Daily Devotions

Butcher Shop     © 2016

Butcher Shop © 2016

I have no great teachings, I have only great teachers. This humble observation — I forget now where I first heard it — has been bouncing around in my little head all summer long. You’d think with all the stress and social distancing going on, I’d have been more productive, but here we are. And where we are, or at least where I am, is a point in time, after more than half a century of fiddling around in photography, where I should engage with what I’ve learned thus far and pass it on. Well, good luck with that.

I mean, I have spent a lot of time over the years describing such arcana as depth-of-field, hyperfocus, and shutter speed and have come to the conclusion that that only nibbles around the edges of the larger, and stickier, issue of personal expression. No matter what your own means to be creative may be, whether a camera, pastels, pencil & paper, or a guitar, your daily practice of technique must eventually give way to an insistence to create and share. If we’re doing it right, it’s something we’re compelled to do, like breathing, and one way or another we’ve probably been doing it right all along.

This is what others may mean when they talk about the zen of this-or-that, and why I, perhaps a bit presumptuously, think of myself as a zen photographer. And it’s not what you think.

Columbine 2021

The Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh is one of those great teachers whose writings have altered the trajectory of my life as a photographer. In a recent interview on tv (with Oprah, I believe) he was asked how often he meditates, and he replied “I’m meditating now.” This, I get. This is my (almost) daily ritual of wandering. Every footstep is a meditation. Images don’t come to me so much as I go to them; they are compelling, they reassure, they are vespers, they are devotions. They are breaths. This I cannot teach; I can only share.

But I will leave you with this. Hanh also teaches us to “… smile, breath, and go slowly.”

There you go.

That’s our photography lesson for today.


In Contemplation of My Navel (Among Other Things)

Sunset, Puget Sound    2005

Sunset, Puget Sound 2005

Well that’s just me, I guess. Happily wandering down the greenspace trail, iPhone in hand, taking pictures of spring blossoms and whatnot, enjoying the perfect combination of rain and soft light. This activity is pretty rewarding in and of itself, and thinking about how much fun I’ll (hopefully) have when I explore the images on my laptop only adds to the joy. So why spoil it by reflecting more deeply upon it than that?

Because it didn’t use to be this way, is why.

In a former life, I was content to haul around whatever exceedingly large camera I could find (and I had several choices, medium format and even an 8x10 camera for a while); loaded said camera or film holders with as much Tri-X as I had on hand, grab an equally large tripod, and sally forth. Consequently, every shot was a much more deliberate act, every composition and exposure carefully and exactingly measured. I loved it, every bit of it. And I don’t miss it.

I thought about this today as I bounded down the trail. My biggest camera these days is a lightweight and agile mirrorless one, and I rarely use my tripod, a lightweight, backpacker’s style, unless I’m planning on making some long exposures — you know, in case I happen upon a waterfall or something. My usual “camera” of choice happens to be my iPhone. I keep it in my pocket. Try doing that with an RB 67. My brain takes control over my eyes and hands; I don’t even try to keep account of how many pictures I’m taking. It just happens.

Paseo del Bosque and the Rio Grande, Albuquerque NM 2015

Paseo del Bosque and the Rio Grande, Albuquerque NM 2015

But today, for whatever reason, that same brain has given me pause to reflect upon these two very distinct styles of shooting, these two very different philosophies. One has not superseded the other, nor is one is better than the other. It’s the difference between a narrative and a haiku, a contemplation and a meditation. And for me, the way I go about making photos nowadays is just right. Face it, I’m not encumbered with the responsibility of pleasing a customer anymore (which my cash flow clearly reflects) and the array of photo software available to me makes it far more likely I can achieve the kind of image I have long sought. Sharing is a breeze, and printing is pleasurable. I’m at peace with my wandering.

And that’s just how I roll these days. Live in the moment, shoot in the moment. Besides, there’s more than a germ of impatience in me these days. How much time, as I approach decade number 7, do I have to sit and contemplate my navel — or wait for the damn sun to set just right ? I can’t do it. My feet itch. You’ll find me, little camera and all, happily wandering around the greenspace and the hiking trails, stopping every few feet to see what it was that made me stop and look.

My guess it’s the spring blossoms and whatnot.

When Is Reality?

