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.

The Travelogues of Plato ~

Well ok, Plato wrote Dialogues, not travelogues, but if he'd had a credit card with some frequent-flyer miles, he probably would have had a lot more to say about that cave with the flickering shadows. But I guess you had to be there. As for me, my flickering shadows were cast by a great road trip this week with my brother Jim, a man as restlessly a wanderer as I. The northern California coast, the beautiful wine valleys, and two middle-aged men loaded down with camera gear and only the vaguest idea of direction, and you get the idea. Good times.

The real journey starts now. After all the miles a-foot and on the road, I'm sitting here at the studio, staring a wall of RAW files square in the face, and that's why this adventure is usually the harder one for me to start. It's the photographer's version of writer's block, I reckon: finding the voice that ties them all together, making it possible to dig in and figure out why I took all those photos in the first place.
Little by little though, I feel it starting to happen. The cool morning light, the intense fragrance of the cork, even the persistent wind: it's coming back and I'll get to enjoy it all over again as I process my images. I'll even be thinking of our old friend Plato, credit card and boarding pass in hand:

Look at the shadows, look at the shadows....

Photography in a Parallel Universe ~

I approach photography with habits I developed (no pun intended) many years ago in the paleozoic era. The great process -- film, paper, chemistry -- involved an enormous amount of time, and it is that very flow of time that engrosses me to this day. Ah, you say, but digital photography is instant; it is a revelation of the immediate, a celebration of this very moment. Yes, but... no.
I will often make an iPhone image, for example, and work in what is essentially real-time, using some favorite apps to make quick interpretations. I love doing that, exploring what's going on in my mind before the image has grown cold. But just as often, with the passage of only a day or two, I will find that very same treatment artificial and boring. It lacks the element of time.
Back in digital's early days, when each year brought forth quantum leaps in the technology of image quality, a photographer I knew told me why he thought it important to always buy the latest camera. It was all about capturing as much information as possible, not necessarily for the right-now, but because in the future there will always be new software to enable an interpretation of an image that may not be possible, even imaginable, today. Best be able to meet the future fully clothed.

So much of that new software is right here, right now. I personally find myself using onOne Perfect Suite nearly all the time; it progresses and evolves right along with me. I go back over files months, sometimes years, after I made them, and see them brand new all over again. When you wonder "why the heck didn't I see that before?" it's because, if you're being honest with yourself, it's not enough just to be clever with Photoshop. All art is communion, mainly with yourself, and that great joy of discovery happens when that image you made excites one last photon of memory from the birth of the universe. No shit, you and I were there.

I took pictures.

Pictures, Pixels, and Poetry ~

I think I have a theory about photography, or at least why I do photography, and it involves rhythm, harmony, and the happy perfection of birthday cake. Oh yes.
It's damn near impossible to find expression in words for how you see the world, and whatever vision you can muster up comes from someplace deep inside a sometimes unreachable place. I find myself tapping into it through my camera, but those who really know how to dream can convey those same thoughts and feelings through poetry.  I'm forever in awe of that talent.
Lest you think I'm getting all smarmy and new-agey here, let me put that to rest. I'm no mystic, but as I advance in years I'm having more fun and feeling more creative with my photography than I ever have. That's not to say I was ever just going through the motions all those years working commercially, because I certainly wasn't. Photography has been an infinite source of joy since day one. So why now? Why is it that I can hardly take ten steps without seeing something that moves me to photograph it?

My friend Monterey has the right take on this. We were sharing cake and cabernet at Lily's birthday party this past weekend, which was an amazingly joyful (and eagerly photographed) event -- what four year-old's party isn't? Being both a photographer (we collaborated on many a project over the years) and an insightful and talented poet (a solitary pursuit that invites no collaboration), we talked at length about the equivalency of a photograph and a poem, and how both share the same remarkable vibrations. Art is autobiography, and I guess I'm looking to say as much as I'm looking to see; the camera is the perfect tool for those of us who are otherwise mute. The older I get, the more energized I am by the process.

"Who looks outside, dreams" says Carl Jung; "who looks inside, awakens." Don't know if he ever wrote poetry, and pretty sure he never took a photo, but what the hey, I'm right there with you, brother.

So let's do this. Get your camera -- or pen and paper -- and let's go wake up.

I'll make prints.

