I'm not sure who it was that said that success was 2% inspiration and 98% perspiration, but it sounds like poor hygiene, even if the math is right. When I stated in my last blog that I try to see at lest 100 photos every day, I created a minor stir. How is that possible, I was asked, and for heaven's sake ... why? It's pretty simple, actually. Perspiration comes with the territory. What I'm after is that elusive 2%.
When I was coming of age in photography, the Group f64 ethos of Ansel Adams, Edward Weston, and others was starting to give way to a post-modern vibe, which I never came to fully embrace. Or fully understand, for that matter, but I'm old school and a little thick. The iconic image of the era, stuck forever in my mind, is Weston's famous photograph of a bell pepper: simple, straightforward, infinitely complex. By trying to reproduce it ourselves, mere novitiates, we learned a lot about photography -- lighting, posing, darkroom technique, printing -- and sometimes, something about ourselves. It was always more than just a pepper. Art as rorschach.
Visit any great art museum in any city and what will you find? Students, canvases on easels or pen & paper on a lap, trying for all their might to copy the great masters. Their aim isn't forgery, of course, but to practice the techniques and style that so captivates them that they may, in turn, be better artists themselves. It's always been thus; great teachers encourage it, as did mine. The student who fails to surpass his master, Michelangelo himself once said, fails his master.
So here I am looking at 100 pictures a day, mostly (but not exclusively) photographs and mostly (but not exclusively) anything but peppers. The interwebs make this a pretty easy deal. 500px, ViewBug, google searches for modern trends in portraits or award-winning landscapes are just starting points. I'm surrounded by books and a ton of magazines, too -- most are predictably tech-centric, but others (like Black & White Magazine) -- are gems. And of course my friends, acquaintances, and fellow trolls on Facebook and Instagram are constantly mined for inspiration, as well as real brick-and-mortar galleries and museums. Nothing beats a beautiful, original photographic print in all its authentic glory.
And that's about all I know, but I'm still something of a hack. I'm happily working on it, and that's why I'm maybe just a wee bit obsessed with looking at all the photos I possibly can in this lifetime (no telling what I may be content with in the next) and making a few of my own. Photography is funny thing to be obsessed with. The more pictures we take, the more we need still to explore: in the studio, on the streets, in our heads. The 2% greases the skids.
The rest just makes me sweat.
This may sound like I'm selling out, but here goes anyway. Well, maybe not full-blown blasphemy, but certainly my contrarian side will be again in full view. And all this while i'm really in a pretty good mood too. The summer is finally over. Now I can get some work done.
And here's what's been on this cranky mind: a couple of articles I read online worrying about the state of creative photography these days when everyone -- everyone -- is walking around with every manner of imaging device, the thought being that ubiquity was cheapening the field. Practitioners themselves are living with a big dose of self-doubt, too. A young friend confessed to me last week that, absent training and a really good camera, he wasn't sure that what he was doing could legitimately be called photography. Well of course it is, and more power to ya.
But the argument goes back a long, long way; all the way to the beginning. Creative imaging, of course, was limited to what the trained human hand could put down on canvas or paper, so the invention of mechanical devices and their constituent chemistry fully democratized the creative process. Any person clever enough (and patient enough) could now produce a marketable image. Painters must indeed have felt their livelihoods, if not their egos, threatened.
Though it was George Eastman who cemented the imaging revolution in the popular mind, the pandemic of digital technology gave it its universal weight. The sheer enormity of the number of images being made daily -- hourly -- is indeed overwhelming and may otherwise bury the gems that still come through, but gems there are, and they're worth seeking out. As I told my friend, I make it a point to see at least 100 photographs every day, and read at least a couple of thoughtful articles pertaining to the art and craft (and, yes, the history) of photography.
In the end, it doesn't matter a whole heck of a lot what gets your creative juices flowing. Whether you have a nifty new camera or a garden variety smartphone, pay heed to the impulse to use it. The urge to create something beautiful is so human and so necessary, and if it takes a hundred tries to get the one you want, so be it. Nobody's keeping count.
Many of us have spent our lives studying this craft and perfecting our skills to make a good living from it. This may be the path you've started down; I know I'm approaching the end of mine. But if we have in common the shared love of a beautiful photographic image and the insistent urge to create them, then we're on the same journey. Legitimately, authentically, photography.
Blasphemy, I know. Right?
Oh, and a p.s: My friend Keri helped upload my blog to Squarespace (they're the greatest!) making it more seamlessly integrated into my website and also easier to post a comment and subscribe to via email. I encourage both, and look forward to hearing from you. I love a good argument.
