Archive for the 'Photographic process' Category
Monday, July 30th, 2007
Through various art shows in the past weeks, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting many wonderful people. If you’re reading this because of such a meeting – Welcome! And, thanks for keeping up with my efforts.
Photography shapes how we see. A still image, smooshed down flat to fit on a piece of paper, or on your computer screen, is a different experience than how we see the world through our eyes and how our eyes get processed by our brain. With the prevalence of photographs in our lives, this creates a strange cycle where we see something in a picture, which then shapes our perception of that subject in our minds, which is different from the perception we would have had if we encountered that subject with our own eyes.
This interpretation of seeing gets even trickier when considering color. Our perception of color seems subjective at best, and is complicated by different kinds of lighting, neighboring colors, cultural conditioning and probably even our moods. Just think of all the color patches available when selecting paint colors for the walls of your home. Take one home, put it up on the wall, and it looks different than what you saw in the store. Paint a whole wall with the color, and it looks different still. Put your couch next to it, and you have yet another perception.
So, what to do when rendering color in a photographic print? The best I can go for is to render colors in a way that suits the vision that I want to convey. Most times, I try to match a vision of how I “saw” the subject when taking the photograph. That is, imagining how the subject would look as a photograph while looking at the real thing with my eyes.
I have a photograph of a reddish/orange canyon wall that I first printed very saturated. This initial printing was just after I got home from hiking that canyon, and I was filled with a wonder of walking among colors that were bolder and richer than I would have expected. A few weeks later, the same orange made me think of Cheetos puffed cheese snacks, and I tweaked the color in the image and printed it again.
When people are viewing my photographs, I’ll often get the question, “Are those the real colors?” Well, they are as real as I can convey my perception of reality. And they are as biased as how I might recount the story of a first kiss.
A few weeks ago, at an outdoor art show, a woman spent some time looking at a print of the “Globemallows” picture that I’ve included with this post. She turns to me, and asks, “Are those the real colors? I wouldn’t expect the flower stems to be blue.” I replied saying that I remembered the stems as being a pastel green, perhaps a green-blue. She pauses, takes off her tinted sunglasses, and looks at the picture again. She responds, “Ah…. I suppose they are green.”
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Thursday, June 14th, 2007
I recently spent nine days hiking and backpacking in southern Utah. I love being out in the desert, surrounded by majestic canyon walls. As you walk among the canyon floor, you are surrounded by the strip of thriving life that is nourished by the river bed and washes. Each bend in the canyon provides colors and shapes to inspire a lifetime’s worth of abstract art.
For the first four days of the trip, my wife and I hiked in the back country, pretty much in isolation, savoring the wonders of each step. Other than the supplies on our backs, we were at the mercy of the environment.
And then, we arrived in Bryce Canyon National Park and encountered, well, I guess it was culture shock. The incredible landscape was still there, but it was paved and easily accessible, with glossy brochures describing the most popular sights. Early in the morning, we drove our car up to the parking lot for Sunrise Point, and walked a couple of minutes to get to the overlook. And there were the photographers, all along the railing loaded with expensive cameras and lenses. The cameras let out a chorus of autofocus-locking whirs and beeps as the sun works it’s way above the horizon. Whirrreeee—zzzz…beep, beep go the throng of cameras, as if the very whizzing of gadgetry is enticing the sun to rise.
This was probably my first time among a mass group of photography enthusiasts pursuing the same subject. And especially following the days of being in the back country, the experience felt very strange. I wasn’t sure why.
Later in a bookstore, I came across a photography guide covering southwest Utah. The “critically acclaimed photographer and author gives you the tools to find and shoot these locations…. [The author] will guide you on how to find the precise locations to shoot those postcard-perfect shots.”
I think the strangeness I felt was because the photographers at Bryce had a very different approach to photography than I do. Theirs seems to be an approach that looks for a specific destination and subject, a “trophy”. This is aided by easy access to popularly defined locations. For me, the value of my time was largely in the experience of being out in the wilderness, the journey. My photographs are part of the expression of the wonder I felt along the way.
