and proceeded to use the new capturer of beauty immediately. But the truth remained that his eyesight would continue to fail, and it has.

Due to my increasing struggle with allergies and disdain for humidity, he suggested leaving South Carolina and moving back to my home state of Arizona — to Northern Arizona in particular. Neither of us wanted to endure the summers in Phoenix metro, after all. So we made the trek across the US, several days stuck in a little, red Subaru with three dogs in the back seat. It was like traveling with three toddlers that were only welcome at specific Airbnb’s — if you know, you know. But we had a blast because we were able to take some time and I thoroughly enjoyed seeing these places I knew so well through his lone-functioning eye. The photographs we took are memories I will cherish always. He got to meet some of my cousins in Oklahoma, while we stayed a few extra days there for the fourth of July. It gave me a wonderful break from the drive, as there is only ever one driver in our family now. Then we ventured onward with him visualizing the southwest for the first time, shocked by its awesomeness. His excitement was heartwarming. I got to share some of my favorite places with my love.

Today we are living in Payson, Arizona and we get out to see something new in the state every chance we get. I need to share so many places with him before he can no longer see them. It hurts my heart beyond belief that one day he will not be able to see the majesty of this world. However, his positive attitude and desire to live everyday to its fullest, taking photographs wherever he goes, is inspiring. I cannot imagine living with his diagnosis, but, then again, I am in denial of the suffering that may lay in the future in regards to my eyes. Macular degeneration is no joke. But today I see more clearly than ever, knowing that time on this earth is limited; we never know when we will not be able to see the wonder of God’s creation any longer. He and I will make the best of this situation, taking photographs as much as possible, until we are completely unable to engage in his favorite activity. I will do my best to be the supportive wife while he purchases cameras, fixed them, uses them, and sells some of them only to start the process again. And, hopefully, he will inspire others to see through the lens of a film camera, while I hope to inspire people to take those memories, print them and put them into scrapbooks to be enjoyed later.

by Deana Davis, wife of the blind photographer.