I began writing this post, after such a long summer's absence, in the wee hours of the morning out on the Oregon coast. We rented a little house near Otter Rock, somewhere between Depoe Bay and Newport, with stellar views of the Pacific and the night sky. After a summer of far too many heat waves and the usual stresses, the overwhelming silence and cool morning breeze are treasured beyond words. I live for these moments, ungodly early though they be.
Our coast is a photographer's dream, yet here I am at daybreak in this fine study with an equally fine view, typing out words, channeling my best Ivan Doig as he writes Winter Brothers, and not slopping down on the beach in my flip-flops seeking the magical light. I blame the coffee and the solitude; they're both great company.
But the cool thing about this visit was that we were accompanied by my two-and-a-half year-old granddaughter. The sheer delight of her seeing the ocean for the first time was just amazing. That's what's so great about kids, and what we may find instructive: they don't just live for the moment, their lives are the moment. There's no past to reflect upon, no future to fret over. There's just right now, and right now is pretty darn sweet. As a photographer, I hope to take as much delight in seeking out those beautiful moments, regardless of how the effort is teased out by reflecting and fretting. Especially the fretting. It's in my nature.
But I think I know this: if I can truly live in the moment, with or without my camera, then I can use the gift of writing, awkward though mine may be, to reflect on that moment and find peace with it. Believe it or not, I think it helps my photography. It brings that moment -- that image, what I felt at the time -- into as clear a focus as the photo itself. It helps me go forward, and it brings me some joy. It keeps me from fretting.
Just wish it wasn't so damned early.
Hold on to your hats; this coming Saturday -- August 19 -- is a pretty special day. Ok, maybe not as solemnly sentimental as Bastille Day, or as sweetly nonsensical as Valentines Day, but unless your profession has a day celebrating itself, this one rings loud and proud. It is, mis amis, World Photography Day. I don't know if there is a National Accountants Day, or a World House Painters Day; if there isn't, there should be. We should celebrate who we are, and what we do. Photographers understand this.
It's partly history, of course. The exact timeline of what we know as photography is a little murky. Somewhere in the late 1820's, a Frenchman with the unpronounceable name of Nicéphore Niépce made some non-permanent silver chloride images; actual fixing chemistry came a little later. We generally recognize 1839 as the official starting point of our craft. It was in this year that another Frenchman, Louis Daguerre, announced a commercially viable process he called (wait for it...) the Daguerrotype. On August 19 of that year, the French government purchased the patent rights to the process and gave it to the world, a most unusual act of civic generosity. It makes for a fitting birthday, even if nobody knows how the heck to spell Daguerrotype without looking it up.
But history is all about reflection, not celebration, and I'm in the mood to party. Humanitarian and photography groups have formally set aside the day to create and share our photography for the common good. We're encouraged to get out there and take pictures, and there are several hosting sites where we can upload them to share. It's all well and good, even laudable, but I'm left feeling a little like the folks who only go to church on Easter: it ever so slightly misses the point.
Photography is a daily meditation, not an annual celebration, is what I say. Take photos today on your way to work. Heck, take photos at work. And tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day. And don't forget to take time to look at photography, too; online, in books, in magazines, Instagram and, yes, even Facebook. I look at tons of photos every day, everywhere I can, and a lot of them knock my socks off. I need the inspiration, I absolutely live for it, and I bet you do too. So don't forget then that this Saturday, August 19, is World Photography Day.
And you know what? Today is, too.
Only mad dogs and, if we are to believe Noel Coward, Englishmen go out in the noonday sun. I am neither. I don't like it out there. We Oregonians come in two stripes: those who soldier through the gray months to revel in our hot, sunny summers, and those who are just the opposite. Contrarians like me.
But I come to this sad state of affairs more or less honestly. I'm not a complainer -- Northwesterners seldom are, though we'd be easily excused should we start -- but aside from the heat and glare, the light quality positivity sucks. Speaking as a (albeit grumpy) photographer, I find that less of a challenge and more of an annoyance. It's not chasing light, it's being chased by it. There's little to recommend in hard, blocked-out shadows, and even less in squinty light where color and texture lay down to die. It's boring. It's hot. I need beer.
This past week, however, provided a brief respite from the solar ennui. It so happens that a big chunk of British Columbia (home, one might imagine, to more than its fair share of both mad dogs and Englishmen) is ablaze, and all that smoke has blown southward our way. The skies flattened out into a watercolor backdrop, muting both color and depth. Sunsets took on an appearance I can only imagine are commonplace on Mars. Emphysema be damned; I'm walking around in this with my camera.
