Choices & Consequences

Recently I was forced to cancel a spring workshop due to low enrollment. And by low, I’m talking zero enrollment, as in not one person signed up. Nada. Zilch. It’s a first for me. Sure, I’ve had less than full workshops, but never one with zero interest. I’m left to wonder, what the hell happened?! Am I no longer loved (perish the thought!)? Is it time to dump the workshop for a new one? Whatever the reason(s), I won’t deny feeling the bitter sting of rejection. How could I not? (Before I proceed further, please know that I am not attempting to foster sympathy or solicit support of any kind. As with much of my writing, I am sharing an experience in the hope that you will find it interesting and/or enlightening). 

Fortunately, rejection is nothing new to me. Dealing with rejection is part and parcel of the life of any artist. There are far more failures than successes. Still, it never gets easier, and this one particularly hurts. The only thing to do is take the blow, learn from it, and move on. I’ve been down this road before, I’ll survive. You’ll get no whining from me. Well, at least not publicly. Privately I pound my pillow at night with my fist, asking why me, why?! However, rejection is not what is on my mind today. 

It’s moments like these when I consider the choices I have made. While canceling a workshop may be a blow to my ego, its greater impact is on the bottom line. As a professional photographer, workshops are one of my primary sources of income. Without a doubt, the single greatest source of anxiety and stress with being a professional is making enough money to support the lifestyle. I sometimes feel like a huckster, endlessly devising ways to make a buck. Too often it distracts me from the far more important and joyful task of creating photographs.

When I discovered a passion for photography, it was my dream to make it my vocation. It took 22 years, but I got there. And yet, I often find myself asking, am I content? It certainly isn’t all that I imagined it to be. I couldn’t have known the negative aspects of being a full-time photographer beforehand. Or perhaps I was too naive to see them. Things in life are rarely what we imagine them to be, and being a professional photographer is a prime example. Becoming a professional meant I had to make money in photography. Who knew??

Sometimes I find myself putting on the proverbial rose-colored glasses and thinking about my life before I turned “professional.” For over ten years I worked part-time as a consultant in my previous career, a position that afforded me a greater albeit unstable income while simultaneously allowing me the freedom and flexibility to pursue my photography. The best of both worlds, right? Except that it wasn’t. I was too comfortable. I wanted to do more with my photography, but I lacked incentive. I wasn’t hungry enough. As sometimes happens in life, the decision to pursue photography full-time was made for me when the work dried up. That’s a good thing, sometimes we need a kick in the butt to get us going.

I have been a full-time photographer now for seven years. It can be a grind at times, inventing new workshops, creating presentations, and thinking of topics to write about. All of which amounts to nothing if not marketed well, the most hated task of every photographer, living or dead. And none of it carries with it the guarantee of financial reward. Further making matters more difficult was the decision to make only personally creative and expressive photos, commonly referred to as fine art photography. In other words, the kind few people want to purchase. Who doesn’t want a black-and-white picture of tree roots on their wall?

Living the life of a full-time photographer has required sacrificing security for the freedom to spend my days on creative pursuits. Having tasted that freedom I can never go back. More important, however, is that I am leading an authentic life. As a geologist, I felt like an imposter. I was well compensated, but leading a false life. Warts and all, this is the life I have chosen, the life I need to lead. In the grand scheme, a canceled workshop won’t amount to much. The only thing to do is keep moving forward. Perseverance, not talent is what separates the successful from the unsuccessful.

Color Blind

In recent years my photography has gradually shifted toward black-and-white. I enjoy its inherent lack of reality and added emphasis on line, shape, and tonal contrast, qualities that interest me more than color. I find the black-and-white format offers more room for interpretation and expression. However, I have resisted the urge to abandon color altogether, preferring to let the scene dictate the format. It just so happens that fewer color scenes interest me. Lately, I’ve been experiencing a growing sense of dissatisfaction with my color photographs. I now often find color to be too literal, especially in scenes that are beyond the intimate scale.

I strive to make photos that are both creative and expressive, photos that reflect my vision and way of seeing the world. My images are not an objective representation of what I see, but rather a subjective interpretation. However, some images can be characterized as subjective representations. That is to say, images in which the subject matter may still be representational in terms of an accurate rendering of color and lighting, but the choice of subject matter and more importantly the composition is subjective. By definition then, all images that are a subjective representation are color images. But, are they still creative and expressive? In my mind, I know the answer is yes. As a litmus test I often ask myself, would a random person have seen this? If I believe the answer is no, I consider it a creative photograph. Composition is the most powerful creative tool available to photographers. And yet, despite the subjectivity I am finding it harder to get past the representational quality in my own color photographs.

Subjectivity in a photograph is primarily a product of the imagination of the photographer. However, I find the degree of subjectivity is often a function of scale. In recent years photographing intimate scenes has become increasingly popular. Images of ice details, mud cracks, wild grasses, etc. are everywhere on social media. Whether rendered in color or black-and-white, intimate, close-up scenes allow more room for interpretation and subtlety. They are more subjective and more personal. However, as the scale of the scene increases from intimate to medium distance and further to grand landscapes the subsequent images automatically feel more objective and descriptive. In color, they feel literal. I have often wondered, is it possible to make a subjective photograph of a grand scene photographed in color with a wide-angle lens? I’m not sure.

I made the image below on a recent springlike afternoon. I was drawn to the three hemlock trees set amongst the ancient lichen-covered rock. Even though I was moved by the scene and the composition is spot-on, I am finding it difficult to find satisfaction in it. It’s not so much a question of creativity, but rather a literalness that feels discomforting. It may be creative, but it doesn’t feel that way. Creativity in a photograph being a matter of degree and not an either/or proposition, it may be I find the level of creativity to be below my level of interest. 

Ultimately, I believe my dissatisfaction with the photo is due to a continuing shift in my aesthetic tastes. Our vision continues to evolve (hopefully) over our lifetime as we avail ourselves of experiences and other influences. Perhaps the lack of reward I find in color photography beyond the intimate scale is reflective of that evolution. There is little color “landscape” photography out there that moves me. In addition to the literal quality of much of it, there is also a sense of having been there, done that. The work I am most drawn to is black-and-white. I look at the photography of Nicholas Bell and am floored by it. There are qualities in his work and in my black-and-white photography that I can no longer find in color. It is without question that color photographs can be creative, but there is a literal quality in much of it that no longer interests me.

