Painters usually start with a sketch, a visual working-out of an idea, a practice run, an experiment. They build from the sketch to the finished painting, step by step. The same can be said of poetry, theater, cinema, novel writing, most every medium I can think of. Photographs start with a fully realized image which the photographer then improves by modifying or eliminating things the camera sees in entirety. I'm fascinated by this difference in approach. I also think this is the main reason I'm resistant to AI photography.
LensWork - Photography and the Creative Process
en-us
us
RSS
Website
Apple
Random Observations on Art, Photography, and the Creative Process. These short 2-4 minute talks focus on the creative process in fine art photography. LensWork editor Brooks Jensen side-steps techno-talk and artspeak to offer a stimulating mix of ideas, experience, and observations from his 35 years as a fine art photographer, writer, and publisher. Topics include a wide range of subjects from finding subject matter to presenting your work and building an audience. Brooks Jensen is the publisher of LensWork, one of the world's most respected and award-winning photography publications, known for its museum-book quality printing and luxurious design. LensWork has subscribers in over 73 countries. His latest books are "The Creative Life in Photography" (2013) and "Looking at Images (2014).
Episodes
25
Transcripts
0
0% coverage
Missing Transcripts
25
With Chapters
0
Episodes
For each of us, there are certain kinds of photography that we love and enjoy and even produce, but other kinds of photography that is a bit of a challenge. I feel guilty about certain kinds of photography that I know I should enjoy but I struggle to appreciate. Exploring my own prejudices a bit, I've concluded that the kind of photography that tends to turn me off is what I would call hyperized photography. Psychedelic colors, excessively pushed infrared, vibrance cranked up to 11, room-sized prints, all leave me rushing for the exit. I know that says nothing about photography, but it must say something about me.
Every medium has a form — movements in a symphony, chapters in a novel, image and caption in photography. These forms have to do with structure, but what about content? In storytelling, there is a basic formula that is universally followed with few variations. The three steps in novel writing are: Characters, Conflict, Resolution. Every story is based on these three basics. Turning our attention to photography, what is the equivalence of a basic formula in our medium?
I once read that the goal of a framed photograph was to create an instant emotional bond with the viewer. I think there is some truth to this but then I remember all the images that I disliked or felt neutral about at first viewing which only later, upon reflection, became favorites and even influential pictures. I've always struggled with this idea of instant emotional bond because it seems to reduce to a connection based on already held assumptions and opinions. That leaves photography with nothing new to bring to us.
Some of you have been around long enough to remember when seeing a photograph could be a truly special experience. A highlight of my photographic life was seeing an exhibition of Paul Strand originals at The Art Institute of Chicago in 1991. I was on cloud nine for a week. Perhaps it was such a special occasion because it was so rare. Here, deep in the age of image bombardment, I miss those moments when I could be overwhelmed by the work of a master photographer during a transcendent experience.
Last week I attended a classical concert in which the orchestra played the Enigma Variations by Edward Elgar. There's a fascinating story about how he constructed this piece that seems perfectly applicable to us photographers. I never knew my practice of PBPA (Photography By Pooping Around)was a strategy that could be used by serious composers. I guess if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for us, too.
As you can well imagine, I receive dozens of emails every day from galleries, collectors, agents, and promoters who have prints for sale. My first thought when I see these emails and the prices for the prints they are offering is to wonder how much of that gets back to the creator, the photographer, the individual whose creativity and effort created the work. The poor artist get nothing from the sale in the secondary market. Worse, whatever efforts they spend to market their own work robs them of the precious time and energy needed to make work.
Isn't it interesting how certain photographers are associated with certain kinds of weather? Michael Kenna is associated with fog. Ansel Adams is often associated with snow. Josef Sudek is a photographer of rain. Mitch Dobrowner and tornados, Alfred Stieglitz and clouds. What is your favorite kind of weather to photograph? Note how that is a different question than what is your favorite kind of weather to photograph in!
Last fall I attended a lecture where a photographer, by projecting on a screen, shared a parade of hundred images or so with the audience. It was so curious to listen to their verbal accompaniment. The first few images had context, story, even plot line as they described what they had photographed and how. But that only lasted a few minutes. Less than a dozen images into their presentation and their verbal accompaniment deteriorated to a recitation of locations. I wonder why it is that photographers so often think that where they photographed is more important than what or why?
I'm often asked how I develop a multiple-image project. There are probably dozens of ways this could be done, but the most common way a project is born in my creative process is from a single image that spawns the rest. It starts by wandering through my Lightroom catalog in a receptive state of mind not dissimilar from the way I wander through the world looking for subjects that peak my curiosity. In the field I'll find a scene; in Lightroom I'll find an image that talks my imagination.
As we wander through life, we see something that prompts us to make a photograph. Why? That mystery requires confirmation. Did we see what we thought we saw? Did we understand what we thought became clear? Do we make a print in order to confirm our experience? Do we share that print with others so that they can confirm our experience? Photography fundamentally is the process of saying, "Look at this." We do so because we think it's important. How necessary is it that others affirm our observation, even if that affirmation comes from ourselves?