The grayness and the rain and the lovely cool temperatures will return, as they always do. The colors will soften out and umbrellas will make an appearance. Herein lies the great unfettered joy of wandering about, seeking out those remarkable visual stories that the world puts forth when it rains. I stop whining, or at least cut back on it considerably. By October, it's photography perfection as the brilliant fall colors wrap themselves in a muted autumn sky. (It's also baseball's post-season and the return of hockey, otherwise known as my High Holy Days.)
Art is about passion, in photography and in all else. No matter what philosophical road I may choose to follow this day or that, it boils down to this: my passion is chasing that elusive, quiet, enveloping light.
And going out in the noonday rain.
A friend of my wife dropped by to visit last week. That in itself is unremarkable, of course; my wife does have friends and they do drop by to chat from time to time. But this time, said friend also brought along her vintage -- and damaged -- Canon AE-1 that you see here. I asked her if she wanted me to help get it repaired, but no; it's been dropped one time too many, she lamented, and besides, she doesn't need it anymore. It's old, it's useless, it's impractical. Just keep it.
Boy, can I relate to that.
I am by nature a philosophical person, given to introspection fueled by free time and caffeine overload. This is one of those times. Holding this old camera (carefully, I should point out -- the back doesn't stay on anymore) brought forth colorful memories. In general: what good and exciting times we had back when this camera newly arrived; every day was exciting, photography was something new to explore, and from time to time we made a couple bucks as we honed our skills. And in particular: this was a much-coveted camera, an up-and-comer enticing us Nikon owners; sleek, powerful, sexy, and so damn good.
Yes, the Nikon-vs-Canon argument goes back a long way, far pre-dating the digital era where the discussion takes on a whole new dimension. But there were lots and lots of cameras back then, and everyone had a favorite. Nearly all of them are now long gone. Did any of you ever own a Topcon? A Mamiya-Sekor? Google them if you're curious.
But this Canon AE-1 was different. It was delicious, and we knew it was a game-changer. Technology usually doesn't drive creativity, it should be the other way around. Photography, however, has uniquely held this relationship in symbiosis. Our craft is largely (and sometimes unnecessarily) dependent upon its technology, and the AE-1 was one of those wonderful cameras that could grab you by the collar to get out there and look. You can do better, it told us; trust me.
It has walked along with us on an unforgettable journey, but now this one is relegated to paper-weight status on my bookshelf. I guess that's ok, it's just a machine, after all. It was meant to be outgrown. Fond memories are one thing, but nostalgia and sappy sentimentality are off-putting. If this camera could talk, it would likely tell us to pipe down and keep moving ahead. I did my job, it would say, so just keep doing yours. You can always be doing better.
It's been a busy summer. Lately I've been neck-deep in projects large and small, not the least of which is making and selling prints of my digital photos, some going back as far as the turn of the century. This one, anyway. The process of making photographic prints is something I have had a deep love affair with for decades, and it keeps me up at night, as all great loves will. I find my editing inspiration is at its most lucid 'round about midnight, with the urgency of the hand-held image hot on its heels. Tequila is often involved; the coffee, not for a few hours yet. Bienvenido a mi mundo.
So then, what vexing insight causes me to start writing a blog in these wee hours? A question, actually, and a conundrum: what is an original photograph? I mean, I know well and good what original art is. I know that a painting -- a watercolor, an oil, whatever -- is a unique artifact. Yes, it can be mechanically copied and reproduced countless times, but we instinctively recognize the difference between that painting, directly coming from the hands of the artist, and those reproductions, regardless of their faithfulness to the original source. And we value them accordingly. But can this same dynamic apply to a photograph where, in most cases, the artifact and its means of reproduction are the same?
These thoughts come to me as I make my color prints from a fine Canon printer, complete with color profiles that ensure each print comes off as I intended. And each one I call (unrepentant dilettante that I am) original. But what a difference from the personal black & white work I produced in the darkroom back in another lifetime! We were taught then, of course, to keep meticulous notes on our process, detailing precise measurements of time and chemistry to ensure a likewise high degree of consistency from one print to the next. Ansel did this, and often upon reaching the perfect printing solution would make a dozen or so at a time for his portfolios, each identically cloned.
This I did not do.
No, I operated almost entirely on instinct and mood and serendipity until I came up with just exactly the image I wanted, keeping zero notes, and couldn't have reproduced that same image if I tried. It invariably took several weeks to get the perfect print, and I was in no hurry. My last gallery show of black & white photos, printed from negatives in this cowboy style, was at Broderick Gallery in Portland back in 2000. It consisted of 12 framed images. It took two years to make, and I sold them all. I haven't seen them or made new ones since. I consider them originals.