What’s in a Name?

Embracing the Mystery

I made the as-of-yet-untitled image below earlier this fall. But, let’s pretend you made it. What would you name it? Would you give it a literal title, essentially the where and the what? Or, would you name it something more metaphorical? Perhaps something that conveys an emotion, or maybe a deeper meaning.

I’ve written previously about the difficulties I’ve always experienced with titling my work, a seemingly easy task that is usually anything but. There are two schools of thought when it comes to naming photographs. Some photographers take the literal route and use a title that contains some obvious and directly relevant information about the work. Alternatively, others may choose a less straightforward title, giving it a name that conveys an emotion they felt or some other personal connection. Referencing John Szarkowski, it’s a choice between naming it after what it is a photo of, or what it is about. I have wavered back and forth on the issue. Even though I aim to make creative and personally expressive images, those that are based on subjective interpretations rather than objective appearances, I now prefer a more direct and literal name. It seems contradictory given that I preach about photography’s creative and expressive potential. However, there is a reason. Well, two reasons, to be precise.

I was listening to a recent podcast in which the author questioned why photographers give obvious names to their work when they are trying to do more than simply illustrate what something looks like. For example, he stated that he finds the name of Ansel Adams’ iconic photograph “Clearing Winter Storm” to be “dumb,” arguing that it’s clear to anyone what it is. However, by that logic ALL of Adams’ titles are dumb, not to mention those of Harry Callahan, Paul Capogigro, Brett Weston, Eliot Porter, etc. Many of the great photographers from the last century as well as today gave or give their photos very mundane, obvious titles, despite the subjective and metaphorical nature of their work. I find that very interesting. Wynn Bullock’s famous photograph of a nude child lying in the forest is titled, as you might expect, “Child in Forest,” even though there is a deeper meaning to it. What that meaning is I’m not sure, and that’s the point.

As mentioned above, I prefer literal titles, despite the inherent incongruity. The reason has to do with mystery. Mystery in a photograph, or art in general is a desirable quality. It engages the viewer and keeps them interested, asking questions rather than giving answers. If I name my photo after an emotion I felt or what it makes me think of, I feel I am leading the viewer to a specific conclusion. I want them to be left to wonder, to have to deduce and be given to thought, to not have everything spelled out for them, and to arrive at their own conclusions. If they’re not certain what they should be feeling or what they’re seeing then all the better. Why did he make this photo? What did he see? It’s a mystery, a riddle, something to keep them thinking. Well, in a perfect world, anyway. No doubt some don’t give it the time of day and move and that’s fine, too. It is why I no longer make images of scenes with obvious beauty like sunsets or the northern lights. There is no mystery, no depth. It is forgotten as quickly as it is viewed. Obvious is boring.

It’s the same with music. There are songs I’ve listened to for forty years in which I am still uncertain as to the meaning behind the lyrics. Moreover, I don’t want to know. The mystery helps keep them interesting, even after decades of repeated listening. It elevates the listening experience, just as a sense of mystery in a photograph elevates the viewing experience. I find the most compelling and enduring artwork in any medium is not immediate, it reveals itself gradually and only after repeated viewings. Think of the work of Robert Adams. I believe most people, photographers and laypersons alike, don’t “get” Adams’ work at first. It’s only after time and learning something about his intent and philosophy that one begins to understand and appreciate his photography.

The other reason I don’t name my images after a specific emotion or meaning is that I am often unclear as to the meaning behind the image, assuming there is one in the first place. I have stated before that I work on instinct and intuition. It’s my subconscious at work. My images reflect a relationship between me and the thing photographed. I react, there is no thought given as to meaning and metaphor. It may become evident to me after the fact, or maybe not. I leave that to the viewer to decide.

Ultimately, how we choose to title our photos depends on the intended utility. I view a name as nothing more than a necessary identifier. It is not intended to add anything to the viewer’s experience. I realize that the use of a metaphorical title won’t necessarily preclude the viewer from forming their own opinions. If chosen wisely, it can can elevate the photo and offer a glimpse of the photographer’s intent without giving away the entire “story.” Unfortunately, all too often such titles are banal or cutesy, either of which can have the opposite effect and diminish the impact of a good photograph.

An Audience of Peers

Photography is a visual medium. Have you noticed that? And yet, so many photographers (myself included) like to write about photography, whether for a blog or magazine or what have you. Talk, talk, talk, so much talk at times. Much of the writing focuses on the how or the what, tips and tricks on how to do this, and where to photograph that. Mercifully, more and more writing these days focuses on the creative and philosophical side of photography. It occurred to me recently that almost all of this talk is directed at fellow photographers. Very few non-photographers subscribe to photography magazines or read photography blogs. Why would they? Workshops are attended exclusively by photographers. So are photography conferences like Out of Chicago. When I give a presentation to a camera club I talk to other photographers. We talk to each other, we share our work almost exclusively with each other. When I was on Instagram it was mostly other photographers who followed me. Facebook was a bit more balanced, but that was the exception. Our audience is almost exclusively our peers, and it got me wondering. Is that healthy? Is it like that for painting or music?

I’ve been practicing photography for over 25 years, but I didn’t begin writing about it until several years ago, inspired by the likes of Guy Tal and Brooks Jensen (editor of Lenswork magazine), among others. If you’re reading this you are no doubt aware that my writing focuses on the creative side of photography and all that living an artist’s life entails. I have found it connects with other photographers, often more than my photography, which I find ironic. But, what about the rest of the world, those who aren’t photographers? When do they see my work or read my writing? The sad fact is, seldom. Exhibitions are one way, but those opportunities are few and far between, not to mention often prohibitively expensive. The aforementioned Facebook is another way, although it is hard to imagine a shittier platform for sharing our work. And so, my images accompany my writing, both of which are seen only by other photographers.

It doesn’t seem like this is the case for other artistic mediums. As a performance art music is always played in front of or listened to by non musicians. Listening to music has always been a favorite pastime of mine, and yet I can’t play a note. My knowledge of music is rudimentary at best, yet it profoundly moves me. I don’t need to understand music to appreciate it, even more complex music. Painting is comparable to photography in that painters write blogs and share their work on social media or in exhibits. Still, it feels like painters reach a more diverse audience of artists and non-artists than photographers. It doesn’t seem as incestuous as photography.

