10,000 .... And Counting ~

An interesting article showed up in my Feed of Interesting Articles this week. It was just a few short paragraphs by a travel writer named Jason Row, but he was commenting on one of the great luminaries of 20th century photography, Henri Cartier-Bresson. Now Cartier-Bresson, you may remember, is justly famous for coining the phrase, and embodying the photographic style, of the decisive moment. This philosophy, though maybe a bit dramatic, nonetheless influenced all of us to some degree. But the article did not examine the idea of photographic moments, decisive or otherwise. Rather it examined, in brief but otherwise revelatory fashion, a lesser-known statement he once made: "Your first 10,000 photographs are your worst."

Mr. Row, it appeared, was taking that 10,000-count somewhat literally, even examining how easily one may approach that figure vis-a-vis film vs digital technologies. I believe Cartier-Bresson intended a more metaphorical reading, at least I hope he did. But if the number itself is merely an arbitrary signpost, to what does it point?
I mean, I clearly remember the refrigerator we had at the studio I first worked and studied at, so many years back. It was packed with, literally, hundreds of feet of film: bricks and pro-packs  of 120 film, 100-foot rolls of Tri-X and Ektachrome to bulk-load, and more boxes of sheet film than you could count. There was hardly room for beer, though God knows we tried. So for sheer numbers, 10,000 was hardly daunting.

But numbers only represent a larger truth, one hopes. And the truth is, we take our craft seriously, and if it takes a lot of practice to improve -- as surely it does in any worthwhile endeavor -- then let's keep counting. You're first 10,000 anything are not your worst, but they are the signposts on your path that keep pointing ahead. You can be proud of the work you've produced so far without being satisfied. I, for one, have not yet taken my best photograph. Might be the next one. Might be the one after that.

But who's counting?

Plato's Travelogues, Part de Tres ~

John Steinbeck is always a great read, always; and one of the most delightful of those reads, Travels With Charley, kept running through my head this past week. He had set out with his traveling companion Charley in search of America (the book's subtitle) near the end of his career as a writer. Other than my own reflections as I travel and make photographs, I draw no parallels nor critiques of one of my favorite writers. I only write to clean up the noise in my head, but like the man himself, I have come to embrace the art of travel as a means of self-reflection upon a long and adventurous career.

And so this past week at the Albuquerque Balloon Festival could well be titled Travels With Nancy. Not only wife and travel companion, she is the instigator, motivator, and organizer of many a fine trip. Left to my own devices, I'd prefer to grab my brother Jim and light out for the territories, with nary a thought beyond where the next gas station -- or liquor store -- may be. But a trip to this festival required a level of planning and precision I'm generally not capable of, and which also inspired in me a more focused and disciplined approach to my photography. I traveled camera-light: just my trusty little Fuji and a couple of lenses; a minimalist approach to a maximal event. It's been photographed a zillion times before, so I could hardly pretend to speak in a wholly original voice. But that was hardly the point.

I should point out that Charley was a french poodle, and Nancy is not. But a travel companion is always and forever more than just someone occupying the seat next to you. A true travel companion is the chorus of Agememnon, a fresh thought, a light of a different color. And in my case anyway, it's how I got there in the first place. In my experience, an excellent travel companion has always kept me from over-thinking the possibilities and probabilities, making me stay in the moment. Photography requires this, but photographers stray.

We should all get the opportunity, if not the necessity, to reflect on what we've produced as our careers wind down. Doing it right is, I submit, an intensely solitary effort, but whatever our calling has been -- artists, photographers, healers, teachers -- it is inescapable. We've come down a long road, and in this case, it lead me to a hot-air balloon festival in my beloved Albuquerque; a place where I spent part of my childhood, and have always felt a warm attachment to.

Like Steinbeck, I want to see more of America, and even the world, and use the experience of traveling to see deeper inside myself. His voice was a pen and paper, mine happens to be a camera, but we should, all of us, find Charley and go somewhere.

Even if Charley happens to be a french poodle.

Rust and Ruins and a Good Walk ~

I've been known to take long walks indeed, or at least lengthy travels. Sure, I'm a studio guy, but the road beckons and nothing gives me white-line fever more than a nice camera sitting with its legs crossed on the edge of my desk, asking me out on a date. My wandering companion of late, one Laurie Excell, is even more of a wanderer, and often in the very literal sense, having completed this past summer a 600 some-odd mile walking tour in Spain. But our attentions turned this week to a more modest project closer to home, a fascinating old lumber camp that's been turned into a walking museum of old relics (I know what you're thinking, but I'm not one yet) and restaurant about an hour west of town. It's a place called Camp 18, and if you've driven over to the coast from Portland on 26, you've been by it a million times. Well, next time, pull in. You'll end up spending a most gratifying day.

