« November 2012 | Main | January 2013 »
January 2013 Alumni News Now Available
The LensWork Alumni News is a distillation of news and events from photographers whose work you've seen in LensWork and LensWork Extended — people and work that we know you'll be interested in!
This free publication features news from:
Click here to download the January Alumni News pdf (2.4 mb)
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays
The season is upon us and lots and lots of you are heading out for the holidays. Safe travels and happy times with the family to one and all. All of us here at LensWork are joining the crowds and heading out for a long weekend, too. We'll be open half a day only on Friday. We'll be back on Wednesday the 26th and pick up with our regular postings to LensWork Daily — and, some big announcements coming for the LensWork Road Show in 2013. See you all then.
In the meantime, I'm off to be Grandpa/Santa to grandsons Ryan and Noah, and our newest family member — Lauren Reese Mach, born Nov 10th.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Brooks' books on photography and the creative process are available in print from Lulu.com, and as eBooks for Kindle or EPUB readers. As one of the membership benefits, these eBooks are available in their entirety to members of LensWork Online via download.
From The Still Earth by Mitch Dobrowner
From The Still Earth by Mitch Dobrowner
From
LensWork Extended #69
© 2007 Mitch Dobrowner. All rights reserved.
Reproduced with the permission of the photographer.
Image Comments by Mitch Dobrowner
Audio MP3 run time 2:10
The portfolio can be seen in its entirety in our LensWork Extended back issues. Plus, full audio interview with Mitch Dobrowner is available to members of LensWork Online.
Discussion
Add your comments and observations to the discussion by using the "Comments" link at the bottom of this post.
Bowery Flophouse by John F. Conn
From Bowery Flophouse by John F. Conn
From
LensWork and LensWork Extended #86
© 2010 John F. Conn. All rights reserved.
Reproduced with the permission of the photographer.
Commentary
Over the years, my relationship with photography has changed. I used to look at photographs and see them as images. More and more, I see them as stories.
This image by John F. Conn is a great example of this. The photograph could easily be discussed from compositional, lighting, printing, or even focal points of view. Perhaps that would be an interesting discussion, I don't know. But, I find I can't look at these two individuals without racing down any one of a dozen potential storylines. Are they brothers? Friends? Mere acquaintances? What brings the two of them to the bowery flophouse? Did they come together or meet each other here? What in their lives led them to this moment, captured on film some 40 years ago when Conn was working on this project?
Elsewhere, I've proposed that photography is all about relationships. With two individuals in the composition like this, the comparisons are enhanced. Look at the relative size of their hands — or for that matter, their heads. Some of that may be an optical illusion based on relative nearness to a wide angle lens, but I suspect not all of it. The fellow on the left seems so much taller than the other guy that their relative size seems real, not illusory.
Their size difference is also exaggerated by their posture and facial expressions. The fellow on the left seems more upbeat and even comfortable; the fellow on the right is reserved, almost timid. It's easy to interpret these differences as part of their relationship, too — protector and protected.
But, here is the real point — we have no idea because this is not a story, it's a photograph. That's the thing about this kind of picture: its story is manufactured by us based on the visual clues we see in the picture. Photograph-as-story is a kind of relationship between the photograph and the viewer. This is where I think I've changed over the years. In my youth, looking at a photograph was an exercise in photograph-making. How was this image lit? What compositional tricks did the photographer use that I might adapt to my own work? How does the printing and the tonal relationships enhance the images? What lens, what camera, what filters? These are questions a photographer asks, but only a photographer would think to ask. Unfortunately — at least as I look back at it now — such involvement with a photograph tends to suppress questions about the content, the story elements. Our minds are so preoccupied with deconstructing the technique that we miss the content.
Experience helps. With time, we can look at a photograph like this and sum up its technique fairly quickly — leaving time to ponder the story elements as they deserve. Not too unexpectedly, the more I find I engage the content rather than the technique, the more I appreciate what the photograph has to offer. Good photographs are not about photography — they're about life. Conn's image is a great reminder of that.
The portfolio can be seen in its entirety in our back issues — print (while still available) and our PDFs for computer, iPad, Android, and other devices. Plus, bonus audio commentary about this image is available to members of LensWork Online.
Discussion
Add your comments and observations to the discussion by using the "Comments" link at the bottom of this post.
Handmade
From the Book of Kells
In the world of marketing — especially when it comes to photography — one of the magic words that one sees over and over again is the term "handmade." I've always found this curious, if not downright misleading.
