Diptychs (and triptychs). Thinking about photos in groups: twos, threes, and fours, maybe more (the grids of photos by the Bernd & Hilla Becher, e.g.). How does pairing photos change them? How does looking for pairs alter the process of photographing? I don’t know, but I like to think about it.
Keith Smith noted: By saying he was going to make a picture of some thing, he ended up making second-hand, non-visual pictures (see “Not vivid, Not exciting.”). I wonder how often I take pictures of something I have imagined (whether or not I’ve said it aloud to others or silently to myself) rather than take pictures visually of things I have never described or imagined. How often do I not “see” something because I was fixated on finding what I hadn’t seen?
The other day I walked by a tree resplendent in fall color, leaves wafting down in the breeze. Under the tree was a lone chair, bathed in warm light reflecting up from the fallen leaves and filtering down through those still on the tree. I imagined that scene, returned with my camera, and took a dozen supremely mediocre pictures of it, from lots of different angles. Nothing.
The other night I wandered out after dark, looking to spend some time alone. Nothing more. As usual, I took my camera with me. I took a handful of pictures, some of which, in hindsight, have become interesting (to me) photographs. In the moment, I had no real sense of the scene being anything. I just took a picture. After the fact, and with some editing, I have ended up with photographs that I quite like, photographs that I had not previously described in words.
After noting the problem of taking pictures of scenes he has already described in words, Smith goes on to say:
I can look at a completed picture and find, ‘Oh, yes, I used tertiary colors here, complementary there, saturated color in this small shape as a solution to counter balance the weight of the heavy form in another part of the composition, et cetera.”
Smith’s observation seems, to me, to describe much of how people discuss composition. It is easy, after the fact, to find the rule of thirds, the golden spiral, golden triangle, balancing elements, leading lines, etc., and to assert that the photographer used them in taking the picture. As if to say: while out in the field, or even in the studio, the photographer viewed the world through some rule-of-thirds overlay, or golden spiral overlay, or whatever. More often, I think, what we mean (and perhaps should state clearly) is something like: Now that the photograph is complete, we can find in it evidence of the rule of thirds, complementary colors, a golden spiral, etc. I do not doubt that we can find evidence of those compositional rules, but I do doubt that those rules were operative when the photographer “took the photo,” i.e., when the photographer was out in the wild and pushed the shutter release button. In other words, insofar as “rules of composition” implies that they were operative in composing the picture, I don’t think they play much of a role. I think they might play a role in editing pictures and producing finished photographs.
The question, then, seems to be: When does a photograph acquire those aspects. In the comfort of the studio or the office? Then the photographer (and perhaps the photographer’s assistants) has the luxury to review all the pictures from a particular trip or day or session or whatever and has selected the pictures considered best (see, e.g., the oft-praised Magnum Contact Sheets book). From that subset of pictures the photographer (and perhaps some assistants) then often crops or edits that image further (see, e.g., Arnold Newman’s portrait of Igor Stravinsky).
Taking Smith’s comment seriously, I wonder how many pictures turn out to be dull, second-hand photographs because they merely reflect the rules of composition, and how many pictures made without any attention to the rules of composition turn out to be great photographs.
I’m not interested in the issue of “breaking” the rules of composition (I’m not interested in the rules of composition at all and all discussions of learning them to break them seem to me to be stale.). Instead, I wonder how relying on any rule, guiding principle, pre-described scene, goal, plan, expectation, affects my photography. I am motivated by Smith’s subsequent comments:
We must learn to see: nature, space, color; to see photographically, to see with our third eye, to read visual material; it is a constant struggle. We must find various ways of learning. One of many is concentration. We must daily practice observation — we are in the business of seeing. Seeing demands research, discipline, training and courage. It takes energy to be visually perceptive rather than to follow simulated vision.
How many of these former estates get recycled, finding new life as (often it seems) institutions of some sort? The opulence and exclusivity of a century ago transmogrified into some (quasi-)utilitarian and occasionally public space. The other afternoon, rainy and cold, I wandered around one such place. If you look closely at the main house, you will see traces of its regal past, in the stonework, the (repurposed) porte-cochère, the expansive entry and stairway. On the landing, original Tiffany windows glow in the evening’s gloom, incongruous next to the window A/C unit next to it.
Beyond the main house and stately old trees, there is little left of the estate. There’s little reason to manicure the lawns or tend the gardens. Students don’t tend to pay much attention to gardens and lawns, nor do teachers. The grounds are now kept practical and utilitarian. Fountains, statues, and sundials, common on estate grounds, have been replaced by chairs and benches. Four sit empty in the drizzle and faint glow of the lamp.
In some twisted way, I guess we can consider this a form of “recycle and reuse” bantered about so often these days even if it fails to “reduce” anything.
When I first made pictures, I would say in words, out loud to others, or silently to myself, “I am going to make a picture of _______ .” Then, I would go about making the picture. The result was second hand and non-visual, a substitute for the words. It was not vivid and exciting
Keith A. Smith, Structure of the Visual Book, 4
Most days Haverford College is idyllic and lovely, and therefor kind of bland. Beautiful trees, manicured lawns, clean buildings, maintained nature trail. It is all so picturesque, so “park like” as somebody said yesterday while looking at a large maple tree resplendent in fall colors. But is there another way to see Haverford, one that is not so bright and cheery?
I enjoy photography because it encourages me to see the world at different times and in different ways. I can juxtapose images and scenes to give a different impression. Or I can seek out scenes in different circumstances and conditions, allowing me to see them in ways most people won’t.
