Category: Musings

Art of Photo of Art?

Some initial thoughts on “photography as art” or “photography of art.”

In some cases, it seems easy to say that a photograph is the art, e.g., when the photographer doesn’t manipulate the scene, stage the subjects, or otherwise interfere with the world captured in the photograph. For landscape photographers who search for the right scene in the right light and the right conditions at the right time of year, the photograph is probably the art. Similarly, photographers who scour urban or interior spaces for details, or a fleeting scene. But I wonder about instances where the photographer as intervened, arranged, manipulated the objects in the photograph. When does the staged scene become the art and the subsequent photograph merely a photograph of that art?

Series: Herbarium #211004

A portrait or a still life both require the photographer to intervene and stage the scene, and seem to be the space where this question of “Art or photograph of art?” becomes rather thorny. When producing the portrait or still life required considerable skill, time, and effort, perhaps we could more easily see the work as art: Titian’s portraits, or Bruegel’s still life paintings, or Dürer’s drawings. But today, when almost anybody can make technically sound photographs, the quality and execution of the work is no longer sufficient to make it art.

The ease of producing photographic portraits and still lifes displaces the art from the final product, the photograph, back to the staging of the photograph. Photography, in this mode, risks becoming mimesis. The art, insofar as art is related to effort or skill or talent or vision, is in the staging of the scene, the creating and arranging of props, the directing of people in the frame. The photograph becomes a sort of single frame from a movie. Perhaps that’s why we hear so much about cinematic photography these days, and why color grading seems to be mandatory, and why any photograph of a gas station at night shot on CineStill is considered art. Photography has become merely the means of representing art.

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Photography has always risked mimesis, risked being little more than a representation of art: Weston’s peppers; Penn’s portraits; Mapplethorpe’s flowers. But there seems to be something different today, at least in degree if not in kind. Weston, Penn, Mapplethorpe seemed to try to find the beauty in something, tried to reveal the beauty that was there as opposed to fabricating the beauty. Photography was, it seems, both the means and the material of the art. Mapplethorpe’s flowers were beautiful works of art because they were photographs. The photograph captured something that Mapplethorpe could imagine but was disguised, fleeting, or indiscernible. The photograph added something, was essential, was more than simply a representation of what anybody would have seen if they looked at the flower. Increasingly, the photograph doesn’t aspire to be art so much as it is content to be evidence. Evidence of having been somewhere, eaten something, creatively arranged an assortment of things, artistically staged some scene. Evidence that art was made.

February 22, 2022
Effort and Value
Recently I heard a comment attributed to Todd Rundgren about the direct relationship between effort and value.¹ Something to the effect: “Effort increases value.” The people talking understood Rundgren’s point to be: the harder you work at making a [piece of art] and the more effectively you convey that effort to the audience, the more valuable the [piece of art]. Some version of that opinion seems rather common lately. See, for example:
- Landscape photographers regularly draw attention to how hard they work trudging through mud and rain, dragging gear up mountains and down valleys, usually before dawn, to find the perfect spot to take a photo of tree or a vista or the sea receding or a lone building or a mountain just as the sun broke through a cloud-covered sky.
- Street photographers point out that they work incredibly hard scouting the right scene, waiting for just the right unique combination of light and a passersby to arrest some moment that will likely never happen again, or how they spend nights haunting the city streets for scenes the rest of us will never see (except in their photos).
- Film photographers talk about the challenges of shooting film, how they have to meter the scene, how they have to account for reciprocity failure or for bellows extension, how the process forces them to “slow down,” the challenges of digitizing their negatives, the vagaries of scanning techniques.
- Any “behind the scenes” video.
While these examples are drawn from photography, I could collect them from most other arts (e.g., writing, painting, woodworking, baking, knitting, sandcastle building).
I confess: I don’t see how knowing all this background context contributes to the value of a photograph (or any piece of art). For me, knowing the labor invested in producing a photograph has no effect on its aesthetic quality (or lack thereof). Perhaps I will appreciate or understand the photograph in a different way knowing the calories burnt or miles trekked or hours spent searching for that decisive moment, but I doubt that understanding will make like a photograph that I initially disliked, or make me dislike a photograph I had previously liked. In the end, the photograph is either aesthetically pleasing or not, visually compelling or not.

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Thinking more about the comment attributed to Rundgren: what if he wasn’t saying anything about audiences but was, instead, saying something about makers. If approached that way, Rundgren’s comment contains a degree of truth but is not particularly new. I expect someone who is passionate about a particular endeavor to spend loads of time and effort doing it, more time and effort than people who are not passionate about it. That passion and effort will, I suspect, lead to making better art, excelling at some sport, crafting better tables, grilling better burgers, whatever. I’m not sure what Rundgren meant by “value” (and not even sure that he said it — I couldn’t be bothered to look it up), but maybe we can understand him to mean something like: If you work really, really hard, and do so with intentionality, you will get better at something. Then whatever you produce will be more valuable because it more fully embodies your intentions and goals. But that form of value is first and foremost a value to the artist (or athlete or woodworker or chef or whatever). Any value that an audience invests in the product (art, performance, burger, etc.) is secondary and a different type of value.
1. I am not going to point out where I heard this comment for a few reasons: I generally like and appreciate the people having the conversation, they are thoughtful and considerate; I was largely eaves dropping on their conversation and so couldn’t ask for clarification — for all I know, given a few minutes they might have modified their opinion; I am using their comment as an opportunity to reflect on the common practice these days of elevating the labor involved in producing a photograph. ↩
February 18, 2022
Square Format