I feels different now, although I'm happy to report it doesn't take me weeks anymore to produce an acceptable image. At my age, I probably don't have that kind of time to spare, anyway. I do nonetheless spend a great deal of time on a given image, working and re-working, adjusting it to my mood and fickleness over time until I think it says what it needed to say. As mentioned, I have some good color profiles and can faithfully print it out on good paper whenever I want. And a year from now, in the wee hours of some future night, I may very well interpret it all over again for the first time. My moods likely will have changed and the image won't carry with it the burdens of expectation. It'll be new, it'll surprise me, and I'll make a clean print of it. I'll consider that an original, too. Then the sun will rise, I'll have that coffee, and get to work.
Welcome to my world.
I do love to print photos. I spent more than a few years as a professional print-maker in my photo business, both color and black & white. I was rightly proud of my skills too, if I do say so. But in this digital age, I, like a lot of my contemporaries, have been somewhat content to view my images through the virtual lens of a computer screen. Somewhat, I say. It's an uneasy truce, at best.
The truth is, I've sorely missed the process of making prints. In the color lab, we had commercial processors using EP2 (and later, CA4) chemistry, so although my eyes were attuned to the limitless nuances of color, the process itself was straightforward and comfortably automated. But black & white was different. We had the choice of many fine high-silver papers -- different grades, different surfaces -- which have long since disappeared from the shelves of camera stores. We controlled contrast and tone chemically, our tools were time and temperature, and it was very much a messy hands-on affair. We do that work in software nowadays, and that's perfectly ok.
So what did I do but finally invest in a fine color printer. I have been selling my work as individual pieces (long gone are my portrait-shooting and package-printing days) and I sent out my work to good labs to do the job. I assume the work was perfectly good -- I've heard no complaints, but my public may be uncharacteristically compliant -- yet I always felt a little dissatisfied myself.
So here's my paean to shameless commerce. My printer is a doozy, it makes museum-quality prints, and the paper I use -- a Moab® 100% rag -- reminds me of the good ol' days. My website will shortly reflect all this, but suffice to say that my compliant public will now be getting a hand-printed, hand-signed, fully archival print directly from me. I'm making two sizes: a 12" print centered on 11"x14" paper, and a 16" print centered on a 13"x19" paper. Heck, I didn't even raised my prices.
But here's the thing: selling or not, there's just something richly satisfying about making a fine print that can't be experienced in any other way. Sure, I fully enjoy the process of editing an image, and lord knows I've spent a small fortune on hardware and software over the years to be able to do just that, but making it into a lovely print feels like coming full circle. I'm reminded all over again what I love about being a photographer.
And I don't have to wait two days for the print to dry.
I think sometimes we should let events carry us away. This late Oregon spring has been filled with the kind of events I often use as an excuse to keep me from my writing, so lets see if we can put an end to that right now. But what events they have been; some excellent travel (travel is always excellent), some absolutely wonderful photography walkabouts, a scattering of workshops, even a new printer to become acquainted with (more about that next time). But one event, one small moment -- a brief conversation with a friend, actually -- stands out among all the rest, and it stopped me in my tracks.
The conversation was, of course, about photography. Not the usual nuts-and-bolts about cameras and f-stops, but about something very different. My friend was quite expressive about the joy it gave him, that it was very much a spiritual and meditative experience. It was something far removed than the simple recording of images. My friend was not a professional photographer or artist by any means, but photography nevertheless gives him a connection to a deeply wonderful reality. I was moved by his eloquence and I share his passion. But it was the question that he then posed to me that set my mind ablaze: I'm still shooting with film, he said; do I need to switch to digital?
Wow. No, I said, you don't need to do anything, other than stay on your path. But I could only wonder at what devilish dynamic could have given him that kernel of doubt in the first place. My guess is that there is so little in our media that reinforces that joy and so much that dwells on only those nuts and bolts. Nearly every breath-taking landscape, every gorgeous portrait, is made to illustrate the hardware or software of our craft, or a particular artist who has mastered all that. That's all well and good, but I can see where an untrained amateur, even one with a superbly refined eye, may be lead to self-doubt. And I think it's a pity.
Well, I'm going to do my part. Every walkabout I do, every workshop I conduct, will be expressly to help find that joy. Camera tips? exposure advice? absolutely, but in the service of why more than how. That conversation with my friend helped inspire me, so let me return the favor. Let's celebrate the zen of the moment, regardless of what you shoot with. I'm not sure yet what such a workshop might look like, but I think it could be an event worth the making. You in?
We might get carried away.
There's no such thing as a passive observer. Physics tells us this, and so does photography. Peeking in on the interactions of subatomic particles affects their progress; the observer becomes part of the action. We know this happens on a human level, too. We pretend we're just "taking pictures" of people, but there's no standing on the outside looking in, passionless and objective. We become the movers and the moved, the seers and the seen, and although the effect on both parties may at times seem minimal and routine, it is, at other times, profoundly moving indeed.