And so we exist within our little bubble, talking to each other, sharing our work with each other, often photographing together. The problem, however, is that we are not educating the public as much as we are educating ourselves. My writing and teaching are naturally directed toward other photographers. One of my goals is to make other photographers aware of the creative and expressive potential of photography, just as I was made aware of years ago. Okay, so they become aware, and armed with this newfound knowledge and inspiration a few of them begin to make more creative photographs. But, what about the public? Are they aware of photography’s potential beyond a recording device? Rare is the opportunity for the public to view our work and when it is viewed it is largely by an uneducated public. In my experience photography is still saddled with the public’s expectation of reality. Painting has always been allowed to be whatever it wants to be, photography not as much so. I have written about my experiences exhibiting my work at a local arts center where I live. Give them an abstract photograph or even a black-and-white photo and many of them don’t give it the time of day. Creative works are often not as immediate as those with easily digestible aesthetics and require a greater investment of time and effort on behalf of the viewer. Granted, not all audiences are the same. If we wish to make more creative and personally expressive photographs that go beyond objective representation then we need an audience that will take the time to appreciate what the artist wishes to express. I’m just not sure how we get there if all we do is talk to each other.

Summer’s Opulence

Note: Rather than wax philosophical on photography, I decided to showcase a collection of recent images from this summer. After all, I’m a better photographer than a writer. Or at least I hope I am. 

As many of you know, I live along the shore of the St. Lawrence River in a region known as the Thousand Islands. It is an area dominated by water, an archipelago of over 1,800 islands varying in size from square feet to square miles. It is not surprising that most photography here is focused on the river, be it from land, water, or air. And yet, most of my photography this summer explored the woodlands, meadows, and wetlands that comprise the interior of the islands. It seems odd in an area dominated by water and sky. Why is that, I’ve wondered. After all, I’m a Scorpio, which I’ve read is a water sign, whatever that means. I’ve never given much credence to astrology.

Over the years I’ve noticed my attention has turned more toward the island interiors. One reason is that it’s subject matter that has largely been overlooked by photographers. The obvious beauty of the area is in the views looking out over the river. It is an area famous for stunning sunrises and sunsets. But it goes deeper than that. When I explore the woodlands I am immersed in the scene. It surrounds me. I feel as if I am part of it. Conversely, when standing on the shore, I feel as if I am on the outside looking in. Or out, as the case may be. I am on the edge rather than inside. I feel separated from what I am photographing, an outside observer almost. As such, I find the photographic opportunities to be limited along the shore, whereas in the woods there is an endless variety of scenes to explore.

There are often two distinct ecosystems found on the islands depending on geology, location, and island size. The drier, upriver ends of the larger islands are characterized by white pine, oak, hemlock, and my favorite, pitch pine, all underlain by ancient Precambrian rock. The less dry areas consist almost entirely of stands of maple, hickory, and red cedar, among other hardwoods. The transition between the two ecosystems is often sudden, depending on the geology. Sprinkled among the woodlands are meadows of wild grasses and occasional wetlands. Here, light from the open meadows illuminates the edge of the woods, creating a delicious transition from light to shadow. The wild grasses, bending under their weight, resemble waves on the open water. It is a unique and fascinating blend that inspires me to explore deeper. 

I confess that much of what follows is not my best work. That’s how it is with art. Most art is mediocre, regardless of its creator. However, it’s the learnings from the medicare work that are in service of the few pieces that soar.

Transcending Desire

Last week I escaped to the nearby Adirondack Mountains for a few days of personal photography, something of which I have done very little this summer. Blessedly free of chores and errands and social engagements (my life is so hard), I was just a boy and his camera immersed in nature. The resulting images I regard as something of a mixed bag. There are a few worthy images and several  not-so-worthy. However, I am allowing that opinion to possibly change with time. Overall I found the image making to be rather difficult. 

I typically enter into these outings with no photographic expectations or preconceptions, only the hope for meaningful experiences and imagery. Or so I tell myself. The truth is, I have always struggled with being a results-oriented photographer, placing outcome over experiences. I am fully aware of this tendency and have fought against this mindset over the years. However, as I haven’t done much creative photography lately I found myself with a stronger-than-normal desire to make “good” images. The locations I visited and the time I visited them were designed to maximize the potential for strong imagery, not necessarily rewarding experiences in nature. Regardless, the resulting imagery was unsatisfactory for the most part. It had me thinking about how the desire to make images can paradoxically hinder our seeing and rob us of rewarding experiences.

In the book The Practice of Contemplative Photography, authors Andy Carr and Michael Wood state that “When you go out to shoot, just thinking about taking pictures brings up expectations: what you want to see, what you don’t want to see, where you’ll find something, and particularly, hopes for some really good photos. All of these thoughts will prevent your mind from settling and your eyes from seeing.” So true. I have noticed the simple desire to make a photo often results in contrived and “forced” images. On this trip, I found myself making images of things that I would normally pass up, subject matter and scenes that were self-derivative of past images or, worse, images in which I wasn’t sufficiently emotionally invested. At times I was struggling to see past the obvious. In my zeal to make a photo I was placing certainty over creativity.   

I made the first image below shortly after I arrived and checked into my motel. Wishing to stretch my legs after a long drive, I made the short hike to a lake I had visited several times in the past. I have never made a satisfactory image from this spot, a consequence of limited compositional possibilities and dull light. This visit was no different, yet I found myself setting up the tripod. I used a wide-angle lens and a ND filter, two things I rarely use anymore. I told myself I was being experimental, although deep down I knew I was grasping at straws, trying too hard to make an image where there wasn’t one. But, I really wanted to make an image. The result is what you see here. Some viewers may be moved by it, but it does little for me. It feels and looks forced, aesthetically pleasing yet emotionally bereft. I wasn’t excited when I made it and I’m not excited by it now. The second image was made the following morning while exploring the shoreline of a pond I hadn’t visited before. I wasn’t feeling the urgent need to come away with an image, I was simply wandering and observing, taking in the new scene. This image came naturally and easily, a study in texture, shape, and light.

I’ve noticed it is common for photographers to feel a need to make images in order to justify the cost and effort of the trip. It’s an urge that needs to be squelched. Meaningful images are always there for the making if we notice them. Desire and expectations for images prevent us from doing just that. Let go and direct your senses to all that is around you. Wander and observe, don’t hunt and gather. Be patient. See and feel first and good images will come. It is going through the process and the time spent in nature that matters most, not the resulting imagery.

