As a part of my be-a-better-Phil yearly resolutions, I started taking pictures as a photographer for the Oxford Student or OxStu, one of two student newspapers at the University.

It’s too bad yesterday’s assignment was a photographer’s nightmare.

I was to cover the Oxford election count which, at first mention, didn’t sound half bad: Bustling townspeople, maybe a rousing speech here and there, well dressed politicians going apeshit — you know, it wasn’t the Super Bowl, but I still had hopes of something I could work with.

What a joke.

First, the technical difficulties: The town hall was a yellow, tungsten-ly mess. It started at 10:30 PM, so there wasn’t any natural light to soften the features and brighten things up. The (admittedly beautiful) cathedral-like ceiling made it difficult to bounce off light from a flash, and the glossy, coloured walls were an equal pain.

Future brides and grooms, here’s a tip when you’re looking to book a wedding venue. Want wonderful pictures you can cherish for years and years? I have one word for you: Light, light, light.

Light is what makes people beautiful and light is what makes beautiful people in photos beautiful.

The best photographers know how to use light effectively, whether this means capturing a sunset or using multiple flashes to light you up for a portrait.

Finally, let’s not even mention the fact that Press was confined to the balcony — about 20 feet above where all the action was.

This was the final nail in the coffin, you see, since my longest camera lens wasn’t quite sensitive enough for the lighting, while my other lens, the one sensitive enough to capture the light, wasn’t long enough to see all the way down. Yech.

Now when I said ‘action’, I was actually referring to three hours of the most boring proceedings known to man. I mean, let’s reiterate: they’re counting votes for Christ sake.

By the time they finished, the senile politicians were half comatose, and even the winners could hardly muster anything more than a squeak of acknowledgment.

During this time, I was running around trying desperately to find something — anything to photograph, all the while being harassed by security who were so bored they insisted on pestering me (Puleeeeze, what is this? The US presidential elections? Half the people in this town have no idea elections are even going on.)

Then at midnight, I gave up with trying to cover the politicians and instead turned my attention to some of the more interesting aspects of my surroundings — the equally bored, equally tired people who were, for some inexplicable reason, milling around on the balcony.

Good lord, I’m never covering politics again.

By the way, this may just be the ravings of a deluded mathematician on a lonely Friday night, but is that shot of the bare-shouldered girl like, the sexiest thing ever?

She was just sitting there. On one of the sarcophagi.

It probably housed the bones of some rich archbishop in the 18th century, but she wasn’t bothered. After all, she was on a coffee break.

I tapped her on the shoulder.

“Do you mind,” I asked, “If I take your picture?”

She sipped her coffee and gave me an inquisitive look.

“No,” she said finally, “Not at all.”

And so I did.

The thing with great photography — or more precisely, what I know of great photography (which is to say, not much), is that it’s so hard to predict when you’re going to take the picture.

You know, The Picture that you see hanging in white, minimalistic, art galleries in New York’s Upper East Side.

The Picture that makes magazine covers in National Geographic or Time.

The Picture that makes women everywhere simultaneously moan with orgasmic pleasure and sense a sudden, animal attraction to its creator.

Uh…yeah, that one.

Last Saturday, I went for a photography walk-around with a few other photographers. The conditions were great (though perhaps a little too sunny), and I ended up taking about a hundred shots. Of those hundred, I was initially happy with half a dozen.

But having arrived home and popped them through my computer, my heart fell as I realized none of them were The Picture.

Sure, some of them were pretty. Some had nice colour and nice character. But none of them were amazing. None of them, jaw-dropping, mind-blowing, holy-fuck-I-want-your-babies amazing.

I could see little imperfections in each one: This one was badly composed, that one didn’t capture the right dynamic lighting, this one had distracting clouds…and so on and so forth.

Statistically, I’ve taken about 5500 pictures in my photography-interested lifetime. Of those 5500, about 200 were worth a closer look. Then of those 200, about 15 were worth using as wallpaper on someone’s desktop. And of those 15, maybe, maybe 5 I’d consider one day getting framed. You know, to be hung on my distant cousin’s dark and moldy basement wall.

Let’s be honest, 1/1000 is a pretty horrific ratio.

But the thing is, I realized today that maybe — maybe that perfect shot doesn’t happen until your 10,000 shot. Or hell, maybe it doesn’t happen until your 20,000th.

But somewhere, somewhere out there in our big ol’ world, is my Perfect shot.

It exists. And statistically, it’s bound to happen.

I just have to keep clicking.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Edit: For those who asked, this was indeed taken with the new lens. What a beautiful bokeh! I can’t get anywhere near this kind of blur on my fastest lens, a 50 mm at f/1.8.

Sorry for all the technospeak. I get carried away sometimes.

My Canon 70-200 mm f4 L lens arrived from the US today.

It’s such a beaut! In total, it came to about $600 CDN, which makes it one of the cheaper L-classed Canon lenses. It’s a big one though. Massive, compared to my other ones. Here’s the new lens (it’s the white one) next to my wide angle 10-22 and nifty 50.

It’s a lens that will, unfortunately, attract quite a bit of attention (and probably a few dirty looks). Especially if you’re in a car, snapping away at all the little children playing in the park.

Maybe I’ll test it on the hot girl next door.

Okay, that’s a sad joke. There are no hot girls next door. In fact, there are no hot girls on my street.

There are, however, many, many old people living near me.