What is there in photography that is truly handmade — say, compared to in pottery, painting, sculpture, or even the performing arts like dance or music? My "handmade" prints are produced by a machine, i.e., an inkjet printer. Even in the days of wet darkroom work, what in the printing process of a gelatin silver print is handmade? Clearly not the paper or emulsion; not the chemistry; nor the various hardware equipment, like enlargers or lenses. I suppose my hand gestures in dodging and burning come to mind, but that hardly is the equivalent to the hand work of a potter. Perhaps the over-mat could be considered handmade, but perhaps hand-cut is a more accurate term.
If pressed, I'll be darned if I can think of a part of the process that is truly and accurately described with the term handmade. It seems demeaning to refer to our carefully crafted prints as "machine made" because that implies an inhuman sort of creation. No — machine made is definitely not right. As I think of it, the best term that most accurately describes what we all do would probably be mindmade.
Perhaps this is why I've always associated photography and writing in the creative process. Novelists have a lot more in common with photographers than painters do. Novelists and photographers make fiction from their observations of the real world. So do painters, I suppose, but the machines used by the novelist (typewriters, computers) and the photographer (cameras, printers) are more or less immaterial to the final result. The machine facilitates production, but it isn't the magic of the machine that makes the result sing as artwork.
Perhaps this is the root of that ever-present cloud that hangs over photography regarding its status as a true art medium. I don't think of a novel as a work of art — instead it is a work of literature. What would be so wrong about thinking of photography as a work of literature, too? Photography is, after all, a visual form of storytelling. We all know that, etymologically, photograph is light writing. Hmmm . . .
There is a lot of hullaballoo in photography about the original print and the magical visual properties contained therein. Undeniably true. But, an equivalent could be drawn between that and a handmade, hand-calligraphed, parchment and vellum book. The original, hand-written and hand-drawn Book of Kells is not the same thing as a commercially printed modern book of the same content. But if I want to read the Book of Kells, I don't need the original handmade manuscript to acquire the content of the message. The message is not the medium, although it does require some medium to be manifest.
Some of this gets so muddied because of a confusion of terms. The term "book," for example, refers both to a physical combination of molecules in the form of paper, ink, and glue, but it also is used to refer to the story content that is thoroughly independent of the molecules. Dickens wrote the "book" Oliver Twist when he penned the story, but he didn't manufacture the "book" Oliver Twist that was printed and bound by Chapman & Hall. Similarly, I "create a photograph" when I work on the image in Photoshop, but that is a different thing than when I print the photograph using molecules of paper and pigment.
So, where is the creative act located in the process? For the novelist, the creative act is in dreaming up the story and characters, in the process of constructing the string of words that comprise the story, and in the final editing and finishing of the manuscript before it is handed off to the book-maker. Let me re-write that last sentence for us photographers and see how it flies.
For the photographer, the creative act is in dreaming up the image and composition, in the process of constructing the array of tones that comprise the image, and in the final editing and finishing of the image before it is handed off to the print-maker/framer/publisher.
You know, I can live with that — in spite of the fact that the entire concept of handmade is nowhere in the neighborhood. Now, if I can just get the term mindmade accepted in the popular zeitgeist.
Brooks' books on photography and the creative process are available in print from Lulu.com, and as eBooks for Kindle or EPUB readers. As one of the membership benefits, these eBooks are available in their entirety to members of LensWork Online via download.
shop.lenwork.com lensworkonline.com/login
Login to view your Members special coupon code
|
|
1, 2, and 3 Year Subscriptions:
Starting at $31.20 |
Sale ends Dec 25th at midnight
*The purchase of Online Memberships is not included in this sale.
Cross-media Talented Photographers
Steve Willard emailed an observation about how many photographers are talented in other arts:
It seems that as a group, photographers have produced talented writers like no other — painter, sculptors, musicians, etc. — you agree? Perhaps it's because I've been interested in photography for so long, but I can think of quite a number of photographers who have written extensively, and well. Weston of course, and Adams, Evans, Porter, Sexton, Tice, and on. I stop here not because I can't think of more, but because the list is so long. I'm not talking so much about books on technique, as I am about books about the art of photography and being a photographer. — Steve
I can't say whether or not this observation is statistically accurate — that is, whether or not photographers are more numerous than other artists at exhibiting talent in multiple media — but there certainly are lots and lots of examples. It's not just writing, by the way. A more common observation is how many photographers are also pianists — perhaps an even lengthier list than photographers who are writers.
I do have my own little theory about this I'll share, just for fun. Photography, more than any other art medium, requires an equal measure of aesthetics and science. Sure, there are painters who have been knowledgeable about the chemistry of their craft to the point that they could make significant technological improvements — Rembrandt comes to mind. For most painters, however, this is not a prerequisite. It is, however, for photographers — at least to a functional level of mastery.