In the bygone days of film photographers with the resources and energy to print their own photographs weren’t constrained by anything but the size of paper they could purchase and their ingenuity for rigging up a system to project light onto that paper. But for most people who took their film down to the local Fotomat — those goofy little drive-up kiosks in shopping center parking lots — to be developed and printed, a couple options reigned: 4×6, 5×7. You could order enlargements, but they tended to fall into one of a few common sizes. The vestiges of these formats linger in the aspect-ratio options found in most photo processing applications. Photographers today are no longer constrained by those aspect ratios, but instead can (and should) think of aspect ratio as part of composition, i.e., an artistic choice.

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I like the square format for some photos but not all (despite Instagram’s best efforts, I think the square format doesn’t work for most photographs). For me, graphic, simple images that have a prominent subject work best. Recently I took a few photos of some macarons and chocolates from the local French café, Delice et Chocolat.

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For these photos, I really liked how the square format worked well with the overall composition I had imagined. A rectangular format, e.g., 4×6, might have worked for the first image, but I think it is stronger as a square. The second image would have been a disaster in some rectangular aspect ratio.

January 15, 2022
Rule of Thirds

Photographic rules and guidelines are everywhere: golden spiral, golden triangles, avoid placing a subject dead center, center the dominate eye, don’t divide the frame in half, strive for symmetry, avoid symmetry, create dynamic symmetry, in portraits don’t crop limbs, in headshots you need not include the top of the person’s head, steady the camera so as to avoid shake, try to create intentional camera movement, be sure to straighten the horizon, use leading lines. And, of course, everybody’s favorite: the rule of thirds.

Dead grasses—dormant trees—blue sky. Winter at French Creek.

For the most part, these seem less prescriptive rules or guidelines and more a post-hoc description of the composition of a photograph. Sure, some of these rules might be at play now and then when taking a photograph (leading lines? a very rough rule of thirds? symmetry?), but most seem to be applied by people looking at photographs. In this way, these rules seem as pointless as grades on classwork in school. They are used to justify liking or disliking a photograph and serve little purpose in helping a photographer improve (much like a teacher or professor giving a paper an “A” or a “C”).

Green meadow—dormant aspens—pines. Late spring in the Dixie National Forest.

I happen to like dividing the scene into broad areas, generally three (some rule-bound person would probably equate these areas with the foreground, mid-ground, and background, but I don’t care). The relationship between these areas is often marked by contrasts in color and texture. This division of the scene into three areas is not a rule, was probably (at least initially) a subconscious aesthetic preference, but now after seeing it in a number of my photographs has become quasi-intentional (or so I tell myself).

How many rules are little more than efforts to standardize and thereby authorize practices that were initially derided but have become so common that they are unavoidable? Far from establishing the practices that should be common, these “rules” try to appropriate, codify, and legitimize vernacular practices. Kim Beil’s excellent book, Good Pictures, traces some of the practices that became markers of good photography and then fell out of fashion, and some that zombie-like returned. Her interview at B&H Photo, “Speaking in Dialect – How-to Books and the History of Popular Photography,” is also worth a listen.

The cover of Kim Beil’s book, “Good Pictures”

September 10, 2021
Quiet Simplicity

Or minimalism by another name, a name that for me better captures the value of an uncluttered photograph. Minimalist is descriptive and too often a goal in itself. But what if we try to describe the effects of such photographs, thinking more about the viewing experience and less about the composition? What is it about such photographs that I find appealing? The reduced color palette, the sparse visual field, the soothing nature of the scene. I took this photograph, so I can’t help but recall the day I wandered through the dunes, alone. No wind disturbed the silence. I recall all this when I see this photo.

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But even if I hadn’t been there to experience the scene, when I look at this photograph I feel a sense of calm. I assume it is quiet and peaceful, and I don’t want to disturb that quiet. Rather than describe this photo as minimalist, I prefer quiet because that’s what the photograph encourages in me.

March 10, 2021
Minimalism or Not

I know I am supposed to like and to produce minimalist photographs. Dominant, singular subjects against a diffuse and often homogenous background are striking. Particularly if black and white. There is no denying that the photographs of Michael Kenna, e.g., or Hiroshi Sugimoto’s still life and abstract work, some of Fan Ho’s street photography, again e.g., are striking. As are some of the portraits of Arnold Newman. Color photography too offers lovely examples, not infrequently the iconic lone tree on a hill (or versions of the radically expensive Rhein II). Long exposures of piers extending out into water, or the pylons that used to support some pier or other structure jutting out from the water in both black and white, and in color, make compelling and convenient subjects for minimalist photographs.