I am surprised that it hasn’t really occurred to me that many, perhaps most photographers use the trophy hunting approach. This approach may be similar to what commercial photographers do – with a focused subject in mind. Is my approach any better or worse? I’m not sure. An any case, it’s fascinating to take in why people create the way that they do.
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Thursday, May 17th, 2007
I started taking violin lessons in third grade. I hated to practice, but my parents would insist that I play for at least half an hour each day. I took private lessons through the end of high school. Along the way, I had the privilege of playing in several orchestras. I never really appreciated playing in an orchestra. I wonder how I would feel about playing in one today.
In my pre-teen years, I was also part of a men and boy’s choir. I was among those boys, gathered in new rows of robes, singing in crystal clear voices. We got to hear stories of men and boy’s choirs from days past, where the very best singers would be castrated to maintain their voice.
Today, I still play violin and sing, but within a context of a small band (guitars, drums, etc.), rather than in orchestras or large choirs.
Bands are well and good, but there is something really amazing about orchestras and choirs. Perhaps it’s the large group of people, each with their own talents, textures, voices and parts. When they all move together, they create something wonderful, something larger and outside of themselves. For those few moments, the participants are together toward a common work. The process is invigorating. Everyone present is a participant, whether they are on the stage or in the audience.
This fascination has tumbled into an appropriation – at first subconscious and now intentional. I’m viewing nature and considering the orchestra. And, it feels appropriate.
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Monday, May 7th, 2007
Let’s group today’s photography into two types of images. I’ll call the first type ‘postmodern’, and the second type ‘pretty-glossy-world’. I’ve appreciated both of these styles, but lately, I somehow find them not quite as satisfying. On his blog, George LeChat attributes this lack of satisfaction to a lack of formal elegance or distinction. He provides some interesting comparisons of vintage and contemporary photographs. George may be on to something, but I think that the cause may be deeper.
The ‘postmodern’ images are mostly what I see in the fine art world. Photographs in this style often have a skeptical view and call into question the values that we have grown up with. The images take topics like consumerism or romance with an edge of disenchantment – a glum response to what the world has given us, and questions, “is that all there is?” Or, as Freddie Mercury sings in Bohemian Rhapsody, “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? …. Nothing really matters, Anyone can see, Nothing really matters-,nothing really matters to me.†This is a world that rather than fight injustice, tries to cope with it.
The ‘pretty-glossy-world’ style expresses a better-than reality. These photographs provide an idealized and supposedly better version of the real thing. It’s the prominent style of imagery used in the media that surrounds us – from calendars and postcards to glossy marketing campaigns. When you go to a restaurant, the photograph on the menu is a ‘better’ reality than the food that is served to you. Images in fashion magazines are altered to give models larger eyes, bigger breasts, streamlined bodies and weirdly smooth skin. There’s a counterpart to this in landscape photography, where this type of image has been referred to as eco-porn. We are drawn to these images, because beauty is worth celebrating. However, these images are not real beauty. They are not a view of a truthful world, but of a tantalizing and deceptive non-world.
I have leanings toward creating both types of images. The failure of society to live up to it’s values leads me to reconsider, while pop culture provides eye candy of the sugar coated unreal.
I want to create images that depict something else. Photographer Mark Hobson describes this as:
A place where, even though the referent matters, the skeptical/questioning gaze of the camera never places it on an altar of idolatry that drips with sappy sentimentality. A place where the referent is addressed with a respect that preserves it’s authenticity but still allows the photography-observer to move well beyond the ‘actuality of the real world’.
I’ve written about this, “beyond the actuality of the real world” as re-enchantment, to redeem what may be lost.
Take a look at this video of war photographer James Nachtwey accepting the TED award.
Nachtwey’s photographs depict suffering in a hope of ending it. There is a justice that has been lost and longs to be redeemed. His images strive for a reality that is beyond today’s actuality.
OK, I’m not doing anything like James Nachtwey. But, absorbing his photography provides a clue to what I’m seeking. I would like to be true, to re-enchant and re-value. So, I’m learning. I’m listening.