It's a treasure trove of old logging machinery and railroad cars that have been left out in the Oregon elements to weather gracefully. I'm a history buff every bit as much as a photographer, and am particularly fascinated by the remnants of 19th and early 20th century Americana. So this place was like Disneyland for me. Laurie and I spent the better part of a gorgeous sunny day taking in the textures and the colors, communing with the ghosts of trucks and tractors that were so vital to an industry that was once the lifeblood of the Northwest. Two inveterate wanderers, Laurie and I, figuring out ways to have fun and cause trouble.

So we're going to organize a Wandering group. Laurie has lead photography workshops for many years, in amazing places throughout the world, and wrote a monthly column in Photoshop User magazine. I've lead photo groups in Jackson Hole and, of course, lighting and portrait workshops right here at home. We've been wandering together in these parts for a long time and have always thought it'd be a kick-butt idea to invite some like-minded souls to join us. Camp 18 inspired us. We're taking a group back there on November 1 for a day of photo instruction and shooting; any camera or smartphone and any skill level. Rain or shine (and you know I'd prefer a little rain, but that's just me). Fee TBD, we'll meet there for breakfast at 8 am, shoot all day, then head back indoors for a slideshow and guidance on software, apps, and post-processing. What's not to love? More information will be forthcoming from both of us in the next day or two, so stay tuned.

I bet you have a camera somewhere close by, just begging to go out on a date, right?

Here's you chance to take it somewhere nice.

Gray Matters ~

I've mentioned in posts before that photographers are attracted to shiny things. Well anyway, unrepentant gearheads like me certainly are, but the larger truth is much more interesting. It's not the shiny things that possess us so, it's really the gray matter that occupies our daily minds, and I'm not talking about our brains (tempting though that is.) Gray dominates our photographic way of thinking: neutral gray, 15% gray, grayscales, 256 shades of gray in a jpeg, and more. I was put in mind of this by a conversation I had this week with a client in Honolulu; as we texted back and forth (yes, texted; who talks anymore?) he expressed his sympathy that we in Oregon were about to enter into our gray and rainy season. His intentions were sincere, but I told him, in the friendliest Oregonian manner I could muster, to kindly put a sock in it.

This is, after all, what I live for; I celebrate the first day of Fall and all that it portends. We've been taught that it was always preferable to take a portrait outdoors when it was overcast, but that's not what turns me on. It's the colors. When it's gray, when the light is soft and diffuse, colors truly come alive and express themselves with poetry instead of prose. They're not hiding in deep shadows, nor burned away in the light of a cloudless sky. They get to sing. And let me tell you, autumn is just about as beautiful here in the Northwest as it is anywhere in the world. Plus -- from a purely practical standpoint, mind you -- it's far more pleasurable to wander about in a clement atmosphere. Nobody wilts more in the mid-day sun than a pasty Oregonian, nor bitches quite as much about it. There. I've said it.

But there's really more to it than that even, and it all has to do with mood; both in the scene, and in my head. The kind of gray that dominates our late fall and winters is, in itself, subtly charged with emotion and atmosphere; a particular moody note that permeates the world and which compels me to go forth with camera and raincoat to try and capture. It's quintessentially Oregon. Why else would there be so much coffee up here?

So I say, take joy in the long Northwestern gray, or at least take heart. And to my friends in Hawaii and other sunny climes, take note but don't take pity: we can't help but find something creative in our foul weather and our foul moods. We'll come visit when it gets a little overwhelming, perhaps, and maybe it'll re-charge our batteries, but there is opportunity and optimism in all that gray that you may never understand.

Come to think of it, we probably won't either. But it won't stand in our way.

Group Theory and the Percolation of Time ~

This week I had the great pleasure of a rainy Portland photowalk (a common event) with one of my favorite photographers, Laurie Excell (a not-as-common event, which we will hopefully rectify.) Accompanied by my wife Nancy, who brought her watercolorist's eye for fantasy, we tramped the tracks and warehouses of southeast Portland and wandered through the warrens of a place called Cargo, which I had only discovered a few days earlier. Granted, these excursions may not carry the emotional weight of, say, a birthday party (of which I have had far too many, anyway) but for me these are a source of unfettered joy and creativity far outweighing the benefits of a simple hike. I highly recommend this; it's good medicine.