Lazy Day

“The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.” ~ Bertrand Russell

I did nothing yesterday. Well, that’s not entirely true, I did do something, though nothing of significance and meaning. I did some yard work until the line in my weed eater became jammed (Grrr!). Otherwise, I sat on the porch and stared at the river, enjoying the sights and the warm summer breeze. It was a gorgeous day, and there I sat all afternoon and evening, seemingly doing nothing. I say seemingly because I did do one thing. I thought. I thought about summertime, I thought about what I was going to do today. Of course, I thought about my art and where I am going with it (I haven’t a clue). But mostly I thought about being lazy and its importance when it comes to creativity.

There are those people who seem to need to be busy all the time. I am not one of them. I often feel lazy compared to those around me. Everyone always seems busy scurrying around doing this and that. There are periods when I’m like that. But there are just as many periods when I have nothing to do, or more accurately nothing I need to do at that moment. I will fix the weed eater later. Update my website? I’ll get around to it sometime. For now, I am content to sit and think. It’s one of the perks (and admittedly curses) of being a professional artist. I have no one to answer to except myself. 

There was a time not so long ago when such a day would have left me feeling frustrated and depressed. Nothing accomplished today, I would have thought. Certainly, there was something productive I could have done. In the Western world, we are taught at a young age that we should always be busy and productive. “Idle hands are the devil’s playthings,” we were told. While that may hold more than a kernel of truth for children (I can think of many instances when boredom led to mischief), as adults we do ourselves a great disservice to believing in the virtuousness of work. Work and productivity are important, but equally so is time for rest and silence. Sitting on the porch is not an idle activity. As David Ulrich states in his book The Widening Stream: The Seven Stages of Creativity, resting “Is a highly necessary means of incubation, of reflection, of allowing the process to find its own shape and momentum, and of giving room for the unexpected insight and discovery.”

Boredom is a funny thing. We often complain of being too busy and the associated stress, yet when we have time on our hands we experience a different kind of anxiety. Boredom is uncomfortable for most, it’s a feeling of unease. We feel guilty for being idle, believing there is something we should be doing and we are wasting time. Yet, when we learn to embrace silence and introspection the time becomes anything but wasted. Most of my creative ideas are born of those moments. It’s why during the busy summer months I accomplish little creatively. There is little space or time for reflection and the discovery of new ideas. Solitude and silence are lacking. It’s one of the reasons I enjoy the winter months. Aside from my love of the winter aesthetic, it is the season for introspection and, hopefully, discovery.

At some point, however, all this thought needs to be put into action. Thinking is not the same as doing. I confess that some of my “lazy moments” are nothing more than procrastination. I am a chronic procrastinator. I recently read an article in which the author defined procrastination as the avoidance of unwanted emotions. So true. I endlessly put off doing things that I know will cause me moments of frustration and anxiety. Struggling with writing an article causes frustration so I procrastinate. So does working on a new presentation. This modest blog post has taken me the better part of a month to write simply because I keep putting it off. Of course, the absence of deadlines makes procrastination possible, hence one of the curses of being a full-time artist. Ultimately it boils down to self-discipline. Moments of silence and reflection must be balanced with periods of production. Idle time is wasted time if nothing ever comes of it. Action and inaction are the yin and yang of creativity.

Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to sit on the porch some more.

Sycamore Roots, Ithaca NY

Rainy Day Ramblings

It’s raining today. It rained yesterday, too. And the day before. And the day before that. If the adage is true, we’ll be up to our eyeballs in May flowers. It’s a good day to write. Or visit the local watering hole. Or both.

Each summer the arts center on which I serve as a trustee holds its annual Along the River’s Edge exhibit, a juried affair that is open to the public. It’s time for me to decide if and what I’m going to exhibit. All artistic mediums are welcome, though the majority of entries are paintings. Still, each year there are a handful of photographs from me and a few others. While I have had sales in the past, photography has always proven to be a hard sell in this exhibit, for reasons I outlined in my essay Never Say Never Again. 

Subjectivity in art is not an either/or proposition, but rather a matter of degree. Last year I intentionally (stubbornly?) submitted a photo that was highly subjective and creative. It was rejected by the juror. The other photo was a bit more accessible and was selected but failed to sell. I wasn’t surprised by either result. Frustrated, but not surprised. For a time I considered no longer entering any photos whatsoever. Screw them if they don’t “get” my work, I thought. Real mature. Ah, the fragile ego of the artist. Ultimately, I decided I couldn’t let the lack of sales frustrate me. Nor can I take it personally, as difficult as that is to do. Rare are the opportunities to exhibit and share our work in the manner in which it should be shared: beautiful, physical prints carefully and thoughtfully framed. If social media is the lowliest platform for sharing and viewing artwork (which it is), then exhibits represent the pinnacle. It’s an opportunity to be embraced, finances willing.

Deciding which pieces to enter into the exhibit is a lesson in compromise, for I have learned that what stands the best chance of selling and what I wish to share are usually mutually exclusive. As an artist, I wish to exhibit photos that are more creative and subjective and are imbued with something of my personality and imagination. As we all know, however, the more subjective our work the smaller the audience. Do I enter pieces that are more likely to sell or pieces that more authentically represent who I am as an artist? Last year I chose the latter with predictable results. From a pragmatic point of view, it seems silly and stubborn to knowingly submit a work that will most likely not sell. Having a fine art print made and framed is not inexpensive. Besides, the exhibit is a fundraiser for artists and the arts center alike.

All of this got me thinking about framed prints as wall decor. The problem with framed photographs on the wall is that they must invariably be “pretty pictures.” That is, overtly beautiful and easily recognizable scenes or subject matter. If they’re from locations in which people are familiar, then all the better. Honestly, how many non-artists want to have a framed picture of roots or pine needles on their wall, in black-and-white no less? It’s not that those types of scenes aren’t beautiful, they most certainly are, just not in the way that say a sunset or mountain vista is beautiful. To quote Eliot Porter, such scenes are “the peaks and summits of nature’s greatest displays.” 