There are very few exceptions in the world of fine art photography where a successful photographic artist isn't also knowledgeable about the chemistry — at least enough that they can mix their own darkroom chemicals and understand the rudimentary mathematics of optics and cameras. Said another way, there is a certain kind of wholeness of mind and thought that is required in photography, without which the pursuit is almost impossible. I'm not talking about mental discipline here — all arts require mental discipline. It's always seemed to me that photography is different than the other arts in that it requires such different kinds of mental discipline — both aesthetic and technical/mechanical/chemical. My theory about cross media-photographers is simply based on the idea that once that multiple-disciplinary mindset is invoked, it's an easy leap to other disciplines as well.
Let me try this from another angle. I believe there is something quantifiable as "the creative process." Once an individual catches hold of this idea and engages a creative path, that path can be translated into other expressive disciplines. I may not have the dexterity to become an accomplished painter because of genetics or simple lack of physical training. Nonetheless, I can understand the creative path of painting to some degree because I understand it in photography — or least I understand a small corner of it. I can see that what I do in photography can be translated to the same creative path in painting, music, or any other discipline. The same could be said of someone who understands the creative path and painting — they can easily see how to apply it to photography, music, etc. The difference, however, may be that photographers are more likely to make that transition simply because they are more predisposed to embrace alternative media.
Think of it this way: Photography books go hand in hand with writing; photographic images go hand in hand with moving video images — that is, photography leads so naturally to layout and design, to typography, to videography, to storytelling and script writing, to any number of disciplines in the neighborhood. I'm not sure I see painting, sculpting, playing an instrument, or novel-writing lead to other disciplines in the same way. It was perfectly natural for Wright Morris to add text to his photographs and produce The Home Place. It was perfectly natural for Lou Stoumen to adapt his movie directing to books of still images. It was perfectly natural for Edward Weston to do a book of his California travels. I'm not sure I see it as natural a path for Jackson Pollock to start playing the violin or for Itzhak Perlman to chisel out a Madonna in marble.
I may be thoroughly wrong about this, but I've often found it a comforting train of thought.
Georgia O'Keeffe Hands by Alfred Stieglitz
|
|
We recommend this book as a worthy addition to any photographer's library. |
Commentary
I've always been fascinated by photographs of hands and gestures. In the normal use of the word, "portrait" means a photograph of someone's face. The problem with this is, of course, is that most often a portrait of a face involves the two-way street of you looking at them and them looking back. A relationship is implied — and then complicated with the imposition of the photographer in the triangle. Photographs of hands sidestep this knotty relationship business and present a glimpse at the personality of the person photographed without all the layer upon layer of direct eye contact.
Referring to the above image, the National Gallery of Art describes Stieglitz's photograph as follows:
Stieglitz's decision to consider his photographs of O'Keeffe's hands "portraits" of her in their own right, rather than simply studies for a larger composition, is certainly indebted to the sculptural fragments made by Rodin and pursued to the point of abstraction by Rodin's one-time assistant Brancusi. Yet Stieglitz cultivated here above all the sense of photography as fragmentary, a partial viewing that lends itself to juxtaposition and serial development. Stieglitz called his ongoing studies of O'Keeffe a "composite portrait," meaning one that developed over time, piece by piece. This closely framed view of ecstatically clawing hands, sinewy fingers pressing into flesh, gives just one aspect of O'Keeffe's multifaceted personality as shaped through this portrait series.
Photographs of hands generally consist of two characteristics: the physical condition of the skin (which often gives us a clue to the person's life), and the gesture (which offers a clue to the person's emotion or mood at the time of exposure). We have no idea why O'Keeffe is making this odd gesture, but the photograph is filled with tension, possibly anger or anxiety. Stieglitz used a shutter speed to slow to freeze her hands and in doing so the motions gives us this slight blur — an enhancement that increases the emotional tension. We see a moment, as well as a portrait.
The emotional tension is wonderful, but it's not the whole story. I get the feeling that O'Keeffe is communicating more, but in a language of hand gestures that I don't understand. The circle made by her right thumb and index finger is more than a gesture — it's a symbol for something, distance, roundness, closeness, something. The way her left hand pulls on the skin of her right palm is so odd — is it one hand attacking another? There is a sense of fear or hiding. Wouldn't you love to know what O'Keeffe was saying at the moment of exposure? We don't know, and I think that mystery pulls us into the image. Because we cannot hear, we must see — so we look with greater intensity.
In the Orient, the gesture of hands is a study that dates back to the beginnings of civilization. Known as mudra, there are thousands of hand positions that symbolize various concepts or states of mind. I doubt Stieglitz many photographs of O'Keeffe's hands are based on any knowledge of mudra, but I wouldn't be surprised if some scholar discovered a long lost passage where Stieglitz waxes on about mudra positions.