There is an energy in the company of cohorts and co-conspirators that I find irresistible. Colleagues or students, artists or poets, Jedi or Padawan; it takes more than one set of eyes to peel back the layers that often stand in the way of seeing what's there. Even in the studio I have always looked at the portrait session as more of a collaboration than a project. There's strength in numbers, to be sure, and a lot of creative energy. And someone usually knows a great place for coffee.

But here's the interesting thing, for me anyway. I like to get to those images on my computer just as quickly as I can, while the excitement of discovery is still fresh in my mind. There's always those one or two that leap out and demand my attention all over again, just as they did when I pointed the camera at them. The rest of them hide in the bushes, waiting for me to come walking by later so they can trip me and laugh. It's a habit I developed way back in the dark(room) ages, to purposefully let an image alone to percolate for a while, and see it as something new and fresh and exciting days, sometimes weeks, later. Great things are often hiding in the things you photograph; you saw it at the time, but just didn't know it.
I won't go so far as to compare the photo (be it a negative or a raw file) to a graceful wine that improves with age; it's a dumb cliché and anyway I prefer harder stuff. More like a casserole left in the 'fridge: it's always better the next day.

So let me know if you want to go out photowalking with me. I'm trying to make this a more regular part of my life; it's great exercise for a healthy heart and restless mind.

It's good medicine.

On Gearheads and Galaxies ~

Let me start right off by saying today's post is not a product review. Not that I have anything against them, mind you, but like the teacher who said there'd be no math, I had promised to avoid them. Most of the time, anyway. Don't get me wrong, nobody loves a shiny new object more than a photographer, and every time I read about a new camera or a new lens, I mentally go through what I loosely refer to as my "budget". But I digress. This is not a product review. And yet, and yet......

I refer you to an article sent to me by my friend Doctor Dave: Canon announced that it has produced a 250-megapixel sensor that could, if they darn well wanted to, fit into a consumer grade DSLR camera. Their own description of it reads that this sensor is capable of "...distinguishing the lettering on the side of an airplane flying at a distance of approximately 18 km (11 miles) from the shooting location." And who hasn't ever wanted to do that. Obviously (I hope) this is more useful technology for law enforcement and engineering than for us studio types and, as Dr. D pointed out to me, who the heck has a lens capable of resolving 250 megapixels? Even Canon is mum on that point, but who cares. I'd happily jack up the RAM in the old Macbook and give it a whirl.
But wait, there's more.

I have also recently come across an online report of a 3.2 giga-pixel camera currently under construction. Giga. As in billion. The math geek in me is wrapping my brain around what I calculate a single file size to be (somewhere south of 10 gigabytes, yes?) while my brain ponders the astronomical possibilities: the report states that this camera will potentially record more galaxies than there are people on earth. No mention of the cost yet, and I'm pretty certain the good folks at DP Review aren't going to be writing about it. But's it's pretty damn cool, if you ask me.

At some point -- like now, maybe -- it's hard to think about any of this in the context of photography. I guess a more accurate descriptor would be imaging technology, even though that sounds awfully sterile and antiseptic, but that's the romance of rocketry for you. If we get to take a peek under the universe's blankets, I'm all in.

It beats taking pictures of airplanes, even from 18 km (11 miles) away.

Reality And Its Discontents ~

Recently I've been reading -- and re-reading -- an online article about the nature of contemporary photography by a man named Steven Mayes. He makes an elegant argument that it is somehow a radically different thing today than it was in the past, that "digital capture quietly but definitively severed the optical connection with reality." My meager blog-o-graphs here can do it little justice, you should read it yourself (http://time.com/4003527/future-of-photography) but, like all things photographic and with fresh coffee close by, it sets my mind off to the races. And what it's racing toward is the question of just how much reality did photography ever communicate in the first place? My though is, it never did.

For centuries, painters were looked to to provide visual authority. They were the press photographers of their day, in a sense. What did the King look like? What did those mountains out west look like? People trusted their accuracy and were informed by what they saw. But we know better now, and they should have known better then, too. Perhaps deep down inside they did. The King wasn't the übermensch astride a gallant horse; he was just another grumpy guy who needed his coffee in the morning (and who can't relate to that?). And those magnificent Albert Bierstadt paintings of the unexplored west, which utterly dazzled 19th-centtury eyes, were, well ... pure fantasy.

There are some who argue that the invention of photography freed painting from the the burden of visual reportage, thus making possible the eventual rise of modern, non-representational movements. Ok, I'll buy that. Where else would Impressionism come from? People went from relying on the "truth" of oil on canvas to the "truth" of colorless images on paper and glass. But here's the point: either way, it was always one person's attempt to define a singular point in time, using the technology available at the time.  I think it always told us more about the practitioner than the practice itself. We view an image through the lens of our own lives; whatever reality we may find therein is a construct of our own making. Photographs are not statements, nor even suggestions; they are mirrors.