So what brings me to this rambling state of affairs, you may ask? A recent studio session with my friend Jay marked the approach to the end of a year photographing the progress of his transitioning. Last year we were working off-and-on together (I knew him as Jamie then) and could barely wrap my head around the challenge he had set out for himself. Then he asked if would, from time to time, take some pictures to help mark his progress. Hell yes, my friend. Lets do this.
Change that happens in front of our eyes is sometimes hard to detect, but if it's punctuated every month or so in front of a camera it can be quite dramatic. I really wanted to work in the studio to be as consistent in posing and lighting as possible, and this has made the drama of change so visible. There were no gimmicks of lighting and no photoshop wizardry, just an honest attempt to chronicle what I was observing. It's his story after all, not mine.
Photographically it has been a tremendous project, and I can almost make out the interaction of those particles. Their movements -- this life -- has been unfolding before me these past twelve months in ways unpredictable and moving, but stepping in to photograph them has, I'm sure, altered their trajectory in ways large and small. We've bonded closer as friends. I find myself more attuned to the nuance of quiet voices. The challenge to find clarity in the face of overwhelming change is what some people face everyday; all I can do is bring a camera to my eye and try to give it some space.
Subatomic and all.
I have an odd relationship with color. Oh sure, we're friends, but sometimes we place unrealistic demands upon each other. I definitely have something of a split-personality when it comes to color and photography, but I have long since come to embrace the uneasy duality. And I'm not referring to my past analog life where everything was seen with and through black & white film, either.
On the one hand, I am Dr. Science for the clients in my dental photography business. For them, color is a make-or-break deal. They need to see and photograph color with precision and accuracy, and then convey that color information to their dental lab so that they will end up with a product -- a crown, a veneer -- that their patient can wear with satisfaction. No small task, if you ask me.
So when I give my program on the topic of color, the complexities that emerge make it seem like any successful reproduction of color is downright impossible. Truth is, nobody sees color the same way. Women, for example, apparently see a lot more colors than men, and it's not all just an artifact of acculturation. Where they may see canary, dandelion, butterscotch, and lemon, we see ... yellow. And most guys are a bit deficient in blue-green perception compared on average to women -- a fact not lost on me during my many years as a color printer. Those are just a couple examples of the many complexities of seeing and working in color, making my instructions on using digital hardware and software important and oh so relevant. I earn a living off it.
So then, what's on that other hand? Well, it's just me and my zen: a camera and a mindful eye. Color is a suggestion, a starting point, a long walk off a short pier. What it is not is a destination. I'm not always consciously aware of what attracts the camera to my eye; of the many elements that make up an arresting scene, color may or may not be the most compelling. Heck, that's why I often prefer to go shooting on a grey and drizzly day when the role of color is diminished. The only thing I aim to see and photograph with any semblance of precision and accuracy is whatever odd state of mind the image puts me in.
No small task, if you ask me.
I love a good, loud headline. Gets my attention, which is exactly the point. So I was pleased to open up an online article from Modern Lens Magazine that told me These 7 Bad Habits Scream "Amateur Photographer." Scream, mind you. How's that for an opening act? Apparently, being an amateur is not fit for respectable folk, so I figured it was up to me to do some deconstructing.
Anyway, I'm not sure professional is necessarily the opposite of amateur; both are fluid and somewhat slippery concepts. Neither is an automatic indicator of talent or the lack thereof; it's pretty much a matter of where the 1099's get sent. I know many an amateur creating -- and selling, if they're lucky -- incredible photography. It's just not their day job.
Besides, there are lots of professionals who aren't photographers at all but still have to create good photographic images in their work. For many years now I've been in the business of training dentists and other medical professionals in using digital photography in their practice. Yeah, I know, heck of a niche, right? But their need for precise, color-accurate, accessible photography is as demanding as anyone's, maybe more. They will often apologize to me for being such "amateurs" with their camera, but I assure them: they are professionals of a high order, indeed. Labels be damned, lets just pick up a few new skills.
So what is it about some of those bad habits, anyway? Never looking at the camera manual. Screw that; manuals are for pikers. We don't need no stinkin' manuals. Chimping. Are you kidding? That's why I bought a camera with a big honking screen. Centering the subject. Heck, I really don't pay much attention. Relying on a single memory card. Hey, that's why I paid big bucks for a high-speed, high-capacity one in the first place. Post too many photos. Well, ok, you got me on that one.
I guess it all comes down to a simple metric: bad habits are bad, good habits are good, but lets not get all hung up on them. Creativity requires risk-taking and letting go. Labels are only self-indentifying, and anyway I'm a lot more interested in a good photograph than a good photographer.