The problem with photography from a creative medium point of view is that it too successfully allows us to make pictures that show what the world looks like. I'm not sure this is helpful for those of us who want to use photography as a personally expressive medium. The more our photographs are truthful to an objective point of view, the less they reflect our own interpretive response to the world. Do we create photographs that copy the world or do we push further toward a more personal expression?
A troubling mindset that I have difficulty discarding is that I think of my gear as either serious or, well, not. With my serious camera, I work more intensely, with a deeper concentration. I also have a more portable, but fully capable camera that goes with me everywhere. For some reason, I can't seem to use that camera with the same intensity as my serious gear. I must let go of this prejudice.
You may recall my Editor's Comments in LensWork #173, Projects as Wall Art. I have another observation about this that I missed until recently. An image on the wall says something about a place or a moment. A project of a dozen images or so says something That is neither about a place nor a moment. My current project on the wall consists of 13 images of snow scenes that says something about snow and winter that I'm not sure I could accomplish with just one image all by itself.
Perhaps there is no deadlier advice from a workshop instructor, mentor, or master photographer, than their statement about what you should do with your photography. I've learned countless things from photographers who have told me what they do and leave it for me to pick and choose what parts of their creativity might be applicable to mine. On the other hand, I've learned essentially nothing from instructors who tell me how I ought to make my pictures.
I haven't counted, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn there's about a gazillion tools in Lightroom that can help us refine and finesse our images. Some of them I never use, and some of them I'm sure I don't know about. There is, however, one tool, that I use on almost every image. No, it's not Exposure, not Clarity, not Texture, not Crop and Rotate. It is (drum roll, please) ...
In the early years of the 20th century, photography struggled to establish its reputation as a medium for artistic expression. As a medium, it gained widespread popularity and acceptance as the 20th century progressed. What about now, a quarter of the way through the 21st century? Is photography more respected as a result of the changes in the last 25 years, or has its reputation diminished? Has digital processing, the iPhone, and Instagram made photography more revered as an art medium?
The fundamental characteristic of photography is that it shows us what is, the instant that is. This differs so dramatically from performance arts where the basis of the medium is observing what unfolds over time. For example, movie plots are about what might happen to the characters over the next hours, days, or years. Does it make any sense for us to challenge ourselves to introduce some of that into our photography? Isn't this one of the advantages of the multi-image project?
I would bet that a significant number of photographers would claim their most valuable tool is their camera. I would propose your most valuable tool is your creative impulse. If anything you do or have needs tender loving care or special attention, it is those creative impulses.
The very first print I ever sold as a young photographer was an image of a 1-in mushroom cap that I printed to 16x20". I didn't realize at the time what a rarity that is, but looking back on 50 years of photography that may be the only image I've ever made were the artwork was bigger than the object photographed. Almost without exception, we photographers squeeze reality to fit within the confines of our comparatively diminutive prints. Rather than outsize the world via our product, we try to outsize our emotional response.
Our generation is facing a very strange conundrum, at least strange compared to previous generations of photographers. They may have left their negatives behind, which likely does not leave behind a possibility of posthumous prints. Our legacy involves the eternal possibility of Ctrl-P.
The problem with learning new tools is that it can be so abstract and intellectual. Sure, it's handy to have some photographic technique in your tool bag, but so much learning is about some nebulous potential that it never becomes deep learning, remaining an idea never brought to fruition. Do you learn so that someday you can do something? Or are you trying to do something and need to learn how in order to complete it? These are two entirely different approaches.
Looking back, I cringe when I think how much money I've spent on cameras and assorted accessories. I wish someone had told me, in my youth, to spend my hard-earned cash on the highest quality lenses, rather than cameras. In fact I wish I'd spend more money on darkroom supplies, ink and paper, frames, methods of distribution, and workshops and far less money on cameras and travel. I have no doubt my photographic legacy would be much higher quality had I invested in the right photographic expenditures.
I know many photographers who think that Photoshop is the cat's meow of digital processing. I'm not one of them. For me, the engineers have taken the usability right out of Photoshop by making it so "capable." For me, using Photoshop always feels a bit like driving to the grocery store in a Formula 1 race car. I use 90% of Lightroom's features and capabilities; I use 3% of Photoshop's features and capabilities. The point I'm trying to make is not about Photoshop, but rather about choosing the tools that fit your needs. The purpose of software is to make our tasks easier, not more complicated.
When I view artwork (music, a novel, a painting, a photograph) for the first time, it almost never sticks. That is, I don't find I can remember its details, I don't own it in my mind/memory. That almost always needs repetition. I have no idea if this is something about me, or if it says something about art, or if it says something a bit more universal. With music it's usually necessary to hear it a dozen or so times. With a novel at least twice, sometimes three readings. I find this an interesting observation in the age of Instagram and swipe left.