And me? I'm constitutionally incapable of just letting a photograph be. I'll work that poor bastard to death until it starts to resemble some state of mind that I find agreeable. I always did that; digital technology just gives me wider options, but options were there all along. And reality? It's all in my mind.

But it's in yours, too.

In Search of an Excellent Mistake ~

A few days ago my wife sent me some iPhone pictures from Victoria BC, where she was visiting with her sister. As you can see from the lovely sample below, they appeared to have an odd blue-green cast about them, which she attributed to an old device in need of an upgrade. I, of course, attributed it my wife (an otherwise accomplished painter) having entered her Blue Period. We were both wrong. A little long-distance sleuthing determined where she had inadvertently changed a camera setting, and she was soon back to clean and predictable normality. Well, her pictures anyway. And of course, this lead me to thinking.

There are two kinds of mistakes, by my reckoning. The first one vexes us the most, because it all has to do with intentions. Through an insufficiency of experience or a lapse in attention, we miss an intended mark. It has disappointment written all over it. As photographers, this is where we fret over the details, because a lack of precision often leads to a lack of clients. We learn technology and practice technique over and over, trying to achieve zen-like perfection so we can hit our targets with apparent effortlessness. This is where craftsmanship comes from.

But the second kind of mistake is the one we should make from tie to time, but seldom do. It has about it the sublime grace of the unpredictable. It's not altogether concerned about the target you've set, because it sets its own, and takes you along for the ride. You may be rightly concerned about the proper rules of composition, of lighting, of posing -- you have, after all, spent a lifetime learning them. That's the point. You've begun to arrive at a place where those are seamlessly integrated into your way of thinking, and your way of seeing. Now go ahead and point your camera in any direction the fates lead you. You'll be happily surprised.

Serendipity happens only by mistake, but its one where the universe tips the scales in your favor for once. This is your Blue Period. This is where art comes from.

If I'm not mistaken.

On Truth, Beauty and Caffeine ~

Truth and beauty. Beauty and truth. Keats said they're pretty much one in the same, but sometimes I wonder. At least, when it comes to photography. When it comes to the essays on art that I stumble upon past midnight, the complimentarity of truth and beauty seems to be breezily assumed, but when the writer turns his or her attention to modern photography, all bets are off. And this bugs the hell out of me. I'm in no mood to ponder deep thoughts so early in the morning, so I'm left to figure out why the stark, post-modern landscapes of, say, Robert Adams somehow expose us to the hard light of truth, but his contemporary Robert Glenn Ketchum reveals to us the beauty in the same world. I mean, how is this even possible? I haven't even had my coffee yet.

Truth and beauty probably are just two sides of a coin, neither existing without the other: complimentary, wave and particle. I can't imagine either one canceling out the other, and I've never seen that happen in any of the countless photographs I have seen in my lifetime. The argument may keep critics and philosophers in business, but it doesn't do us photographers any favors. What I want to know is this: how does it inform my own photography? Does it affect the way I see the world I inhabit right here, right now?

I can't possibly see the world in rule of thirds, or golden ratios, or perfect fibonacci spirals. I see images and moments; they're around me all the time, I see them everywhere, even my dreams. Maybe only in my dreams, who knows. Like I said, it's 2 in the morning and I need coffee. But that's what informs my work, and I've given up all control over it. Everywhere I look I see beauty.

And that's the truth.

Hammers and Nails and Pixels ~

A good conversation can lead you down some interesting paths every bit as easily as a roadmap and good shoes. I ought to know. I spend a lot of time talking when I should be working, but I come by this failing with the best of intentions, and such was the case this week in the studio. While working on a project with a friend and fellow photographer, one much younger than I (and really, who isn't?)  the conversation turned to the way I started out in photography, and the profession as it was "back in the day." He put forth the proposition that there was a fundamental difference between the photography then and photography now, the digital revolution being the uncrossable Styx dividing the two eras. Anyone now, goes the argument, can have a camera (iPhone, etc) and put their shingle out. The older era required an unrealistic level of craftsmanship that in a digital world seems like the fourth wheel of a tricycle: unnecessary, and out of definition.

I call bullshit.