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Tuesday, May 1st, 2007
I am frequently asked what type of camera I use and I’m not quite sure how to answer. Well, yes, I do know what type of equipment I have, but what is someone really trying to know when they ask that question? Most of the time, I think the question is merely used as an ice breaker. Cameras are intriguing, complicated equipment. It’s an obvious conversation topic when addressing a photographer.
To get this question out of the way, I currently use a Canon 5D, although many of the images on my website were shot with a Canon Rebel XT. Now, all of you can go out and purchase the same equipment, and then I can take pictures just like you do. grin
If another photographer is asking the question, then that person could be exercising our right to be gear geeks. Yep, some, er, most… um, yeah, I am a gear geek. There, I’ve confessed it and no one is surprised. Goto a book store and notice all the magazines available that review photography gear. Photography equipment coverage is not only plentiful, but also fierce. The cover of the current issue of Popular Photography magazine raves “Olympus fights back! Two hot DLSRs”. Another cover states, “The 10MP DSLR War is On”. All this war language makes it seem like our equipment choice is part of a values struggle that’s worth killing over. What other “art” has this type of coverage? Do oil painters have “Brush Review Monthly”? Do sculptors enjoy articles titled “10 New Chisels Smackdown!”?
This competitive positioning can make photographers place a high value on their equipment choice. The marketing messages start to convince us that the camera is the single most important factor in creating good images. Don’t believe this. The camera is a tool, and cameras capable of excellent image quality have been around for decades. Recent automation may help compensate for a skill gap in using a camera, but that still leaves oh, what was it… creativity.
Most of us have the “equipment” and amount of automation to write and speak. That merely places us at the starting point to be poets.
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Monday, April 16th, 2007
I just got back from three days of wandering around New Orleans – mostly in the French Quarter. I appreciated having multiple days in the same area, where I could return to the same locations and let the rhythm of the place sink in.
The French Quarter is alive and well. Bourbon Street is like a year round spring break party, and provided a great environment to focus on street photography. To date, most of my photographic subjects have not included people. With people, you need face issues of interaction, etiquette, and moment that require a different pace than observing the pattern of leaves on a tree. But, to capture the random unkown, there is perhaps nothing like street photography.
I’m learning that street photography is an act of declaring moments of importance. This person that we would have never taken the time to notice, the interactions that we wouldn’t have endured – they are all important enough to freeze and ponder; to see.
On the excellent blog 2point8, Michael David Murphy recently provided this excerpt from an interview with Gary Winogrand.
Q: But the thing that’s intriguing is not really knowing what the result is going to be like.
Winogrand: What I know bores me. You know, you get into the business of commercial photography, and that’s all you do is photograph what you know. That’s what you’re hired for. And it’s very easy to make successful photographs — it’s very easy. I’m a good craftsman and I can have this particular intention: let’s say, I want a photograph that’s going to push a certain button in an audience, to make them laugh or love, feel warm or hate, or what — I know how to do this. It’s the easiest thing in the world to do that, to make successful photographs. It’s a bore. I certainly never wanted to be a photographer to bore myself. It’s no fun — life is too short…
I’ll be sharing images from this trip over the next few days. Thanks for reading.
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Monday, April 9th, 2007
Two weekends ago, I attended a music festival at Calvin College, where Emmy Lou Harris was interviewed and later had a concert. During the interview, she said something along the lines of: Our limitations define and create our style. Otherwise, we would just mimic everyone. She went on to say, that when she covers someone else’s song, the physical limitations of her voice don’t allow her to sing it with the same range, or textures as the original artist. And, that’s what people love about her – the style that is provided by her limitations.
That’s a deep notion, one that re-orients my concept of creativity. Or, to turn it around: The way that you are wired is your strength. This is quite freeing. I don’t have to beat myself up if I don’t see or create like some of my favorite artists. In fact, my biased view of the world, my wounds, my passions quirky and square, even the limitations of my current skills all play into a way of creating that only I can fully live into. I’m not saying, don’t work on getting better. I’m saying, getting better means that you become more of you.
