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.