The inexpensive architecture of cameras, though perhaps more limited in scope, made them just as easily available to everybody. Remember Instamatics? You probably don't. But trust me, those and countless rangefinder and SLR cameras made their appearance at darn near every wedding I shot, as big a nuisance then as any modern-day Ansel Adams in the pew with a smartphone and a couple of snap-on lenses. And you could drop off the film at any same-day developing kiosk across the country; they were the Starbucks of their day. As for me? I was a diligent printmaker, color as well as black & white; the unwashed masses mere poseurs. How does this differ from our experience with photography today? I submit it does not.

The craftsmanship --  the art -- of image-making is no less demanding today; it may be the mastery of software and not chemistry and paper, but the skills needed to match your vision with an equally compelling finished image (print or otherwise) takes as much time and effort to master. So I'm not one to compare or complain. I had the good fortune to have been in a position to learn both and span the gap between the old and the new, and as much as I may miss the smell of hypo, I wouldn't go back.

So when someone says it's easier today, that all you need to do is learn a few keystrokes, well... again, I call you-know-what. It's only easy if you want it be, but true mastery still takes a lifetime.

We all have a long way to go.

Virtual Duality and a Good Photo ~

In the pre-digital era, there was no such thing as photography without the finished product. This may have been as simple as a box of color slides you slipped into a Kodak carousel, or as sophisticated as an archival black & white print. But it was something, and it always occurred after you made the exposure in the camera. We take a lot more photos today, a lot more, because smartphones got smarter and good digital cameras got cheaper. The unprecedented accessibility of picture taking, however, is just one side of the coin; on the other is the radical notion of picture making.

This is the beautiful dialectic of digital photography, its yin and yang, and exists on levels we couldn't predict back when dinosaurs had Nikons. Part of this, the traditional part, is in the artifact: the after-the-fact creation (or more accurately, the re-creation) of what you saw when you took the picture. The print. It can be anything from a gallery-quality chromogenic piece of art framed and hanging on your wall or a 3 x 5 from Costco. Doesn't matter. Post-digital era be damned, print that sucker out. We think we can be content with the virtual archive, the cloud, the 64Gb storage of an iPhone but I have serious doubts, and I bet, deep inside, you do too. Leafing through my children's (and now grandchildren's, for heaven's sake) baby albums is a deeply moving and bittersweet joy that even Lightroom cannot accord, and this experience is ageless.

The truly non-traditional aspect to all this is the immediate ability to share your photos.  Where the yin of printing is personal, the yang of sharing is universal. Whether it's the personal focus of an email or the wide broadcast of social media, it's an unprecedented avenue of expression. And you need to take advantage of it. Listen, if you can survive the onslaught of all my photographs over the years, I can certainly survive yours. But let me make it even clearer: I want to see them.

You might be laboring under the misapprehension that there is a certain standard of artistry or photoshop cleverness that needs to be reached before you can presume to post an image online, but it's nonsense. The photo is what you're posting, but what you're sharing is the passion that made you take it in the first place.

And who doesn't want to see that?

Re-Thinking The Museum ~

I am such an art commie. As a reformed Hasselblad and large-format shooter, I've come to embrace the democratizing effect of cameras in the smartphone, and digital photography in general. But there's more to it that just this, much more. Within this digital world is the virtual museum, and the accessibility of the works of the great (and not-so-great) masters, the famous works and neglected artists, the big and the small, are all encompassed in this lovely glass world at our fingertips. And yes, this is a good thing.

When I was a portrait photographer in northern California back in the '80s, I was a member of Friends of Photography, an Ansel Adams - based group of fine-art photographers based at that time in Carmel. I made monthly pilgrimages to see their exhibits, and was always blown away by the works on display. Sometimes they were images from the masters themselves -- Adams, Weston -- but more often by little known up-and-comers whose works both humbled and inspired. And that's precisely the point I'm struggling to make here: those incredible photographs were accessible through no other means than a couple hour's drive south to Carmel. There was no way to share my experience with anyone who hadn't likewise gone there to see them.

And yes, I know, I wrote here a couple years back about the tactile and visceral experience of seeing great art in person. I'm a gallery hound. But wander as much as I do, I'm still usually not in San Francisco, or New York, or London, or wherever the heck a great photography show is being hosted, but a quick google search will turn up exquisite exhibitions and challenging reviews, as well as websites fully dedicated to hosting a broad spectrum of contemporary photography, such as 500px. And for heavens sake, expand your horizons beyond photography: the world of contemporary art is limitless, and all of it will inspire. Well, most of it, anyway. The photo-marxist in me loves to be offended every now and then. There's no other way to know what you love.

Viva la revolución!