Albuquerque Balloon Festival    2015

Albuquerque Balloon Festival 2015

I lose touch with reality from time to time, and frankly I’m okay with that. That’s what being a photographer is all about. I think we got off on the wrong foot back at the beginning, when we decided that a photograph was going to show us the real world, whatever the heck that was. We understood that a painting was inherently an interpretation, but somehow a scene reflected upside-down through a glass lens, scattered on a sheet of film or piece of glass, and rendered as a monochromatic image, was the real deal. Oh, humanity …

I mean, I get it. A photographic image can be a powerful thing. I’ve been obsessed with them for more than half a century. I collect and admire antique photos, and count among my earliest influences the great images of Steiglitz, Weston, and Adams. But the argument that rages today, especially resonant in the digital era, is if the images we are seeing accurately represent an objective reality, or if they are manipulated to such a point that they can no longer be considered a reliable source of information. I doubt they ever were.

Anyway, I’m hardly one to judge. My own work is a good example of a bad example. My photos are well manipulated long before I print, post and share. They’re the result of many many layers, adding or subtracting textures, colors, sharpness, paint effects, whispers, secrets, and sighs. And it’s not just because i want to see what the technology can do, because honestly I’m not that good at it. I’m just not interested in reproducing what I saw; I’m madly intent on revealing how I felt, both then and now. It’s a life-long process, actually.

Maybe it’s our reaction to the photographs taken by photojournalists or other pro’s. Do we expect that the images they show us from the battlefields, the news events, the football games, even the weddings reflect an objective reality, i.e., the “truth?” This unquestionably holds them to an unrealistic standard, and we’d be doomed to unremitting boredom should that ever be the case, anyway.


St. Johns Bridge, Portland  2020

St. Johns Bridge, Portland 2020

Photographers are storytellers. The decisions they make on how to compose an image or crop a print, to highlight the color or remove it entirely, to wait for just the right light or add their own illumination, blur the background or hyper-sharpen the entire scene, even the precise moment to release the shutter, all come from this. It’s the craftsmanship we expect and admire and sometimes pay good money for. If it’s just information I want, I’ll read a newspaper. If I want to be moved, I’ll look at a photograph.

And there, mis amis, lies the point. We do seek the truth, and we do value honesty, but there’s no way to agree on what they are. Your reality and mine are different, but that doesn’t mean we don’t share a love of a well crafted image, knowing that we bring to it our own experiences, our expectations and values, our prejudices, our quirks, and see in them our own stories, too. That’s why I love looking at photographs, and why I love making them.

And frankly, we should all be okay with that.

On The Psychology of Going Back In Time

Bird of Paradise 2018

Bird of Paradise 2018

Nostalgia is an odd thing. People are always looking back to the past with a greater longing than it probably deserves. Memories are funny that way. Along the way though we will sometimes re-discover old technologies, obsolete techniques, and outmoded ideas and repackage them in a modern vernacular. This can be pretty compelling creatively, and sometimes just a boat-load of fun. Chalk it up to modern times.

I’ll give you a couple examples: in an age of online streaming, where we have at our fingertips (and ears) all the music that has ever been recorded, people are returning to vinyl records and analog turntables. I had a neat old sound system like that once, and those records did sound incredible until I got them all scratched up. And cars. Cars are absolutely amazing now, basically computers on wheels, but the demand for those old muscle cars of the 60’s and 70’s is off the charts. Not that I wouldn’t look cool cruising around in a ‘71 GTO, mind you.

And photography? Well, we’re just as susceptible to the whims of historical way-backs, and we’re actually making a thing of it. I’m talking film. Amidst the ubiquity and accessibility of digital technologies, a lot of photographers, genuinely creative and passionately devoted, are loading up old film cameras and exposing rolls of honest-to-goodness actual film. Every kind of film, be it black & white or color, had its own unique personality and quirks, which at times could be exasperating. These were mated up with our old camera and lenses which, come to think of it, had their own odd personality quirks, too. The combination can make beautiful images, distinctive and personal, which really can’t be reproduced with a digital camera — even ones with so-called “film” settings.

Tulips 2014

Tulips 2014

Believe me, I loved those days myself. With my Nikon (I owned several) I shot the ever-so-lovely Kodachrome, and even more Ecktachrome which we processed ourselves. Thousands of rolls, without exaggeration. Black & White I mainly shot in medium-and large-format, and even lugged around an 8x10 Burke & James for a while. I started getting disillusioned when it became harder and harder to find the good high-silver black & white printing papers I had grown so fond of, and even some of the black & white films I liked seemed to loose a bit of their robustness as manufacturers tweaked and reformulated them. And then digital photography dropped into my lap like a gift from the gods — well, it was because my job required it, but you get the idea.

