Riding through the agricultural valleys east of State College, Pennsylvania, Penns Valley and Sugar Valley to be precise, places you squarely amidst thriving Amish communities. On Sunday mornings evidence of their horse drawn buggies are everywhere.
As I rode along some quiet roads I thought about the times people having asked me why I’m not photographing the Amish.
There’s certainly an abundance of landscapes to help paint a romanticized portrait of the Amish. There are a handful of local photographers who have built careers out of such work. A few have befriended a number of Amish families to gain unfettered access to homes and people to produce some magical images of an idealized rural life. Bill Coleman is a notable example of a photographer who spent his life with the Amish.
Others are like predators, skulking along roads awaiting their prey with telephoto lenses, stealing pictures and souls from people who likely just want to be left alone. I’ve often wondered how we English would feel if we were being photographed in the same way as we picnic at a park or our kids play along a creek.
I don’t photograph the Amish — much.
On Sunday morning I was stopped along a road near Smulton, Pennsylvania to make a portrait of a lovely Verbascum plant. As I finished and turned to walk back to the Vespa I saw two Amish couples and their children, all dressed in their Sunday clothes, walking on the road toward me as they heading for meeting. All eyes were on me as I walked toward them with my camera in hand. I’m sure I was not the first Englishman they’ve encountered with a camera.
I raised the seat on the scooter, placed the camera away, and started the scooter. As I rode past they all smiled and waved as I said, “Beautiful day.”
While I know I have the right to photograph these strangers on a public road, I’ve never felt comfortable photographing the Amish, or anyone for that matter that doesn’t give their permission. At least not in a setting like this. I have photographed the Amish — for assignments at work where they were a part of a story and agreed to be photographed, or the occasional buggy passing by my Vespa.
Some miles down the road I could tell from the number of buggies and people walking along the road that a meeting place was near. A small group of children walked along, barefoot, on the edge of the road and I couldn’t help but think how simple yet difficult their lives must be. Having to deal with me and a camera just doesn’t seem fair somehow.
For me, the Amish are best left as images in my mind. So you’ll probably not see many pictures of them unless someone takes the Vespa for a spin.
