Remember the old song from the ’60s, *The Name Game*? No?? Anyone??
Let me give you a quick rundown. You take someone’s name — let’s use “Joe.” So you’d sing/chant: “Joe Joe bo Bo, banana fana fo Fo, fee fi fo Moe… Joe!” Got it? Good.
Now, imagine you’re a visiting music teacher for the 3rd graders at Maude Abrams Elementary School in 1976. You just taught this lovely song, and figure the kids are ready to sing along for each classmate. We’re all sitting in a circle, and on the teacher’s right side sat Art. So we all start with Miss Garrison: “Art Art bo Bart, banana fana fo FART…” The whole class bursts into laughter. Of course we did — we were kids, and kids find farts hilarious.
Miss Garrison got us settled down and kept going. And seated right next to Art was little Chuck — me. We began to sing, not knowing what was coming. Why would we? We were kids. But the teacher? She should have thought harder about rhyming with my name. Here we go: “Chuck Chuck bo Buck, bana—” Suddenly Miss Garrison cut us off: “Wait! Wait! We just sang a boy’s name, so let’s sing a girl’s name now!” Good catch, Miss G! I just wish she’d been there later that day, as we marched out to the buses. My best friend Harry grinned and said, “Hey! We forgot Chuck!” And so we sang: “Chuck Chuck bo Buck, banana fana fo Fu—” Absolute pandemonium. The crowd goes wild. We instantly understood why Miss Garrison stopped us. And we figured out why the school principal, Mr. Holt, was standing directly in our path to afternoon freedom. He was *not* happy with me. What did I do? I didn’t even teach my friends that stupid song! It didn’t matter — Mr. Holt demanded I bring my dad into school the next morning or I couldn’t return to class. Busted. Life as I knew it was over. Or so I thought. (Spoiler: I didn’t get into any trouble.)
As we finished the walk to the bus area, Harry smiled and said, “You’re not Art. You’re way better.”
Why tell that story? What does it have to do with this page? Harry’s words — “You’re not Art” — came rushing back to me recently. Tongue‑in‑cheek then, maybe less funny now, but they perfectly capture what I want to share in this article.
What is Art?
Not too long ago, the question of whether digital photography qualifies as art sparked lively and sometimes intense debates among creative individuals. The short answer is YES. Now, I’m talking about a long time ago, in the dawn of digital photography. The first “real” camera I purchased was the original Canon Digital Rebel (EOS 300D, released in 2003). This baby packed a whopping 6.3 MP APS‑C CMOS sensor, among other modern technologies. At the time, the specs were spectacular — not so much these days. The editing software I settled on was a pirated copy of Photoshop 7. Looking at those specs with no context might make you sad, but for 2004, I had a sweet setup. That was my “Digital Art Studio.”I was set for life, proudly calling myself an artist, though many people refused to accept us using these new‑fangled cameras and labeling the resulting images as *art*. I understand their perspective.
My analog counterparts spent years mastering film, chemicals, and darkroom techniques. They learned to measure light with handheld meters, to trust their instincts when loading film, and to endure the long process of developing negatives in trays of developer, stop bath, and fixer. Every mistake cost time, money, and sometimes the only shot of a moment that would never return. Their discipline was forged in patience, precision, and repetition.
I respect that discipline — but I endured my own. Mine wasn’t in the darkroom; it was in front of a glowing screen. I spent countless nights learning layers, masks, and blend modes. I wrestled with color profiles, compression artifacts, and the quirks of early RAW converters. I studied histograms instead of contact sheets, and my chemicals were pixels, algorithms, and plugins. Every mistake meant corrupted files, lost edits, or the dreaded crash of Photoshop 7.
In the end, both paths demanded the same thing: commitment. Whether it was film grain or digital noise, dodging and burning with cardboard or with a brush tool, the goal was always the same — to shape light into art
Table Time
Here’s how the discipline of analog photographers compares to the digital grind I endured:
| Analog Photography | Digital Photography |
| Mastered film loading, light meters, and exposure by instinct | Learned sensors, histograms, and exposure compensation through trial and error |
| Hours in the darkroom with developer, stop bath, and fixer | Hours at the screen with layers, masks, and blend modes |
| Dodging and burning with cardboard cutouts under enlargers | Dodging and burning with brush tools and adjustment layers |
| Retouching negatives with ink, paint, or airbrush | Retouching pixels with clone stamp, healing brush, and filters |
| Every mistake cost film, chemicals, and sometimes the only shot | Every mistake risked corrupted files, lost edits, or software crashes |
| Discipline forged in patience, precision, and repetition | Discipline forged in experimentation, workflow mastery, and technical troubleshooting |
They said, ‘It’s not Art!’ But just like Harry told me years ago, ‘You’re not Art. You’re way better.’