Although I like hanging out with both.
February was a great month. As is my usual habit, I spent my birthday month engaging in as much travel -- and its attendant dissipations -- as I can fit into a scant 28 days, 29 if I'm calendrically lucky. A predictably and delightfully rainy trip to northern California capped it off, and of course I'm left to reflect on the fact that my recent trips have all involved a good deal of rain. This, I'm convinced, is a good thing. It makes for better photographs.
But traveling also demands, of me at least, a healthy dose of delayed gratification. Here's what I mean: I rarely travel with my laptop computer, a generously proportioned 15-inch Macbook Pro. Much as I would otherwise like to, I don't upload any of my pictures until well after the event, and this can be any number of days away. Oh sure, I always do some on my iPhone too, and those I can see and mess with right away. That, too, is a good thing, but the ones I take with my camera -- more contemplative, perhaps -- benefit from a cooling-off period.
There are a couple of reasons for this, the first of which has troubled me since I began shooting with a digital camera. As much as anyone, I love the excitement, the joy, of seeing a beautiful image unfold in the viewfinder and then tripping the shutter. A quick glance at the LCD screen might even reinforce that feeling. But the excitement felt at the moment of exposure is often not the same as that which happens when the image is opened up and sprawled, naked and cold, on the computer screen. One is a Eureka! moment, the other is a "what do I do now?" one. They are inherently disconnected. Better to give them the advantage of time and avoid being unnecessarily disappointed. I'm sure it's a holdover from my film days, which involved the lengthy process of gathering up the exposed rolls and spending a few days developing the negatives before I could even get to the task of printing them. The inherent delay, the forced separation, was integral to the process. Consciously or not, I took advantage of it.
But the other reason, which I've mentioned in passing a couple times before, has to do with re-discovering an old image, as if to see it for the first time all over again. If I go back over images I took weeks or even months before, those initial responses and expectations are long gone. I get to interpret an image I had previously overlooked and will feel excited about it again, but for entirely different reasons having little or nothing to do with the original intent. I find that supremely satisfying, but then, I often feel the same way about Portland coffee or a good IPA. Or rain.
So maybe it's just me.
I don't think I've ever enthusiastically embraced the notion that less is more. Not that I'm given to excess, mind you, at least not terribly often. I don't care for images that are cluttered or poorly arranged either, but the thought that empty space could somehow draw out of the viewer a range of emotions was, shall I say, unsupported. I just don't buy it.
And yet, and yet..........
I spent the better part of this week examining just those very minimalist photographs at the urging of a colleague back east, and could hardly draw my eyes away from them. Hengki Koentjoro, for example, is an Indonesian photographer whose work just blew me away (google him.) So I went through my usual gallery sites with a more refined minimalist eye, and came away impressed. A changed man? At my age, no. But one who came to some revelations about what we've been doing -- or should have been doing --all along.
And it only makes sense. After all, if you think about it, photography is more about what you leave out than what you put in. It's always been that way, we just have a hard time reflecting on it because we're usually in such a darn big hurry. When you bring the camera up to your eyes, you pretty much choke off 99% of the universe in the process. That's not a bad thing, of course; it's the very nature of the art. You just have to slow it down a notch.
So the task I set for myself was to go out and shoot with a maximalist heart and a minimalist eye. And no, it wasn't that I was going to purposely take "minimalist" photographs; such an objective will surely send you down the wrong path. I take pictures the way I take pictures, but I tried instead to be consciously aware of the elements around me that I was leaving out, and that, as Frost might say, has made all the difference.
Obviously haven't mastered that last part.
I decided a long time ago that I wanted to make my photographs bass-ackwards, and this bears some explanation, as you can imagine. I think it came about when I began to really embrace all things digital, because this made me see things differently from my old darkroom days. A lot differently. And since I'm enjoying myself immensely, I pay little heed to my erstwhile advisors and detractors who came upon this technology from a different angle. Take your own damn pictures! I'm having too much fun.
So let me take you back to those old darkroom days for a little perspective. Despite the usual dissipations attendant to a 20-something neophyte, I was a diligent and disciplined photography student. I took it seriously, and trained under some intensely talented teachers. The lesson brought home by them, ratified by the writings of the ever influential Ansel Adams, was the insistent karma of pre-visualization. Whether in the studio or in the field, each shot was thought out ahead of time (sometimes even diagrammed) to visualize the values, tones, and intent of the photo when realized in the darkroom. It was, as you can tell, pretty much all planned out, and ideally there were no unpleasant surprises. So I ask you: what fun is that?