One of the central tenets of my photography is finding beauty in the ordinary, the mundane. I admit, though, that many of my favorite, more creative, and expressive images are not necessarily wall decor material. I may love that one photo I made of those roots, but it doesn’t mean I want to see it on my wall every day. It’s why I bristle when I hear photographers judge their work based on whether it’s “wall worthy” or not. It introduces the idea that the success of a photo is based on its usefulness. Judging a photo based on its wall worthiness is placing all the emphasis on nothing more than aesthetic beauty. Much worse is rating our photo based on how well it will perform in our camera club competition. No. We should judge our work based on the degree to which it reflects our voice and our sensibilities. Does it express how we felt about the subject matter? Our way of experiencing it? That is the criteria by which we should regard our photography.

I have yet to decide which two photos I am going to enter into this year’s exhibit. As I stated in the aforementioned previous essay I believe It is our job as artists to educate our audience, to inform them of the potentialities of photography. Through example, we can show them that photography can be a tool of creative and personal expression. Give them something to think about and that challenges their perception of nature photography. I’m tired of seeing people praising the obvious, the uncreative, the banal, the lowest common denominator. That’s not on them, that’s on us. We have little control over how our audience will react to our work. However, we can control how we wish to express ourselves and represent the medium.

Compulsion

Checking Our Ego

We had an unusually strong aurora borealis event here in northern New York the other night. Not surprisingly, social media has been replete with images from the display. That it was spectacular to behold is without question. The images, however, are not spectacular. They all look the same. Besides, we’ve all seen countless aurora borealis images before, these offered nothing new. While I understand the desire to capture it, it left me wondering, why bother posting them? What does one hope to gain?

During the first dozen or so years I was practicing photography hardly anyone viewed my work. There was simply no easy way to share it with others. I was shooting slide film in those blessedly innocent days before social media. The only way others could view my work was by either setting up a projector and screen or forcing people to view my slides through a loupe on the light table, both a surefire way to lose friends and family fast. It was just the way it was. And then came Facebook and with it a complete shift in behavior. From the moment I posted my first image and the likes and comments came rolling in I was hooked. I began to feel compelled to post. When I was in the field and made an image I was excited about I would find myself looking forward to sharing it on Facebook. What was I looking for? 

Throughout my time on social media, I had an uneasy feeling when it came to sharing my work. I had the sneaking suspicion it was little more than the need for ego gratification at work. Look at what I did and witness the greatness that is me. I began to fear that the excitement of sharing my work was having an undue influence on the reasons I was making photos. We are all now aware of the dopamine rush we experience when people positively respond to our posts, every like and comment filling us with a sense of validation and success. To quote Sally Field’s Oscar speech from some years back, “You love me, you really love me.” 

When photography became my full-time profession I would tell myself that my posts were necessary to build an audience, some of whom may feel I had something to offer and would take one of my workshops. There was truth to that. And yet, part of me felt as if I was just fooling myself. Was I seeking an audience to support my work? Or, was I seeking recognition, to be seen as special, as standing out from the crowd? The former is understandable, the latter a consequence of my ego.

The seeking of recognition is a dangerous thing. It’s a human need to be respected, recognized, and appreciated. However, too much recognition, especially early on, can go to our head and lead to delusions of grandeur. Not enough recognition can lead us to feel like a failure. Both offer a false reality that can sink our hopes and dreams. I realize of course that just because I had an unhealthy relationship with social media doesn’t mean you do, too. However, I would encourage you to reflect on what you’re looking for on social media and what you hope to get out of sharing your work. Is it in line with your goals? What’s truly important to you? My goal was not to be recognized as the Ansel Adams of my generation. My only goal was to lead a creative life full-time. I’m doing that. I find immense satisfaction in the act of creating, be it photography or writing. If I work hard enough the requisite recognition that allows me to lead that creative life will follow. Hoping for anything beyond that is all ego.

In the days before social media, I was fine with not much of my work being seen and the lack of regular validation. I quit social media because I wanted to be fine with it again. 

Tuning Out

Why I Quit Instagram

I recently quit Instagram. I’m surprised if you hadn’t heard, it was in all the newspapers.

My decision to quit Instagram was not an easy one, born of weeks if not months of introspection. For reasons both personal and ethical I could no longer in good conscience be a part of the Meta machine (full disclosure, as of this writing I am still on Facebook, though that too will soon be a thing of the past). There are numerous accounts out there by artists who have quit social media and in particular Instagram, many of them ironically on YouTube. While the overall reasons are similar, there are differences according to the individual.

First, let me begin with the reasons that are not behind my decision to leave.

Algorithms. Yes, the constantly evolving algorithms seem to do little more than increasingly stifle the reach of our posts. However, I learned early on that Instagram and Facebook would never contribute much to my bottom line. The increasing lack of reach, while annoying, ultimately never concerned me much.

Ads. What can you say, ads are now everywhere on social media when they didn’t use to be. Such is the way of the world. Everyone needs to make a buck, even Meta.

Greater emphasis on videos. Much was made of Instagram’s decision to place greater emphasis on videos (Reels) than pics, a decision made to counter Tik Tok’s success. Photographers left Instagram in droves, preferring what at first appeared to be greener pastures on Vero. Let me know how that worked out. Again, whatever. What’s the difference between 100 likes and 500? 400 likes. That’s it.

Privacy concerns. As someone who creates, I should be appalled and insulted by Instagram’s privacy policies, specifically that we grant Instagram a royalty-free exclusive license to use our photos however they wish. And yet, for some reason, I just can’t get myself all worked up over it. Odd. Although, the more I think about it…

Now for the reasons I did leave: 

The ethical and moral shortcomings of social media have been well-documented in recent years. By now we all realize the addictive nature of social media and its ability to hijack our attention, all in the name of increased ad revenue. What many don’t realize, however, is the cost of that hijacked attention in terms of our ability to focus and be productive in our daily lives. I have found myself reaching for my phone or checking Facebook or Instagram on my computer while I was working every five minutes just to see if there were updates, an almost Pavlovian response. It has been shown that this interruption in attention and focus severely inhibits our cognitive abilities. One may argue that it takes discipline on the part of the viewer. While true, we need to recognize that these platforms have been engineered this way. Extremely bright people have been paid millions of dollars to make these sites addictive. It’s a stacked deck we’re up against.