A State of Grace (And the Right Exposure) ~

This winter I'm slated to give a talk to a group of medical professionals on connecting and creativity, so naturally I've already begun to ruminate on it. And, more naturally still, it allowed my mind to wander about, much as my feet do, exploring my own sources of creativity and pathways of connection. All roads lead to Rome, they say, but mine usually have me ending up here at the studio, my sanctuary. Or at a good coffee shop.

We all need these places, wherever they may be. In the past it was usually the darkroom for me, and I've posted here before about it's charms, even a task as straightforward as loading film for developing. I kid you not. I can still imagine it, still feel it: my thumbnail slicing open the paper tab holding back the exposed film on a 120 roll, and the cold sheen as it wound onto the stainless steel reel. Seems like no big deal, I probably did it a million times, but it was somehow always transcendent. It was meditation, it was morning vespers. It got the creative juices flowing. The act of photography is being alive and awake in the moment; the process afterwards, whether in the darkroom or at the computer, is its revelation. It is pure joy.

But let's not get all new-agey and smarmy here. There's no magic involved, and I'm certainly no mystic. I'm as susceptible to diversions and dissipations as the best of them, honestly. Photographers, and artists generally, tend in that direction anyway, so best to have fun with it. But in my daily encounters and photography workshops I meet people who are ardently seeking their own wellsprings of creativity, and believe it may come from improving their technique or their equipment. There may be a little truth in that, but I suspect it's much simpler than that, so simple it's easily overlooked. Find that quiet place and carry it with you, is what I like to tell them. Point your camera. Say cheese and smile. Don't worry if at first you don't find your voice, because it will eventually find you.

And a nice little coffee shop is always a good place to start.

The Chinatown Syndrome ~

In case you haven't noticed, I love the urban landscape. Oh sure, landscapes in general, too; what photographer doesn't like a nice big tree now and then? But I'm not Gainsborough, and I'm not Monet. The human imprint on the world provides challenge and inspiration, and I'm a total sucker for it. Nowhere is this more evident than in those parts of cities and towns that we collectively call Chinatown; a total feast for the senses, in every sense of the word. The camera loves the bright colors and textures, but there's also music in hearing Mandarin, and obviously some of the best food in the world. What's not to love?

I've had the delightfully good fortune to wander through many a Chinatown in North America over the years: New York, Toronto, Vancouver BC, and countless times in San Francisco when I lived nearby; heck I've even been to Chinatown in Guadalajara. Our own here in Portland is a bit meager by comparison, but holds forth its charms nonetheless. The iPhone is great for that (hopefully) unobtrusive shot, but I've been chased away by more than a few shopkeepers, too. So I usually make some token purchase just to keep things honest, and besides, who couldn't use a couple dried anchovies? At least that's what I think they were.

So however far afield I may wander (and as forgetful as I'm getting, it may be far indeed) I will always and forever be drawn to these breathlessly beautiful Asian spaces. The photographic opportunities are limitless, but the cultural, human connections are more priceless still.  Come with me next time, and we'll explore the shops, alleyways, fruit and veggie stands, fish markets, tea houses and the spots where off-duty cooks gather and smoke in the wee hours. Probably pick up some dried anchovies.

Pretty sure that's what they are.

Zen and The Art Of The Honest Portrait ~

My wandering notwithstanding, I've always been a portrait shooter. This has been my life-long passion, and the well from which I continually draw inspiration. The studio is my sanctuary, and the human subject my contemplation. There is nothing more beautiful. So I'm in a frame of mind today to carry a little further a discussion that arose during a portrait workshop I conducted recently, namely: who have been my most significant influences? That's always a tough question to answer -- if you leave out the guy who invented tequila, anyway -- but there are certainly two I'm always likely to mention. The two styles they represent, while producing very distinct imaging, possess one fundamental key in common: simplicity.
Phillip Stewart Charis. During my formative years I always had his books tucked under my arm. His approach to portraiture was so so pure and honest, and such a departure from the four, five and sometimes six light style I had learned in the studio in the 1970's. He used one light (sometimes with an umbrella, other times a large soft box) and a reflector. This allowed him to concentrate on the individual in front of the camera and capture something from deep down inside them, that place where real beauty abides. I had a chance to meet Charis a few years back at a professional gathering where I was about to conduct a lighting workshop, and the evening I spent with this sincere and quiet man was revelatory.

Another influence, at times nearly as profound, is a photographer I only know by reputation: a Russian by the name of Dmitry Ageev. Using simple lighting and even natural light (which I still find elusive, but fascinating) his work is more stark, personal, and spare than Charis'. I discovered him on an online forum examining contemporary portraiture a few years ago and was instantly taken by his work. He seemed the natural progression from those whose work I studied initially (Yousuf Karsh, Avedon, for example) through Charis, to the portraits I aspire to create today. I would like to share a drink with him someday.

