The Centennial Courthouse photography project has roots that go back beyond six years ago when I first picked up a camera and tried to take serious pictures.  I was living and practicing law in Chelan, and I had developed "attorney stress syndrome."  I was unhappy with the progress of my creative side, sometimes overwhelmed by the immensity of my clients' problems, not as socially active as I would have liked, and working too many hours.
     I took a hard look at who and what I was and tried to discover what would make me happier.  I did what many other attorneys had done: I "ran away" from the practice.
     I began to write fiction and magazine articles.  I purchased a 35mm camera so I'd have convenient photographs for editors to use, and I began to study photographic basics in books like Ansel Adams's The Camera.  I closed my law practice for a year and a half, moved to Seattle for a more cosmopolitan lifestyle, and became proficient at both photography and writing.
     The problem was, I wasn't making much money.
     I wonder how many attorneys stay with, or return to, a law practice because of the income, rather than because they enjoy it.  Law, I think many will agree, is a tough way to make a living.  When I went back to the practice in the summer of 1984, I started to analyze the stress-induced burnout I had been through.  Here are some of my observations.
     Most lawyers are creative, intelligent people.  A law practice demands both qualities, but seldom provides immediate or significant emotional rewards.  Clients rarely give quick or positive feedback, particularly to young attorneys.  It may take years to "win" a big case, and then the victory is seldom sharp-edged or complete.  Most of the time we can't even talk about it.
     In comparison: artists' shows are critiqued by the press and viewed by the public; politicians make headlines when they are elected or pass a new law; shipwrights have their creations christened by a bottle of champagne in front of a crowd.  Attorneys, on the other hand, walk out of a courtroom, away from a settlement conference, or out of a client meeting with rarely a word of appreciation, and never (we hope) a public accolade.  The most we can usually expect is that the client's check will clear the bank!  Our daily practice is often a grinding tedium, and developing a vision of the entirety we are creating is sometimes impossible and never certain.  So, despite the fact that law provides many avenues for the creative mind, it rarely rewards the ego.
     We are always fighting.  Even if the battles are intellectual, we are combatants, opposing colleagues who are equally intelligent or creative -- of are just plain mean and hard to deal with.  Sometimes, the greatest opponent turns out to be our client, because (s)he is less than honest, is argumentative or is distrustful.
     And there is always that enemy within -- the critical eye that observes and records every mistake and miscalculation.  A creative mind is just that because its owner constantly looks in the mirror to critique and reworks his way of perceiving the world.  For an attorney, this often results in a hard reflection of even the slightest imperfection -- we are all imperfect to some degree in what we do.  Unlike the sculptor or painter who discards sketches and workups upon achieving the final work, we attorneys are forced to accept the quick-cast work of our pressure cooker environment; the client cannot afford to pay for multiple efforts, and the chance to redo something (say, a trial or a deposition) rarely exists.  This conflict within ourselves -- between the need for perfection and the need for speed -- is often the most likely cause of attorney stress syndrome.
     Which brings me to my point.  To survive and thrive in my law practice I've split off a portion of my creativity and focused it on what I most enjoy: photography, singing, writing, and whatever else takes my fancy.  A segment of my creative energy is still devoted to the law, but I recognize it to be only a part -- I do not allow the practice to engulf me.
     I pay a price.  Seldom do I "work" a fifty- or sixty-hour week.  As a result, I probably make less money than I might.  But I believe that the quality of my legal work has improved, and that has further reduced the imperfection-stress factor.  Plus, when I do need to invest extra hours to respond to a motion or prepare for a trial, I have the time.  I'm not even fully convinced I make less money.  I've streamlined my practice.  I take only those cases that meet three criteria: interesting, financially rewarding and brought to me by a sane client.  The fewer hours I bill are more likely to deliver a satisfying financial return.  I can afford time to help the client understand my role in the resolution of his or her problem -- clients who know what to expect tend to be pleasurable to deal with.
     So, on the whole, my law practice is a satisfying, financially rewarding part of my life.  It supports my other creative activities -- like "Centennial Courthouse" -- which yield frequent and direct emotional rewards and give me the feeling of contributing something more to The Cause than being just another functionary.  This symbiotic approach has improved my attitude towards my law practice and towards life.  Law may be the "root" which anchors me in place, but I've encouraged other "organisms" -- like photography -- to provide emotional nourishment.