Much worse in my mind is that social media rewards and even encourages incendiary and outrageous rhetoric as it has been linked to more prolonged engagement on social media. How sick and twisted is that? Again, more engagement leads to greater ad revenue. See where this is going? It all boils down to making more money at the expense of our personal and societal well-being. Last September Meta disbanded its “Responsible Innovation Team,” a group made to address “potential harms to society” caused by Facebook’s products. ‘Nuff said. This is a broad topic that deserves greater attention beyond the scope of this humble blog. For those of you interested in learning more about these topics, I highly recommend Johann Hari’s book, Stolen Focus.

Moral outrage aside, my primary motivation for quitting Instagram is much more personal. To put it simply, I could no longer deal with all the noise. The endless posting of photos and stories (not to mention Reels) became too much to healthily consume. There have become too many “celebrity” photographers who seem more influencers than artists. Can one be both? If so, I have no desire to be the former in service of the latter. Artists used to pursue their vocation privately, allowing us only glimpses when they were ready. Today everything is public. Most of it should remain private as it is of little interest to anyone but the artist.

The result of all this was that instead of feeling inspired, I found myself drowning in a sea of relentless “content.” I am in no way promoting “photographic celibacy.” My point is that Instagram is not a healthy and useful vehicle for viewing art, a realization that should come as a shock to no one. 

It’s been said that “comparison is the thief of happiness.” Try as I might, I couldn’t help but compare myself to other photographers’ work and accomplishments. A scroll through Instagram became a confidence-shattering ritual, at least in the short term. With a little time away my confidence would gradually be restored, only to be crushed again at the next scrolling session. I found I was becoming petty and bitter with envy, qualities that took me farther away from the joy of creating. I didn’t like the person I was becoming. 

To be clear, my decision to quit Instagram is a personal one and in no way should be read as an indictment of those who continue to embrace (i.e., tolerate) the platform. With time I realized that social media does not align with my sensibilities and personality. My reticence in quitting sooner was mainly due to a fear of no longer being part of a photographic “community.” Nothing is gained in this life that doesn’t also require sacrifice. I have been exposed to many fine photographers worldwide whose work I admire and find inspiring. This would not have happened were it not for Instagram. There was some good, but ultimately it was greatly outweighed by the bad. I will continue to follow those photographers by visiting their websites on occasion, I hope they do the same, not just my website but each other’s as well. There is life outside of social media for artists, it is not the only path to success. In fact, it may be the thing holding you back. 

On Self-expression in Photography

In a recent article discussing creativity I wrote this line: “The way to true creativity is through self-expression. Anyone can repeat a technique, no one else but you can replicate your vision and express your own voice. You are what is truly unique.” A reader commented that he agreed, but admitted that he found the concept of self-expression “nebulous and hard to pin down,” asking what he is self-expressing when he captures a quiet scene that drew his attention. He is not alone in his questioning. For a long time I too pondered the concept of self-expression in photography. If expressive images are those that are not of things, but about things, as Guy Tal states in his book More Than a Rock, then what are my images about?

My workshops are centered around the topic of self-expression in photography and the rewards that come with it. I introduce the idea that photographs can do much more than record the outward appearance of things and can be used as a tool of creative and personal expression, to make images that reflect our thoughts, feelings, and sensibilities. In short, rather than outward representation I look for subjective interpretation of the subject matter. It brings to mind the famous Minor White quote, “One should photograph objects, not for what they are, but what else they are,” the “else” coming from the subjective mind and imagination of the photographer. I think where people get tripped up is in the idea that self-expressive images must be about something, or more specifically the definition of “about.” I looked at my own images and had no idea what many were about. Some were obvious metaphors for life or an emotion, but most were not, or at least not that I was aware. We often hear about story-telling with our photos, but what does that really mean? There is no narrative, no story behind most of my photos, at least not that I’m aware. I simply saw and felt and went with my instinct. Did that not make them self-expressive? I wasn’t sure.

In time I came to realize I was defining the idea of “about” much too literally. Simply put, self-expressive images ultimately are about you, not the object in front of the lens. Objects and location are secondary, at best. Self-expressive images are about your way of seeing, your relationship with the subject matter, your way of feeling and experiencing it, all of which is manifested in how you compose the scene, the choice of framing and perspective, as well as edits performed in processing. With my own photographs I ask myself, would another photographer have noticed the subject matter or composed the image like I did? Would they have processed it the way I did? If I feel I can answer no fairly confidently then to me that means I saw and experienced something according to my own sensibilities, hence the image is “self-expressive.” The image is a reflection of me and my voice, of how I see the world. After all, isn’t that what art is, a creative expression of ourselves?

On Being a Photography Ambassador

In a blog post earlier this year I discussed my experience entering my work in an annual juried exhibit at my local arts center, and the reason I believe more subjective work, particularly black-and-white photography, doesn’t sell. For this year’s exhibit I decided to double down and submitted two images, both black-and-white. One was a definite stretch, the other more of a sure thing. Not surprisingly, the former wasn’t selected. The other did make the exhibit, but has yet to sell. Having the experience of exhibiting at this particular place and knowing what photography does and doesn’t sell, why would I choose the pieces I did? I could have easily selected much more easily appreciated, more objective images from my portfolio. And yet, I went in the other direction. I am known to be stubborn and a contrarian at times (sometimes to my own detriment), but there is another reason.

One of my goals as an artist is to challenge the viewer and their notions of beauty, to help them to learn to see beyond the spectacular and find beauty in the mundane. Look at the pattern and texture in those tree roots, or that carpet of pine needles! Beauty in nature is manifested in countless ways, yet too often we notice only the obvious. It behooves artists to learn this, but it greatly enhances the experience of the viewer as well. In his essay Lessons From Joni Mitchell, Brooks Jensen discusses how Mitchell’s ceaseless evolution and growth as an artist throughout her career challenged him to also grow and evolve, ultimately teaching him much about himself. What more could he ask from a creative artist, he asks. What more, indeed. 

It is interesting to me that while most landscape/nature photographers are vocal advocates for the environment, much fewer of them are ambassadors for photography and its potentialities as an art form. All too often photography is saddled with the expectation of “reality.” Photography serves many purposes, but as an art form the only reality that matters is that of the photographer. It benefits both the artist and viewer to educate our audience of the creative potential in photography. My hope in choosing the pieces I did was that the viewer may learn to appreciate nature in a new way, if not learning something about themselves along the way. Artistic integrity comes into play here as well. As mentioned, I could have chosen more obviously beautiful photos, but the two I did choose more closely represent my vision. The more personal our work is, the less popular it will be. So be it.