So what advice do I hand out during a workshop where we're studying lighting and posing? Well, sure, learn technique as much as you can, but seek inspiration in every illuminated corner.  I try to seek it everywhere: literature, poetry, painting. Maybe even that good tequila. Hemingway even advised to write drunk, edit sober. Hey, whatever works. But Thoreau said it best:

simplify .... simplify .... simplify.

Plato's Travelogues, Part Deux ~

Well, you may not have missed me, but I missed you. My travels this month (and I travel light, mind you) kept me away from posting here the past two weeks. Much has happened, and much I am still digesting. It's what a rail journey across Canada can bring to you: the romance (and tedium) of long-distance travel with all the glorious sights, smells, and tastes you need to stay awake past midnight. Good coffee helps.

It puts me in mind of that conversation I've been holding in my head for many years, the one where I muse over the subtle distinctions between traveling and wandering, and why a curious tourist like me would fret over such things. But fret I must, because I'm sure those distinctions may very well inform the way I see and photograph my surroundings. Traveling, I submit, suggests a plan, a purpose, a destination. I take my Fuji and lenses, square my jaw, and set about the task of a modern-day Lowell Thomas to share my own personal joie de la découverte. Without the narration, of course. But trust me, it's fun.

Wandering, on the other hand, is something altogether unique. When we got to Montreal, for example, my wife and I checked into our little hotel in the old French Quarter, and from there simply walked around and explored for nearly a blissful and mindless week. This is iPhone territory, mes amis.  With only the sketchiest of plans and absent an itinerary, the veteran wanderer is free to react with virgin eyes to the amazing, beautiful scenes encountered at every turn. Or maybe that's the virgin wanderer with veteran eyes? No matter. The traveler is a grown-up, the wanderer is forever a child.

A painter has the ability to linger over an image for a long time and be fully involved in it, an opportunity not as easily accorded to the photographer. So for many of the photos I took while visiting these wonderful places, I'm going to try to practice what I preach. Step back for a while; let an image rest in your mind and come back to it with fresh eyes and new perspectives; put a part of yourself in there, make it personal and yes, even intimate. Let it tell a story.

Trust me, it's fun.

Good coffee helps.

256 Shades of Grey. ~

According to my little fantasies (and I have many), I strive to devote this humble blog to all things photographic, or at least many things photographic. Or some. Though from time to time I've wandered (both literally and metaphorically) off topic a bit, my intent has always been, like a finger aiming at the sun, to at least point in a generally recognized direction.  So today, we talk technical. But stay with me, it may start to make sense, because I'm going to try to answer a puzzling question posed to me this week. It seemed innocent and even a little naive at first, but there were intricacies embedded within it that gave me pause: what can you express with a jpeg?

This was not directly a question of RAW vs jpeg. This strikes right at the heart of what we do: can we find a way to meaningfully express our thoughts, our feelings, our world, in a mere 256 shades of gray? It seems like such a limited scale, 256 discreet steps ranging from deep black to pure white, but all digital cameras, of all makes, models, and manufacture speak this language.

And what a language it is. The entire universe -- the one outside, the one within -- exists within those 256 shades. From them, the camera's sensor (and a subsequent dip in the Dektol of photographic software) interpolate all that into a rich rainbow of colors or a powerful range of black & white values. Therein lies all those mountains and streams, the portraits, the nudes, the skylines, the beautiful art and the shocking images; they can all be found there. Heck, Christian Grey limited himself to just 50 shades, and look what he ended up with -- sequels and Jerry Garcia ties, presumably, and an interesting girlfriend.

English has but 26 letters, and it gave us Shakespeare; Spanish, with only one more, gave us Cervantes. You have a camera and an equally expressive language on a shelf right behind you.

Go jpeg the hell out of something.

Confessions of a Collaborative Wanderer ~

The three things most photographers, and certainly this one, celebrate are a good camera, good light, and good company. I'm blessed with all three. A good camera, of course, is whatever you make of it, and these days we have an embarrassing abundance of choice. Entire books of exquisite art have been published by photographers using nothing more than a smartphone, so honestly, there are no excuses. As for good light, well, I'm fortunate to live in Oregon, which hardly needs further explanation.  But good company, ah... that's something indispensable to me. I've become an inveterate wanderer, and it's good to be poked and prodded into action sometimes. Growing up I was always impressed with the collegiality I saw among the artists my dad hung with, and was often disappointed by the lack of that among the photographers I began my career with. Maybe the environment we worked in as photographers was inherently competitive; there were only just so many commercial clients to go around. But these days I relish the opportunity to hang with other like-minded souls. 