On The Value of Art and The Price Of Good Tea ~

And what, you may ask, is the value of art? Well in my case, $43.60. A surprisingly precise sum for such an ambiguous thing as "art", but stay with me and I'll try to explain.
My eyes wander about with the same casual aimfullness as do my feet, and they often land upon sights that are hidden gems. In fact, they almost always do, because gems, hidden and otherwise, are all around, all the time. Even in -- maybe especially in -- unfamiliar and unexpected places. Like a tea shop. And such was the case that resulted in the image you see here.
I just happened to glance into the tea shop at the mall and noticed this gentle arrangement of teapot, cups, and blossoms that begged to be photographed. And, of course, I'm never without at least my iPhone, so there was no excuse to not go in and explore. The young lady who worked there was the very picture of friendliness and so I poured forth my honest intentions -- that I desperately needed some tea. And not just any tea, but the kind that would do a Buddhist monk proud, the kind that would have been swiftly transported to English ports aboard the Cutty Sark, the kind that even the most ardent patriot would blanche at dumping into a harbor. Expensive tea, necessary tea, and oh by the way, mind if I take a quick snapshot of that lovely arrangement I see on that shelf?
For the record, the tea was called Golden Monkey, and was roughly the same price, ounce-per-ounce, as your average Toyota, but oh my god it was probably the most delicious tea I've ever had. And it allowed me to find this lovely, quiet little image, and an evening of joy exploring and interpreting it.

Just for grins, here's what I saw when I initially peeked in. You can see why I was drawn to it, and I trust you would have been, too. Yes? No? Maybe?

I have no doubt that if I had asked nicely the sweet young lady would have let me take pictures without buying anything, but I would have felt somewhat diminished, I think. I'm no ordinary thief. I pay for the things I steal.

In this case, it was worth all the tea in China.

On Teachable Moments and Lifetimes ~

Last Sunday I taught a studio lighting and portrait workshop, and as I hope this image shows, we met with a certain degree of success.  I love doing workshops. I love to see these photographers discovering anew some of the alchemy I've been practicing for a long time. And as things often do at my age, it put me a frame of mind to reflect back on the many teachers who goaded, prodded, yelled at, suffered through, and inspired me to get to this most satisfactory point in my life.

Inspire. The word comes to us (of course) from Latin, by way of Middle English, and means, simply, to breath; it creates in us that spark of creativity. This is appropriate. The best photographers who were my teachers gave me this life, and at this point I know of no other way to live or, for that matter, to actually even see. (Plus, in a roundabout way through the Gaelic word for breath, we also end up with the word whiskey, and I'm not about to go judging the wisdom of the ancients.)

I have been mentored and inspired by some pretty incredible people over the years, photographers both well-known and quietly anonymous; artists and philosophers, poets and painters, free thinkers of all stripes, and more than the occasional crank. I love them all, and hope I reflect at least a little glow from each of them. And I hope I do them proud by challenging myself to go even further into new territories that were beyond their horizons. It's supposed to be that way, you know. Michelangelo himself said that the student who fails to surpass his master, fails his master.

Well then, I better get busy. I still have a lifetime of learning ahead of me before I can achieve that lofty goal.

Maybe I'll start with a little sip of some single-malt inspiration.

Re-Thinking the Familiar ~

I've never considered myself much of a landscape photographer. Even back in the day, with large format cameras and 4x5 black & white film, the outdoors excursion was largely an exercise in perfecting exposure techniques. And largely, too, just plain old exercise: these were big heavy cameras, after all.  But the past couple years or so I've been having a remarkably fun time wandering around out there, looking -- and photographing -- the immensity of beauty that's all around. It's funny how I'd never really noticed, never even really seen it all before, and I imagine it's because I wasn't really looking. Now I can't not look. It's driving me crazy. I love it.

And that's how it was this week, when my sister and my niece visited from land-locked Colorado. A fine photographer in her own right, we worked a bit in the studio, but we also spent a beautiful day at the Oregon coast. Delicious rain, delicious light, and countless familiar and often-photographed scenes -- which gets to the point I want to make: it hardly matters if the landscape before you is iconic, recognizable, familiar. Ansel Adams once said that in any landscape, there are only two people: the photographer, and the viewer. So take out your camera and use it; you will put yourself into that image and make it a personal statement. Every photo you take is an intimate moment. I may have seen dozens of photographs of Hay Stack Rock in Cannon Beach...but I haven't seen yours.

"What moves those of genius," according to Eugene Delacroix (who you'd think would know), "what inspires their work, is not new ideas, but their obsession with the idea that what has already been said is still not enough."

No, I'm not sure what he's talking about, either.  But I am going to keep looking at things with fresh eyes, and keep taking photos over and over again for the first time.

I hope you don't mind.