The lure of minimalist photographs is real. They offer a chance to pause and to think. There’s a type of quiet calmness to them. They encourage a sort of meditative reflection. The simplicity (minimalism) is a nice alternative to the frenetic and noisy world. But they risk being mechanical. They rely not on the interplay of different visual elements so much as the prominence of a single visual feature. The key is finding a way to isolate a subject. Sometimes this is easy; sometimes difficult.

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Photographs with more in them, more visual elements encourage a different way of composing and of viewing. Even when there’s a dominate subject, the busyness around that subject, thinking about what portions of the foreground to include, what part of the background to obscure with the main subject, ask me to think differently about composition. And the resulting photograph, while still offering a bit of quiet contemplation, prompts me to think more about the setting, the scene, and the context.

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March 8, 2021
The Insidious Tyranny …

I want a new camera. Or is it a new lens? I want something to kickstart my photography out of its late winter creative slump. Ya. I think I would prefer a new lens, a new 50mm f/1.4. But first I need to do some research to be sure I get the best lens possible for me. Off to the internet to read reviews, to watch unboxing videos, hands-on reviews, long-term reviews, to compare sharpness, transmission, vignetting, distortion, chromatic aberration, weight, weather sealing, to listen to other photographers explain why they think this lens or that lens is the best (or the worst). And then the pleasure of watching sample images appear and disappear on my screen, examples of the miracles each lens can work. I can’t go wrong. Any of them will be better than my current lens.

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I know. I’m not supposed to fixate on my equipment. I need only the tools that enable me to realize my vision, to make the photographs I need to make. Clearly good tools help make good photographs. But how, exactly? What strange alchemy occurs, transforming my base creativity into precious photographs, when I affix a new lens onto my camera? What if a new lens, a new camera, a new tripod, a new filter, a new [whatever] actually has the opposite effect?

In large and small ways, explicit and implicit, concern for equipment permeates so much of the conversation about photography. The sounds gear makes, or a simulacrum of that sound, has become de rigueur for videos, as have clips of people loading film or attaching a camera to a tripod. We can’t look at a photo without wondering what film stock was used. People talking ostensibly about photographs and making photographs sit surrounded by cameras, usually lurking on shelves in the background or proudly sitting on the table in the foreground. For me, all of that emphasis on gear distracts. It unhelpfully deflects attention from the joy of photography, which is, again for me, making photographs. That is why, I suspect any new bit of kit will in the end dull my creative vision. That new gadget distracts me from doing what I need to do in order to realize that vision: from making photographs.

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No. I don’t need or even want a new lens, let alone a camera, or any other fancy bit of new, or retro, gear. Those won’t help me realize my creative vision. Only going out and making lots and lots and lots of photographs will.

In the chain that leads from vision to photograph, I am already the weakest link. Fortunately, I cost the least to improve.

March 4, 2021
Benches

Benches are so much more than merely a place to sit. Arranged around campus they seem like sentinels watching over a particular vista or guarding a quiet corner. Should you happen across one, it invites you to pause and maybe even to linger. Alone or with a friend, passionate conversation or silent observation, it matters little. Benches don’t care.

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Their insistence on reflection and contemplation put them at odds with a world that celebrates busyness. Now, more than ever, we should perhaps take them up on their offer to loiter and to dawdle. We would all benefit by spending some time doing nothing. We don’t need some app on our ever-present “smart phone” to tell us when and for how long to focus. We need not regularize and formalize downtime. Just go find a bench. There are plenty out there waiting for you.

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February 23, 2021
Pursue Your Own Goals

Following the lead of others requires little effort and less courage. “Innovate and iterate” while a route to financial success and often a means of improving our efficiencies rarely produces genuinely new and imaginative things. To strike out on your own requires conviction and courage. To pursue your own goals wherever they might lead demands trust in yourself. Better to get lost having set out alone into parts unknown, than simply to tread an established path to some recognizable destination. So too in things creative.

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February 22, 2021
In Praise of Chaotic

Minimalism. A dominate subject. High contrast. Rule of thirds. Composition. Complementary colors. Symmetry. Leading lines. Framing. There is a smörgåsbord of rules I can choose from to guide my shooting, to shoehorn my photos into a recognizable and recognized style. But what if I don’t want to. What if I want not just to “break” them but to reject them? Or replace them with a different set of rules/guidelines?

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Rules and guidelines are useful for helping me see things. Francis Bacon realized this centuries ago when he worried about the challenges of inductive investigation. Scientific training depends on some modern version of the dictum about the well-prepared mind being able to see. Photography is no different. The well-prepared photographer is able to see, and to photograph. But photography is not science. There’s no sense of progress, and photographers need not always be beholden to a finite set of rules. We can reject them at will. I think we might benefit from rejecting the rules now and then. Prepare our minds to see chaotic. There can be something soothing and comforting about the mess.

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February 11, 2021