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Thursday, April 5th, 2007
Spring is here. At least it was here briefly – just long enough for new leaves to bud and for flowers to bloom. And now, it’s cold again. Yesterday, I took a walk with snow flurries falling around me. I’ve already forgotten the enchantment of spring, even as the flowers are still on the trees. At least I took some time to run around with a camera. Otherwise, I may forget altogether.
By forget, I mean to live as it is practically of no consequence. In my mind, I may use reason to know a thing, but practically, I don’t live by it. Sometimes, during the middle of winter, it’s hard for me to believe that the trees ever had leaves. My mind has a hard time pulling itself away from my current situation. The world seems like it has always been bare branches. Sounds goofy, doesn’t it? But maybe you can relate.
The past few days, I’ve been pondering the notion of re-enchantment. That is, rediscovering or revealing the enchantment that is inherent in a subject. Websters defines enchant as:
That which captivates the heart and senses; an influence or power which fascinates or highly delights.
Re-enchantment supposes that there is a wonder in the world around us, a wonder that has been neglected or obscured. Something like stopping and smelling the roses, but stronger. More than stopping to enjoy the rose and then moving on. Something that grabs hold and breaks through what we’ve taken as cliche. To discover something enchanting is to take in, in a way that changes the very representation of the thing.
Interestingly, most modern breeds of roses aren’t even fragrant: “because of our quest for longer blooming cycles, brilliancy in colouring, diversity of habit, and perfect form for exhibitors, fragrance is now secondary.” We are so much in the habit of dis-enchantment, that we can’t even smell the proverbial rose, even if we tried. Something that was once a wonder is now a marketing and distribution plan.
Art is this strange way of using what is unreal, an image on paper, to point us back to reality. What is art? I’m not sure, but what if rather than ask what art is, we ask why we create? This is perhaps, where art can be of use: to re-enchant us.
What have you forgotten lately? Let me know what you think.
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Saturday, February 10th, 2007
We have had two snowfalls this winter. Both times a photographer friend had to practically drag me outside with my camera. I seem to make up all kinds of excuses to avoid doing what I love. A voice shouts in my mind: It’s cold outside! You need to be printing and framing images for the next show. What about all those emails you haven’t responded to? And, how can you be productive when the studio is such a mess?
And then I think, it may not snow again, maybe I should get my camera out of obligation. I grab my gear, get bundled up and jump into the car. We reach a local park and step into the woods.
There is something magical about stepping into the woods – perhaps it’s the symbolism of leaving a world occupied by todo lists and accomplishments and entering a more natural reality. At that moment, the world snaps into a different level of perception. Anxiety is replaced with a sense of wonder, joy and awe. The fretting fades away and I get a glimpse of seeing.
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Friday, January 19th, 2007
I’ve been thinking about comfort and familiarity, and how our desires for comfort and familiarity enable or limit us in how we arrange our priorities in life. This entry isn’t really about priorities, but there’s something to be said about how we value comfort.
The picture above is a picture of me, taken by my wife Hannah, from a few weeks ago in Taiwan. Note that I’m wearing a short sleeved shirt. At the time of the photograph (early January), the country was also in the middle of a heat wave, providing winter temperatures near 80 degrees. If it were 80 degrees in Indiana, I’d also be wearing short pants. However, I think Americans are one of the few cultures that wear shorts, except for maybe the Germans. So, no short pants. Despite my long pants awareness, I wasn’t prepared for the dangers of the short shirt.
Remember that this is winter, which means that even at 80 degrees, the temperature is a fair amount cooler than what the residents are used to in the summer. Many people on the streets were wearing several layers. Others were wearing thick, fluffy, winter coats. Friends and family would see me in my short sleeved shirt, and shiver and sympathy. “Aren’t you cold? I’m freezing just looking at you! Please…. put on a jacket, you must be cold!” After a couple days of pestering, I relented and added a sweater. The concerns for my well being abated as I sweltered and sweated in my cocoon of safety from the cold.
The picture below is one that I took from the same location as the one above. For the photographers among you, you may notice that I’m not carrying a tripod, which brings up another topic for another time.
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