For me, photography is no longer a commercial enterprise, it is entirely a means of self-expression. The digital processes I now use give my imagination free reign. The technology keeps up with my vision in ways that the film and darkroom could not, and I’m just astounded by that. I’m seldom disappointed, other than in my own limitations and flaws, which are admittedly numerous. And yet I find myself feeling a sense of gratitude towards a new generation of photographers who are finding their voice in an analog world — and even some of the old guys who never completely left it. (There are even a surprising number of artisans going back further still, to collodion wet plates, carbon printing, even daguerrotypes, but that’s a discussion for a later post.)

But I don’t look backwards; I’m neither emotionally nor technically equipped to do that. I’m not looking forward, either: I don’t let technology drive my creativity. I’m happy just to look inward, see what’s there, and use whatever camera happens to be nearby to get the juices flowing. Nostalgic I ain’t.

But I would totally rock that GTO.

Under the Icons

Migrant Madonna (Dorothea Lange, 1936)

Migrant Madonna (Dorothea Lange, 1936)

It all started with a conversation with someone much younger than me (and face it, most people are). She showed me a photo she loved, a sweet image that reminded me of Dorothea Lange’s Migrant Madonna. When I pointed that out, she admitted never having heard of her before, but then immediately recognized the famous photograph when I showed it to her with a quick Google search. And this gave me pause to reflect. Iconic images may resonate onward through the generations, but the people who made them? Not so much. I’m a little saddened by that.

Truth is, I can only think of three photographs that can claim true iconic status in the American canon: the Migrant Madonna, most certainly; Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima by Joe Rosenthal, and Earthrise, taken from the Apollo 8 capsule on its way to the moon. You may have one or two on your own list, too (I sometimes think of Ansel Adam’s Moonrise photo as iconic, but probably just among us photographers). But these three posses an undeniable universality.

Raising The Flag On Iwo Jima (Joe Rosenthal, 1945)

Raising The Flag On Iwo Jima (Joe Rosenthal, 1945)

I can’t help but think that when a photograph achieves this level of iconic status, the emotional punch — and the photographer’s own story — gets lost somewhere along the line. It’s the iconography of a commemorative postage stamp, perhaps, or an inspirational meme, but not human triumph and tragedy, and that’s what those photographers saw and shared with us.

Earthrise (William Anders on the Apollo 8 mission, 1968)

Earthrise (William Anders on the Apollo 8 mission, 1968)

Well I suppose in the long scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter. Any photograph you look upon is a rorschach, and if you pay it any attention you’ll bring to it your own experiences and biases, your likes and dislikes, and read into it what you will. Plus, the events these represent — the Great Depression, WWII, the race to the moon — are so far removed from us today that the men and women who took them have just naturally faded into the background.

And that’s alright with me. None of us in the creative arts can reliably expect not to fade away, ourselves. As for me, I haven’t photographed anything more culturally significant or artistically revolutionary than the contours of my own (admittedly off-kilter) mind. No earth-risings, no flag-raisings; just quiet moments with me and my camera. And maybe that’s all those photographers expected, too.

It’s just that the world happened to get in their way.

Notes From The Edge

Magnolia blossom and pine needles 2016

Magnolia blossom and pine needles 2016

Things are interesting on the edges. And I’m speaking photographically, it’s not that I’m living on the edge, mind you. This isn’t a testament to my sanity, such as it is. No, after a lifetime in photography - learning, teaching, making a living - I’m uniquely unqualified to speak in any terms other than visual. And visually, all the interesting things are on the edges.

Edges, of course, must mean there are centers, and there, I think, are where the uninteresting photos dwell. And you’ve seen them - that tree, that mountain, in broad daylight, no shadows, no mystery, no excitement. Even a brilliant sunset is usually a photo from the center. If it’s the color only, without context, the eye quickly grows tired of it and looks for other sources of entertainment. I want to see what that sunset is shining on. I want to find its edge.

It’s what I mean when I say I’m always looking for that perfect light: it’s fleeting and frustrating and subject to the vagaries of time and space. Its the yin and yang of light and shadow, where a landscape hides as much as it reveals, where the soft shading of a human face plays with our emotions, where the last moment of a setting sun is captured in the inky blackness of a watery foreground.

Lily pads 2014

Lily pads 2014

Maybe I’m over-thinking it; I usually do. Maybe summer and winter are just center months, and I need to wait out my dulled senses for the edge months of spring and fall to come back around. That’s when the light is changing, the seasons are in flux, and our visual worlds get turned upside-down. It’s zen photography, and the zen of photography, and it occupies my head and heart.