Don't get me wrong, this was wonderful training and it provided a rich background from which to spring. And spring I did. I began, imperceptibly at first, to turn my meditative gaze outward, and I discovered that my camera and my eyes teamed up to find the things that interested them, and I pretty much went along for the thrill-ride. Maybe it's just in the way I use imaging technology, or maybe it's the tequila, but in either event there's a profound joy -- and, yes, the yang of a little discomfort -- in not knowing exactly where I would end up. Life is like that.
But if you open yourself up to a little post-visualizing, here's what you'll discover: a wealth of infinitely-layered images that open themselves up to you with new surprises every time you visit them. They will entertain you, they will delight, they will talk back with an atittude and they will be profoundly challenging. I think that's the whole point of art anyway, and it's not the sort of thing you can easily plan out ahead of time. Create your own river I say, and then go with the flow.
No telling what you might discover.
Blame it on climate change. The recent winter shift in weather patterns up here has been pretty dramatic, and not in a warming direction, either. Quite the contrary; it's a mini-Ice Age, a snowpocalypse, and downright pleistocene if you ask me. Cold, in other words, and I didn't sign up for this, but here we are. We'll make the best of it, come hell (oh, I wish) or high water.
So with temperatures that never got above the teens, my friend Dan and I took the notion that it'd be a good idea to drive up into the Columbia Gorge and find some frozen waterfalls to photograph. We bravely sallied forth, bundled up like a couple of four-year-old's, with all the photo gear we could muster. Which, between the two of us, is considerable.
The waterfalls in the gorge are an incredible site any time of the year; they wax and wane with the seasons and the rainfall. I've photographed them many times, but never in a nearly-frozen state like this. It presented some interesting challenges. We hiked (or, rather, skated) on the lower trail up to Latourell Falls, picked our way carefully down to Bridal Veil falls, and then coasted into the parking lot at Multnomah Falls. Somewhere in the mix we found an inviting brew-pub in Hood River to thaw out. Ok, so it's not the Shackelton expedition. Give me a break.
But you know me, I have to make every excursion into something more personal, more intense, than just a cruise with a camera. I want to bring the camera up to my eye and and lose myself in the moment -- in this case, an extremely cold moment, but a spellbinding one nonetheless. The swirling mists at the bottom of the falls were instantly freezing on our lenses (and my glasses) so I know that I was sometimes shooting on faith alone. Therein lies the beauty of the motions.
And truth be told, I love shooting in gray and inclement conditions. Let me rephrase that: it's not that I love actually shooting in them -- I take my creature comforts seriously -- but I do truly love the photographic possibilities inherent in the gray skies, the rain and the fog. Add to that snow and ice now, too. A nice, warm day presents few challenges physically or photographically, and for all their discomforts, the frozen waterfalls quite literally took my breath away. It was a rare visual feast.
Shackelton would have been proud.
I find myself sitting at my desk, gazing mindlessly down at the meadow, here in these first few hours and days of the new year 2017. By tradition, one supposes, I should be pondering some resolutions and promises to keep in these upcoming months, but I'm not of that mind. Sorry to disappoint. Another fine tradition is to register an optimism that the new year will accord us a more generous slice of luck and goodness than last year. But truth be told, acknowledging all its ups and downs, 2016 was, on balance, a pretty good year. So was 2015, and the year before that, and the one before that, too. I've lived a lot of the-year-before-thats, by the way, so I guess it'd be alright to remark on a few things I might like to do this year.
I fully expect that photography will continue to surprise and challenge me. If it has taught me anything, it's that when I stay in the moment, I'm best able to see light and beauty. I've struggled all my life as a photographer to achieve and appreciate its zen, and I'm getting closer. A few more years maybe, or in another life, but I'm thoroughly enjoying the effort.
Oh, and sure, there are some new things (ok, toys) that I'd like this year too, but whether they help me improve my photography is questionable. But so what. New toys seldom do, but that's hardly the point. They keep us excited. For example, I really don't need another camera, but boy would I like that new mirrorless Fuji X-Pro2. I have the Xe2 and love it to death, and I do recognize the difference between need and want. But again, so what. On the other hand, I do expect to pick up a new printer this year and hand-print my photos. I'm getting more and more people asking to buy them, and I'd like to have complete quality-control over their production. Plus, just between you and me, I miss printing something fierce.
So here I am, still gazing down at the meadow, think wistful thoughts. I'd like to get out more with my friends and colleagues to wander about the city looking for the perfect photograph, or at least a darn good one. I'll try to connect more, and hope you'll reach out, too. It doesn't take much to talk me into a photowalk, and if misery loves company, well, so does happiness. Even more so.
And as I continue to shift my gaze from laptop to meadow, I notice a few snowflakes beginning to fall. Yes, we do get snow in Portland, and it reminds me that I do need to resolve to make an important purchase, and soon.