I often feel trapped in my office, looking out at the world having fun. The tree blowing in the breeze, the sights and sounds of kids playing, the occasional snippets of conversation between people huddled beneath my window talking about something they hoped to keep secret. The window faces west. Lovely warm light streams in through the blinds each afternoon. Sometimes I raise them and look out. Sometimes I don’t.
I am not, of course, trapped. I can come and go as I please. But I work here and so spend most of my day in this office. It’s a comfortable space, filled with books and gadgets and notes and pens and old prints and scientific instruments. But always the outside beckons, especially in the afternoons when my motivation wanes. I stand at the window and look out.
The window becomes the interface between me and the outside world. Not a barrier but a liminal space where light meets shadow, a space where possibilities await. I linger in that space.
I often want to create something physical, usually cobbled together from stuff I have lying around. Nothing big, but something I can share with the world in some small but tangible way. I quite like pamphlets and hand-made books, little limited editions that I can leave for people to find. This time, a little pamphlet of portraits of dogs.
After a few minutes with a publishing program I had the pages laid out so I could print them double sided, fold in half twice, add a cover, and staple.
Printed up a half dozen or so, folded, stapled, and trimmed them, and then tossed a few in the Little Free Libraries near my house.
I don’t know who, if anybody, will take these pamphlets, and I don’t really care. Maybe somebody will just thumb through them. Maybe people will just move them around to get at the good books. It doesn’t matter. For me making the pamphlet was the goal.
I have begun to sort my photographs of flowers into groups. I then print a few of the images and assemble them into little pamphlets, each organized around a particular flower. A recent pamphlet focused on a few photographs of red roses.
Like all of these pamphlets, this one is short. Three photographs pasted onto the pages. Very little text, limited to the first page. And like all my book/pamphlet-making efforts, this one went through a handful of drafts. Revising the text. Testing different proportions for the photographs. Printing both the text and the images on different papers.
I find the process fulfilling. Something about producing something that, for me, makes photography so much richer than locking it away in some digital prison where images go to die in the social-media doomscroll.
The process it iterative and full of mistakes. How many times have I pasted the wrong photograph on a particular page (as above and below)? How many times have I misassembled the pages, or misprinted them? For any normal person, I’m sure this process would be frustrating. But for me the promise of sharing my work, giving something to somebody, even if I don’t know that person, nourishes my creativity.
This particular pamphlet/study grew out of a bouquet a neighbor gave us. They were out of town when their monthly flower arrangement was delivered. They told us to take and enjoy them. I photographed the roses from the bouquet as they opened and browned and wilted. I selected three photographs for this pamphlet.
I drafted some text that linked the photographs, and printed and bound the pamphlet, with red thread because that seemed best suited for the photographs.
I left a copy in my neighbor’s mailbox as a thank you for the bouquet. She texted to let me know she got the pamphlet and loved it — that was kind of her to say.
I don’t know how many of these I will make, maybe a few dozen copies. These are another of the “limited editions” I create, prompted by somebody or something and limited because I think there’s a small and finite audience for them. But I’m always willing and able to print more. When I have enough of these pamphlets, I’ll print an entire set and bind them all together into a book. But that’s a project for another day.
The runner slows to a walk each time the trail pitches up. He walks rather slowly, perhaps winded from the running. I nearly catch him, but just before I do he glances back and sets off again at a jog. Under the leaden sky we yo-yo like this for about 20 minutes as the trail climbs up the canyon. A century ago this trail would have been crowded with people hiking to the camp halfway up the mountain. Today, only the two of us. I wonder why he’s here. Why am I here?
Despite the drought and heatwave, the hills are alive and vibrant if not exactly verdant. Native plants, which have been banished from yards and parks below us, thrive up here in the foothills and mountains: sagebrush, buckwheat, mugwort, miner’s lettuce, occasionally yucca. They grow thick over the steep slopes. Higher up oak and manzanita, dark red trunks and branches contrasting sharply with bright green leaves.
On a short steep section about a mile up the trail I catch the runner. He nods, says nothing, turns and heads back down the trail. Alone, I continue up the trail. The sky is still heavy thanks to a storm off the coast of Mexico. Ozone, sharp in my nostrils. It will rain soon. And with that rain will come the musky petrichor, mixing with the smells of damp brush.
John McPhee claims that the San Gabriels are the steepest mountains in the U.S., a claim that seems both indefensible and, if you’ve ever hiked in these mountains, unassailably true. Fortunately, the trail leads at a more gentle slope up into the trees, toward the ridge, and on to the summit. I pause for a minute to appreciate the silence and the view out over the valley. As I do, I begin to hear the soft drizzle falling on the ground and the brush. There it is. Earthy. Comfortable. Somehow always familiar. That smell immediately takes me back to roaming these mountains as a kid, often alone just as I am now. What, I wonder, did that smell remind me of when I was just a child, too young to be reminded of being a child?
It is still drizzling as I turn to continue up the trail. I’ve got another hour or so before I reach the summit. Last time I hiked this trail I set out in the dark well before dawn. I was alone then too. Today I’ll probably get back after sunset. Last time I had a pancake breakfast when I got back. Maybe this time I should have a pancake dinner.
Along the ridge is a line of old power poles, serving a few houses tucked into the hills above town. Whenever I walk the trail past these poles, I photograph them, noting how much the scene changes at different times of day.
One day these poles will be gone, replaced by more modern, taller poles that bring electricity to the many houses that will cover the foothills. When that happens, at least we’ll have these photos to remind us of a simpler, less crowded time.