I’ll just keep on wandering and looking, no matter what. In a former life I’d have said I’m fueled by coffee and dektol, but now I’m just fueled by coffee and, well, more coffee. But I know I’ll always find light that is good and interesting and edgy. On occasion it’ll even be perfect. Kurt Vonnegut said “Out on the edge you can see all the kinds of things you can’t see from the center.” So my advice is to take his, and stand as close to that edge, camera at the ready, as you can.

Try not to fall.

Zen and the Gentle Art of Looking Sideways

Fernhill Reservoir; Washington County Oregon  2015

Fernhill Reservoir; Washington County Oregon  2015

I'm reading a delightful book on photography. Ok, that's not such a stretch, so let me explain. I love books about photography and photographers, and even the occasional nuts-and-bolts kind of thing. There's always something to learn. But I find myself moving into uncharted territory, and so far it's a pretty incredible trip.

The book in question is Zen Camera: Creative Awakening With A Daily Practice In Photography by David Ulrich (Watson-Guptill, 2018). Yeah, not the usual f/stop and shutter-speed kind of thing, but one with much deeper implications than your typical how-to

I have long been a practitioner of zen photography, I just wasn't aware of it. When you make your living at it, you sometime go on auto-pilot. But here's the thing: the yin-yang of creativity is pretty compelling. On the one hand, it is autobiographical: it is a statement to the world, a reply to the universe. On the other, it is intensely private, a singular moment of personal reflection. Photography in particular is built upon a lifetime of these moments.

Vanishing Park Bench, Clackamas County Oregon  2018

Vanishing Park Bench, Clackamas County Oregon  2018

I see pictures constantly throughout the day; some are virtual and remain in my mind, while many others compel me (often unconsciously) to bring the camera to my eye. When this becomes your meditation, it's no longer possible not to see. "The camera" says the wonderful Dorothea Lange, "is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera."  This is my practice of zen photography. This is what's starting to make sense.

I have my own students now, informally, mostly, though I am forever a student myself. I do my best to lead them astray. Really, we're all just a bunch of happy wanderers. I hope they -- and you, as well -- keep developing a life-long vision and philosophy about what is beautiful and honest. Your eye will always be looking inward and outward, forwards and sideways. I'm working on it myself, and so I hit the books from time to time. I really like them.

Even the nuts-and-bolts kind of thing.

 

A Recommended Daily Dose of Museum

An Orchard on Sauvie Island     2016

An Orchard on Sauvie Island     2016

You wouldn't think winter is a great time to travel, but it's actually a great time to hit the road and reflect on the view. And I'm not talking tropical vacay, no; my latest little walkabout was a late winter/early spring jaunt to the cold climes of Chicago -- one of my favorite places any time of the year. Visiting family there is a joy I look forward to every year, but the sublime pleasures of this city are nestled in the art galleries and museums. (There's a couple great bars there, too, but that's probably a different story.)

While wandering about the magnificent Art Institute, I found myself completely taken by a landscape painted by Camille Pissarro, considered by some the father of French Impressionism. The Chicago Art Institute houses one of the world's finest collections of Impressionism, and photographers -- even those otherwise unfamiliar with art history -- consider it influential. It's easy to see why.

As I sat there gazing at the painting, trying to lose myself within it, I was struck by its immediacy, how it captured a fleeting light, a composition at once worldly and, paradoxically, quite ordinary. It was, in a word, photographic. And this, of course, sent my mind wandering to far off places.

Market and Delicatessen, Chicago   2016

Market and Delicatessen, Chicago   2016

The Impressionists and photography came into this world at roughly the same time, and I think both have had a profound and lasting effect on each other. Art historians and scholars (if you haven't noticed, I am definitely neither) can argue this point, but I can speak for me. My earliest training and influences were all in painting, long pre-dating my entry into the photographic world, and I recognize that consciously or unconsciously I have always tried to somehow incorporate that influence into my work. I don't want my photographs to look like watercolors or oil paintings, no, but as I've gotten older in this field I've begun to recognize that I've walked down their paths too, and carried some of the dust along with me. It's been a fine and beautiful stroll.

Couple of good bars along the way too, by my reckoning.

 

Channeling My Inner (And Outer) Ansel

                               Cormorants-Eye View of the Morrison Bridge and Willamette River, iPhone photo, 2014

                               Cormorants-Eye View of the Morrison Bridge and Willamette River, iPhone photo, 2014

Let's review the old ways, shall we? The creation of a photographic image has always been a multi-stage process. Load the film, trip the shutter, unload the film onto stainless steel reels to develop, and then, finally, fire up the enlarger and have at it. Even in a digital world, the process is largely, if only slightly imperfectly, analogous. Insert card into reader, create folder, download images. In other words, it's always been, as Mr. Adams instructed us, a formally constructive event from beginning to end.