Ok, so it's just a few days before Christmas and by rights I should be getting started on my shopping, but no. I figure I still have time, and besides, I've been thinking more about apps recently than presents or even sugar plum fairies, whatever the heck they are. That's just how I roll, particularly since I was introduced to a photo app this week by a like-minded friend. Truth is, of course, I have a ton of photo apps, but this one has me preoccupied...and for all the wrong reasons.
It's a new one called Darkr. And yes, that's how it's spelled. Darkr. Maybe it's just me, and maybe I'm a little skeptical. It's supposed to give the experience of actually using a "real" camera (as opposed to propping up the iPhone in front of your face?) and then spend a little time working with the resulting black & white negative, just like in the darkroom. Only, not.
As you can see, you get to look through the viewfinder of an actual (well, virtual) camera, in this case what looks like a Yashica rangefinder. But you could also choose a medium-format or even the viewscreen of a large format camera, image inverted and all. Plus, you control the exposure with actual shutter speeds and f/stops. Now don't get me wrong, I think this is all very cool and I can't say I'm not enjoying playing with it. But I have to wonder: who is this designed for, and dear god, why?
If it's aimed at us old guys -- you know, like we've been hanging 'round the general store, pining for the fjords -- then they missed the mark by about a mile. We've moved on, and happily so. We have good gear and iPhones, and if the mood strikes we still can haul out the old Deardorff and load up some Tri-X. But frankly, the mood doesn't strike all that often any more (chalk it up to age and statins, and yes, I'm talking about old cameras, not whatever the hell it is that you're thinking about.)
And if it's aimed at a whole new generation unfamiliar with that old stuff, well then, good luck with that. Some analog experiences can't be reproduced in a digital world, but that doesn't mean you can't try. And I'm betting this app was designed by just one of those very people, thus my skoosh of skepticism. We're just not thinking on the same wavelength.
So you know what I'm going to do someday? I'm going to hike up Half Dome, set up a big old Reis tripod, find a good position under the dark cloth, and make my best Ansel Adams landscape -- on an iPad. I think he, of all people, would see the humor in it and frankly, if he were still around, he would have beaten me to it. Old guys.
That's just how we roll.
Let's establish this right off the bat -- I'm the world's worst prognosticator. Nostradamus I'm not. All the cocky predictions I made in my youth, about anything, have all been wildly off. When I first encountered personal computers, for example, I figured they might be useful in helping me organize my baseball card collection. How could I have seen they'd replace my darkroom, and that I'd be perfectly cool with that? And I'm sure it's not just me: where are the flying cars we were promised? So when I opened my laptop the other day and read the exciting headline The Future Of Photography, well boy howdy, was I curious to find out or what?
Turns out that particular story was actually an ad for iPhone lenses (one of which I already own, it seems) so I was somewhat miffed at not being transported to a new dimension. But it got me interested in stirring the tea leaves, so I poured some more coffee and headed into the unknown: what, dear Google, is the future of photography? I was not disappointed.
Undreamed-of new products and techniques, software and hardware, were on display for me to digest, but I wasn't really interested in all that. What caught my eye were the articles about new ways of seeing, and different ways to reflect upon reality that photography may offer us. These are truly revolutionary ideas. We've gotten into the habit of allowing photographs to mean something real to us when in fact they are contrivances, the artifacts created when we use technology to make an image. As we move into the future (at light speed, by the way) the totality of photography's ever-changing syntax will be overwhelming, but I bet we'll hardly notice. Our acceptance of what is real will adapt right along with it.
James Burke, one of the world's most influential science historians, wrote in his 1978 book Connections that not only do we not know the future, we can't know the future. The progression of time is non-linear: things that happen now effect the things that will happen later, and the process is utterly random. But I take heart in this. Nothing is pre-ordained; no outcome is inevitable. That's exciting stuff, even -- especially -- for a photographer in the digital age. One of those articles suggested we'll make up new rules as we go along, but I say, Rules? We don't need no stinkin' rules. Do we?
So what the heck, here's my stab at it: with every new piece of software, every new app, every new device (my iPhone and I are staring at each other across the room) we'll take image-making across uncharted borders, and define reality anew at every step. The "camera" will become as quaint as the "telephone." Everyone will be able to create an image and then adjust it to conform to their own very individual way of seeing the world. Most will be mundane, but some will blow our socks off. That's largely how it is even right now, so that's really not that daring of a prediction, I guess. But however photography morphs, it will always be startling and unexpected, challenging, troubling, eternally engaging. Its unfamiliarity will be warmly welcoming.
Oh, and robots. Robots will do our dishes.