Am I bitter that my pieces didn’t perform well? Hell yeah, I’m bitter! No, I don’t take the rejection of my work personally (well, most of the time I don’t). In fact, I don’t think of it as rejection, rather a case of my work not resonating with that particular audience. I admit my first reaction was to forgo partaking in next year’s exhibit. Why spend the money on printing and framing when the piece most likely will end up in my closet at home? As a full-time artist economics do come into play. Still, I’m sure I will submit something. I am an artist. It’s what I do.

Never Say Never Again

Thoughts on Exhibiting Photography

I told myself never again. Never again would I participate in another solo exhibit of my work. It’s a money losing proposition, always. A simple case of not enough return on investment. So, it was with surprise to hear myself agreeing to an exhibit of my work that is currently running at a local venue. Fifteen pieces went up, and I fully expect 15 pieces will be coming home with me when it ends. I believed that would be the case the moment I was approached last spring to exhibit. So, why did I say yes? Am I a glutton for punishment, a sadomasochist? Quite possibly. Am I just stupid? Most definitely. However, that’s not why I agreed to it. 

I’m certain this sounds familiar to many working photographers. How many of us have stacks of beautifully framed photos leaning against the wall of our home office? Hundreds of dollars of inventory just sitting there, collecting dust. Seems like not the brightest of financial moves. But, what are our options? In the digital age social media is obviously the most popular platform for showing our work, as imperfect and crappy as it is. Most of our photos will be nothing more than bytes on a computer. Think about it, how often do we see our work in tangible print form? I would love to print my work more often, but to what end? I simply can’t afford to do it without a reason. An exhibit gives me that reason. It’s an opportunity to display my work the way it should be. Beautiful prints professionally framed. Even I am sometimes wowed when I see the final product. Yes, it makes little financial sense, but as an artist we can’t always think with our wallet. Clearly, we do this for reasons other than financial. No artist has ever chosen art as a way of life for the money.

Over the years I’ve thought often about exhibits and how the general public perceives landscape photography. Do they consider it an art form on par with painting and other media? I have participated in an annual juried group exhibit at a local arts center for many years now, and it’s given me insight into what types of landscape/nature photos sell, at least in that market. It’s a mixed media exhibit, with paintings comprising the majority of the pieces. I always include one black-and-white photo and a color photo. The black-and-white pieces never sell. Which tells me, when it comes to photography the general public wants photographs based in “reality.” Ironically, I believe it’s this desire for reality that prevents photography from being sold. It too closely resembles what we can see with our own eyes. Why hang something on our walls that looks like what we see out the window? Van Gogh’s Starry Night looks nothing like reality, but because it’s a painting it’s not expected to, whereas photography is. Painting by its nature is abstract, photography is not. Consequently, do people perceive photographs as less artistic than paintings because they are based in the literal? Most photographers know what photography can be, but does the general public, those that will be (in theory) buying our work? Are they willing to accept photography that is more personal and goes beyond objective representation? In my experience, the answer is no. 

As artists I believe we are at least partially responsible for this disconnect. It is our job to educate our audience, to inform them of the potentialities of photography. If we show them nothing but the spectacular, how will they learn to appreciate subtlety and nuance, to find beauty in the mundane? Through example we can show them that photography can be a tool of creative and personal expression. We can produce photos that are subjective in nature and have deeper meaning beyond obvious appearances and location. If we do that, perhaps our audience will not only become aware of what can be, but will also be more accepting.

New Ideas in Landscape Photography

Has it All Been Done?

“For most of the last century, America’s cultural landscape—its fashion, art, music, design, entertainment—changed dramatically every 20 years or so. But these days, even as technological and scientific leaps have continued to revolutionize life, popular style has been stuck on repeat, consuming the past instead of creating the new.” ~ Kurt Andersen

While indulging in the rabbit hole that is YouTube one recent afternoon I happened upon an interview with Ian Anderson, aka Jethro Tull (apropos of nothing I am a huge progressive rock fan). At one point in the interview he stated his belief that all the breakthroughs and creative epiphanies in rock music happened from its inception in the 1950’s through the mid 1980’s and since then there has been nothing new, that over the last 30 years the trends in rock music have been nothing more than rehashes of past styles. He was not speaking to the originality of contemporary music artists, rather the dearth of new movements within the rock genre (e.g., R&B, progressive rock, heavy metal, punk, new wave, etc.). What about grunge, you say? Well, he argues that grunge is a recycling of the “fairly basic, rugged rock music” from the 70’s with some updates. Surely there are those who disagree with the assertion, and no doubt that disagreement is largely spread along age lines. Still, it naturally had me thinking of creative movements and breakthroughs in landscape photography. Have we seen it all?

Anderson’s belief is that we can’t endlessly expect things to be as creatively new and exciting as they once were. He goes on to say that most of what one can do has been done in rock music and perhaps even jazz and classical music. Sound familiar? With regards to landscape photography, there have been many movements and breakthroughs over the years, from pictorialism to straight photography to the advent of color photography and so on. There are those who believe that everything that could be photographed has been photographed, and I think that’s largely true. On the surface it sounds downright depressing. However, the silver lining is that not everything has been photographed by you. You have the potential of seeing a familiar object in a completely original way. It sounds nice, doesn’t it? But, let’s be honest, aren’t there only so many ways of seeing something? When a million photographers worldwide have photographed the Mesquite Dunes in Death Valley, are there really any new creative epiphanies happening? I don’t mean personal epiphanies, but rather with respect to the genre. As a whole, are we bringing anything new to the conversation, or are we simply seeing things as they’ve been seen before? Painting continued to evolve over centuries, has landscape photography already hit a wall after only 150 years? Will landscape photos look different 50 years from now? It’s difficult to imagine how as they don’t look all that different from 50 years ago when 35mm became the dominant format. Certainly the process of making photos will continue to rapidly evolve as it has thus far in the digital age. But, process doesn’t guarantee new creative epiphanies, just a new and different means to a familiar end.