I have no problem with any of this, of course. In fact, I've been celebrating it for almost half a century, so I'm in no position to be critical. But I've recently discovered that the way I'm approaching my craft now has turned this paradigm upside down. I refer, of course, to my ever-expanding use of the iPhone, and my growing awareness of photography's zen. They arrived at this party in separate cars but are leaving it hand-in-hand.

What I'm embracing is the counter-intuitive way I go about creating the image now. There is no second-part after I make the exposure, no loading up the card-reader, no folders to create and label. I go everywhere with my iPhone and am constantly moved -- compelled, even -- to take pictures. These then magically appear in my Photos program on the Mac with no further effort on my part. They're just...there. It's a wholly dissociative process, and I'm happy to take creative advantage of it.

                                                                      &nbs…

                                                                              Basket of Yarn       iPhone photo,    2015

I'm allowed to actually discover, rather than re-construct, the image that had somehow captured my attention in the first place. Yes, occasionally it's disappointing (life is like that, sometimes), but more often than not it's fresh and surprising (life is like that sometimes, too). I've gone back, usually much later, to see and be moved by elements in an image that I was not really aware of at the time I took it. I'm seeing them again for the first time. And that's the point.

Photography is all about, and only about, being in the moment. I'm trying not to think about what will come after, I want only to be lost in the visual now. The discoveries will come later, and will arrive on the wings of their own moment. So I'm sorry, Ansel. I'm no longer pre-visualizing, I'm just, well...visualizing. 

Whatever process you use to feed that creative voice is great and legit and possibly even groovy; don't let anyone tell you otherwise. But this is what I'm using more and more to find my voice, and my zen. It's been working, it's been fun, and it's all I really need.

Well, that and good walking shoes. And coffee.

The Right (And Wrong) Stuff

Mossy branches and blackberry bushes                  Oregon             2018

Mossy branches and blackberry bushes                  Oregon             2018

So I've already blown my New Years resolution to post a blog every week; lets just add that to my list to lose weight and cut back on the tequila. Fine ideas, noble even, but only marginally in the category of possibilities. But here I am nonetheless.

What brings me here are my reflections on a day trip my wife and I took this past weekend out to the Columbia Gorge -- specifically the Dalles and the Dalles Dam -- to witness a feeding migration of the great American bald eagle. We were invited to join a group sponsored by the Friends of the Columbia Gorge, of which she is a long time member. When it came to the introductions, I mentioned that I was merely an acquaintance of said gorge, but the humor was lost on this august group so early in the morning as it was. In any event the eagles made a impressive showing. 

The problem is, I'm not really a wildlife photography guy, so I don't have any wildlife-appropriate lenses. If you know me, you know I'm philosophically opposed to the mindless accumulation of photography gear. Simpler is better, says I, although deep down I'm just as much a gearhead as the rest of them. But my longest lens, a 55-200mm zoom for my Fuji, was clearly designed for non-eagle shooting (although I have some great photos of squirrels raiding our bird feeder). My wife, a watercolor artist, was appropriately outfitted with powerful binoculars and an artist's imagination. I ended up taking photos of my beautiful surroundings, and made no complaints for the opportunity. It was a gorgeous morning.

 

Old fishing platform and the Dalles bridge on the Columbia River          2018

Old fishing platform and the Dalles bridge on the Columbia River          2018

It's pretty simple and obvious, really: if you aspire to be a wildlife guy (or girl) you have to get with the program and put out the bucks for some seriously long glass. You can only get so close to a bald eagle. Or a grizzly bear, for that matter. My little 200mm lens was the proverbial knife at a gunfight. I have friends who publish world-class wildlife photography with lenses that are upwards of 10-times that humble length. And all of them enjoy getting up before sunrise with much better attitudes that mine.

As for me, I'll enjoy the ambiance. The Columbia Gorge is a treasure; it's Oregon's gift to a barely civilized world (well, that, and a Willamette Valley pinot). And oh, that river. Rain or shine, blustery winter or blue summer, it never fails to impress beyond words. I'm hardly a sentimental guy, but in all my many years of gazing upon it (including my pre-verbal childhood in Washington, the son of an adventurous father) it always takes my breath away. A humble lens can capture its many moods, and probably capture yours too; eagles are only optional. That's why this gorge, and its river, has so many friends.

Or in my case, acquaintances.