And here is an idea for you gallerists and curators out there. So many photographers have made photographs of hands, why not assemble an exhibition or publication on this sub-genre? I think it would be fascinating.
Discussion
Add your comments and observations to the discussion by using the "Comments" link at the bottom of this post.
Plus, bonus audio commentary about this image is available to members of LensWork Online.
Now Is the Time
From Tree Encounters by William Workman, to be published in LensWork Extended #104
Life is short. Time is precious.
Two quick entries this afternoon that remind me of this, and why we should all be mindful of the cost of postponing our art life until we have time.
Michael Reichmann reports that he is emerging from his chemotherapy and doing well. A blessing to his family and friends. A welcome bit of news to all of us who value his wisdom, insight, integrity, and contributions to photography.
Then, this afternoon. We recently reviewed and selected William Workman's submission, Tree Encounters, for publication in LensWork Extended #104. Bill did not own a computer nor have email, so Maureen called Bill at his home to share the news that his work had been selected for publication. Instead, Bill's wife (of 47 years) informed Maureen that Bill was diagnosed with cancer in August and had passed away in October. The submission he sent to us was dated September 29th. Bill must have known that "Now is the time." We both admired Bill's photographic spirit — the way he never stopped venturing out to photograph his waterfalls, rocks, and trees — even until he was 80. He clearly loved photography, and it is our honor to posthumously publish his final portfolio.
Yes, time is precious. Worth remembering in this special time of year as we celebrate and look to next year.
Brooks' books on photography and the creative process are available in print from Lulu.com, and as eBooks for Kindle or EPUB readers. As one of the membership benefits, these eBooks are available in their entirety to members of LensWork Online via download.
Fictions: A Photographic Portfolio by Phil Harris
From Fictions: A Photographic Portfolio by Phil Harris
From
LensWork #14
© 1996 Photographer. All rights reserved.
Reproduced with the permission of the photographer.
Commentary
About this body of work, Harris writes:
When photography is conceived and used as a language, there are essentially two potential paths that lead to two opposite poles. Depending on your point of view, the two poles could be called art and science, poetry and journalism, subjectivity and objectivity, fabricated and found, intention and accident, illusion and reality, fact and fancy. In my opinion, photography stands, wondering, at the exact center point where the two paths veer away from each other. This work is an attempt to blend the power of photographic "reality" with the narrative art of fiction. My hope is that the objects pictured here, transformed by photography, will allow you, the viewer, to participate, to create, to hear the story.
There are no guarantees in art, but for reasons I'm not sure I can identify, I connect with Harris' story. Please don't ask me to verbalize it, because I can't. Besides, to do so is sort of like explaining the punch line of a joke. This image is something about water and bubbles, fish and ice, story and text. That latter one is introduced into the image with the lines that can be barely seen in the hole just above center. And then on the left edge of the image just below center, there is something that looks vaguely like writing on the underlying page. It's a story written in fish, I guess, but it seems silly to try to discuss it.
This entire portfolio consists of these types of small dioramas made for the purpose of photographing them. Such an approach was all the rage in the 1990s. I see less of it now. The problem with most of it was that it too easily veered into intellectual game-playing and meaningless conglomerations of stuff. It required a deft hand like Harris' to pull it off without being stuffy. Carol Golemboski did it successfully, too, in LensWork #59, along with Tatiana Palnitska in LensWork #47. It's harder than you think to take a pile of objects and turn them into an interesting and communicative still life.
I've often wondered why that is — but perhaps the reason is obvious. Photographers are primarily discoverers. We search and look, recognize and snap. Unlike painting, novel writing, or writing music, starting with a blank canvas is not our normal procedure. It can be terribly awkward for a photographer to start with the blank sheet. Try doing something in Photoshop that starts with a totally blank canvas — and no, you may not begin with a cheat by importing a photograph that fills the canvas.
You see, for photographers, the world is an image where we search for ideas. For most other arts, the idea is the start from which the artist shapes the world to create an image. This middle ground that Harris et al have chosen to explore is a particularly fascinating one for photographers because it forces us to reverse our process — an activity that always leads to artistic growth and insight into our habits and conditioned ways of seeing. Try it and you'll see what I mean.
The portfolio can be seen in its entirety in our back issues — print (while still available) and our PDFs for computer, iPad, Android, and other devices. Plus, bonus audio commentary about this image is available to members of LensWork Online.
Discussion
Add your comments and observations to the discussion by using the "Comments" link at the bottom of this post.