I realize of course that none of us entered into landscape photography with the goal of inventing a brand new style or movement, to do so would be ludicrous and ultimately futile. It’s not about reinventing the genre, it’s about us, our own personal journey, discovering our own epiphanies. Personally speaking, I consider myself a good photographer. But, in no way am I the most creative photographer out there. I look at my work and wonder, is it just a recycling of the work of those photographers who inspire me? Thinking that gives me something to work toward. I can continue to explore the limits of my potential and work to push past them, hopefully adding something of my own to previously established ideas. It is certainly a challenge. Maybe innovation of the form is not as important as excellence of individual execution. Will I personally invent a heretofore unknown style? Doubtful. I think of the Allman Brothers, blending blues, rock, and jazz into a new and unique “sound,” what became known as Southern Rock. Alas, I am no Duane Allman. Dammit.

I find I am inclined to agree with Anderson, especially considering the myriad innovations in rock music in the 70’s, something we are unlikely to see again. Likewise, it is hard to imagine radically new breakthroughs and big ideas in landscape photography in the years ahead. Again, I am referring to ends, not means. Will the next generation of landscape photographers oversee a revolution in landscape photography? And if not, is that okay? What happens when an art form stagnates? Does it not ultimately die? A question I will continue to ponder while I listen to King Crimson.

In Defense of “Greatest Hits”

I often read about the virtues and benefits of photography projects. Without question they are a very popular way of working for many, if not most, photographers. Brooks Jensen, the editor of LensWork magazine, is a huge proponent, stating that “Random photography is fun, liberating, useful in its own way, but far less motivational than photography that is engaged in for a defined project. Simply said, wandering around the landscape looking for “greatest hits” photographs does not have the potential for success as trying to do a specific project.”  Indeed, the format of LensWork is predicated on the photography project. 

I am not a project-oriented photographer. It’s simply not how I am wired. Ideas for projects don’t naturally come to me as they do other photographers. It would seem this places me in the minority, a fact that causes me a fair degree of anxiety and doubt. I ask myself, am I missing out on something here? Am I holding myself back? To be clear, I am a fan of Brooks’, particularly his writings (his book Letting Go of the Camera is a must have in any photographer’s collection). However, I take umbrage to his views on this topic. To be fair, Jensen is not the only person to hold this view. I recently read an article by another photographer who labeled photos not part of a project as “greatest hits”. Apparently, this definition has taken hold. Why this narrow belief? 

I find the label “greatest hits” inaccurate and insulting. My issue is the rather narrow way in which the topic is defined and the assumptions on which it is based. One assumption is that “greatest hits” images result from being at the right place at the right time, a place we only visit once before moving on. Certainly that is one way of practicing photography, but it is not how I work. When I am in nature with my camera I am not trying to come home with any photos, great or otherwise. I visit familiar places over and over again, becoming intimately familiar with its character and moods. When I am out in nature I simply wander and observe, seeing and listening, and when so moved I make a photo. My approach to making photos is deliberate and with intent. Is that any different from that related to a project? Does one not wander when working on a project? Does one not work with intent? I find the idea of projects antithetical to my preferred way of working. I don’t like having preconceived ideas of what I am to photograph.

An oft stated advantage of project photography is that self-imposed limitations inherent in project work can fuel creativity, a belief with which I agree. However, I find plenty of limitations with my own photography, random or otherwise. The types of images I make, the places I visit, the conditions at hand, all place limitations on what I am to photograph. I also disagree with the notion that random photography is far less motivational. Motivation is entirely dependent on intent. Yes, if I wish to submit a photo essay to LensWork I need a set of 20 high quality images that are unified in theme. If that is not my goal then why does it matter? Communion with nature and self-discovery are my primary motivators when it comes to photography, both of which have little to do with projects.

I agree that projects are a great way to produce a cohesive set of images that explore a specific theme or concept at depth, I’m not refuting that. Moreover, the nature of projects makes them ideal for creating content around our images. A collection of images unified in theme readily lends itself to exhibits, articles, book ideas, the list goes on and on. However, I believe a stand alone image can tell a story and be every bit as expressive as a set of thematically similar photos. In fact, I find a series of photos that are too similar to be very boring, each image being nothing more than a subtle variation on a theme. It is also worthwhile to remember that projects need not be conceived beforehand and can come after the fact simply by reviewing our work and selecting those images that are unified in theme. The question of whether to pursue a project or not ultimately depends on the goal.

Should an idea for a project someday strike I will pursue it. Until that happens I will continue working as I have. Ultimately, I don’t look at my images as stand alone works of art, let alone a collection of “greatest hits”. They are all related in that they represent my vision, a part of a continuum of creative work, each piece building on the learnings from what came before. It could be argued my body of work is one long, ongoing project, united in vision and intent.

November Reflections

Overnight the first snow of the season fell where I live. While only amounting to a heavy dusting it clings to the trees despite the gusty winds. As the dark of night gives way to the drab, gray light of morning I remind myself that we have yet to reach the half-way point of fall. Yesterday I heard Christmas music playing outside a shopping plaza, no doubt intended to fuel the holiday shopping craze. But, it’s still fall, and will be for several more weeks. One of the tragedies of adulthood is our inability to focus on the present, we so often are thinking of tomorrow, or worse, dwelling on the past. It is November 2nd. Winter is coming, but not today.

I hope to return to the mountains sometime this month to experience the woods in transition, “stick” season as some call it. It seems to me an almost vulgar name for such a quietly beautiful time of year. There are trails I have been meaning to explore for years now, this would be an excellent opportunity. Where I would stay is nestled in a quiet valley along a river, well away from the hustle and bustle of the larger towns. I try to encounter as few people as possible when I visit, just as I aim to deprive myself of news from the outside world. It is cathartic in ways I cannot explain.

Photography is easier this time of year, my attention no longer divided by the glitz of the fall foliage. I am reminded of a quote by Erich Fromm, “Creativity requires the courage to let go of certainties.” November offers no such guarantees, and for that I am grateful. I have found that many of my most meaningful images are made under such circumstances. I am sure some photographs will be made, but that is not the point. Wandering the woods with no particular destination, observing and listening, that is what it is all about. I find it difficult to maintain that mindset in the early weeks of fall when trying to make photos in between workshops and other obligations and I believe my photographs suffer for it.

Several friends and family have expressed dismay over the coming winter and the isolation it will bring, especially in these times. It may be an overstatement to say I am looking forward to it, but I am certainly not dreading it. Each season brings with it opportunity, and for me winter is a time of reflection and preparation. There is a new presentation in my mind that I would like to put together. I would like to get back to writing. It is November 2nd. Winter is coming. There is time.