That was the case this week when I got the chance to go out shooting with two of my favorite co-conspirators, Chaz and Keri. Keri had recently returned from shooting in Hawaii, and Chaz, who works for Squarespace, has taken on the unenviable task of helping re-design my website (and took this great group-selfie.) Wandering the roads above Washington Park with them inspired some really fine photography. The old stairway you see here was one such hidden gem. So good company, clearly, and also a good camera and some of that delicious Oregon light (and some lovely rain) means I had hit the trifecta.

There's nothing wrong with going it alone, and we need to be able to find solace in lonely places; great inspiration comes from this, if we listen hard enough. I get that when I write, and in the wee hours in front of my computer with my unworked images; solitary endeavors, both. But other times when the clouds are just right and the planets align, it's time to seek out your friends and fellow crazies and light out for the territories.

You go on ahead. I'll catch up.

Getting High: Reality and Screen Resolution ~

There's something really cool about seeing the world in high-res, and something a little unsettling about it, too. Wonderful because I'm able to see nuance and detail in my images that come as a pleasant surprise; it opens up new avenues to interpretation that don't necessarily express themselves when I trip the shutter. And unsettling because, well, now I think my perception of reality depends on that clarity. Call it on account of old age and/or near-sightedness, I guess, but in any case I always thought reality was a bit over-rated to begin with. Isn't that why we became photographers in the first place? Be honest.

The primary portal to my fantasy world is my 15" 2012 MacBook Pro, but alas its 1440 x 900 screen resolution is as hopelessly outdated and inadequate as a car without cup holders. I mean, really. So until I upgrade it later this year, I'll usually send and open my files on one of the iMacs down at the studio (2560 x 1440, that's what I'm talking about) or even, yes, my little mini iPad (2048 x 1536; not bad, not bad at all). I've been a photographer for an embarrassingly long time now; I honed my technical skills to where I could consistently look upon a freshly-minted negative and say, yes, that's what I was going for. But not anymore. I want to open up a freshly-minted file and say holy shit!  I bet you do, too.

And now that there's a 5K iMac out (a truly wicked 5120 x 2880) I'm sure the race is on for ever higher resolution on all our devices, and I can hardly even imagine where it all ends, or more importantly, what it ultimately means. If it means anything. Technology shapes us every bit as much as we shape it, and our perception of the world around us is all the more fluid and plastic for the effort.

As for me, I like Adam Savage's sage observation on Mythbusters: "I reject your reality and replace it with my own"

Best description of photography I've ever heard.

On Competitive Camera-Spotting ~

Let's subtitle this one "Mine's Bigger Than Yours."  It's an interesting phenomenon, and one that goes way, way back: checking out someone's camera gear, and making a mental note of the relative superiority/inferiority of your own. We're all guilty of it. Admit it.
Personally, I think it's kind of fun, particularly back in the day when I was using something like the Mamiya RB 67: ha! your puny little Pentax does not stack up! And when I broke out the Burke & James 8x10 field camera? blissfully, blissfully divine. But it related only to a smug pride, and nothing more. It's just as meaningless today, perhaps even more so. I was put in mind of this during my travels last week when I realized that we're actually engaged in something of a reversal of this: incredible photographs are being made on ever smaller, less intrusive cameras. Lightweight mirrorless cameras are anything but lightweight when it comes to image quality. And the iPhone? Don't get me started. The image you see above was made on one. Now when I see someone lugging around a Canon 1D and a big gray L-series lens, I'm more disposed toward sympathizing with their sore shoulders than wondering about their pictures. Because, obviously, it was never about the cameras, ever, and to believe that bigger equipment made you a better photographer was to miss the point entirely.

I'm no pedant, honestly. If you ask, I'll simply suggest you try out lots of different cameras, try out the smartphone, experiment with whatever tickles your fancy. Buy a camera you can afford. Buy one that fits in your hand, is easy to master and comfortable to carry around. Spend your life developing your eye and mastering your craft. That'll beat 36 megapixels any day.
As for me, well, I've consigned my beloved Canon gear to the studio. My 7D syncs so nicely with my lights, and when I'm making portraits it just feels like a part of me, seamless, and effortless.
For my frequent travels and wanderings, though, I've come to really love my little mirrorless Fuji, so light, so easy to use, and so sweet. And of course, of course: I'm never, ever, anywhere without my iPhone.

There's an old saying: f 8 and be there.

There's another old saying: size doesn't matter.

I'll just leave it at that.