For the time being, I am having fun with my photos. I like the pictures I am taking and I'm still really excited to be doing digital printing. I tack it down to being a graphic designer, and especially, a lover of posters. Printing digitally is one of my favorite things about graphic design, and by extension, about photography. I suppose. As cool as darkroom printing is, I am so happy to be printing digitally.
As for my photos, this past week I finally got my hands on a tripod. I had been wanting to use one so that I could get more information and a larger depth of field in my photographs. I also had been looking forward to trying some night photography, which I attempted this week (week nine) and had a lot of success with.
The above photo was taken after after the sun had gone down for the night. I kept the shutter open for fifteen seconds at a small aperture (f/11). As a result of this, I have found that people tend to think that it was actually taken during the day (which is not exactly a good thing). I am thrilled with the way it came out; it is so sharp! I wasn't even sure if my exposure time was right at all, because light meters just don't work with such little light. It was exciting to see how all these photos came out.
I also printed a photo that was a little different for me. So far, I have only shown photographs that are of places (like the first one). I am, however, also very interested in textural photos (I know you hate that word, Kristine!) I don't know exactly how it will fit in with the other ones, but what I am envisioning is that photos like the one above will be a way to break up the standard vacant lot/empty building. It might even begin to build a narrative.
Based on the photos that I seem to be making (such as these two), maybe I will go in a geometric direction. I am drawn to taking photos that are symmetrical (like these) and that have organized formal qualities (like these). Or maybe I will go in the direction of eerie and isolated like I was planning. I will have to have look at them and decide.
I would first like to say that I enjoy reading Tod Papageorge's essays (which is saying a lot, because essays can be really boring). They are well-written and well-balanced. I enjoy the breaks that he makes to tell a story (as in the end of Henri Cartier-Bresson: Two Lives) and to narrate (as in the end of Eugene Atget: A Photographer's Photographer). It livens the essay up and makes it 200% more enjoyable to read.
I am going to speak about the essay on Henri Cartier-Bresson. I could actually identify with the author's fascination with Cartier-Bresson's photos. "It was poetry," he says of Cartier-Bresson's 1933 photograph of a boy looking up. While I was not enamored by the same photographs that Cartier-Bresson was, I certainly was by others.
http://beautydelux.com/?attachment_id=14214 Photo by Henri Cartier-Bresson
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I found myself looking at the above photograph longer than the others. I love it because of the moment it shows. It's a simple, common moment - nothing too extraordinary - but it is perfectly captured. From the position of the man's arm and how we can see his watch to the dog's glance upward at the moment of his companion's kiss, it amazes me that Cartier-Bresson took this photo candidly. I suppose this is a large part of the reason that I am so impressed. I could never capture this moment so perfectly! Just today I was taking photos with my 35mm camera and I pointed it at the man sitting across from me on the train, hoping to get his head and torso as he was reading his newspaper. But before I could focus and set my exposure, he looked up at me and I got uncomfortable and the photo was ruined. It's difficult to frame pictures of people on the street.
Many other photos by Cartier-Bresson are like this one. He was expert at photographing the "decisive moment." I define this not just as the moment that a photographer decides to press the shutter (although that inherently is also part of it), but also as the moment where things come together with their maximum amount of static/tension.
Like a social interaction between two people where the photographer captures the moment that both subjects react to something, or the instant before a man jumps into a ambiguous depth of water. I wonder if Cartier-Bresson often waited a long time with his camera in position until that moment came. He must have.
I can begin to comprehend how Cartier-Bresson came to find the things and people - situations, so to speak - that he ended up photographing. He walked everywhere and traveled the world, using his camera as an extension of his eyes. I imagine that he also practiced his Buddhism and entered a concentrative zen state while photographing. But what I can't fully explain is how he was able to photograph so perfectly the split-second moment that he so often did. And how he was able to make himself so invisible while doing it.
I noticed some large similarities between Cartier-Bresson's and Papageorge's work - namely, their subject matter. This made sense after reading that Papageorge was inspired to begin photography as a career by looking at one of Cartier-Bresson's pictures. I scarcely see any landscape, geometric, or abstract work by either of them. It is mostly people; street photography. I am usually not drawn to this genre, but after looking at both of their photographs I was quite amazed.
I have chosen to write about the photographer Joel Sternfeld this week. Joel Sternfeld has made quite a few collections of work, most notably American Prospects and On This Site: Landscape in Memoriam, which I will primarily be talking about.
Both of these bodies are relevant for similar reasons. The most obvious reason is that they depict true American landscapes, scenes, and events, and to someone who has always lived (and continues to live) in America, it doesn't get much more relevant.
I also find his photographs to be very appealing. I am trying not to overuse the word "beautiful." Down to a single blade of grass or piece of rust, they are full of detail. This gives me a lot to look into and keeps my interest for a long time. Similarly, and in the case of American Prospects, his photographs cover a large area with a large depth-of-field. I believe that his photos depict a scene that is beautiful - but also depict it in an elegant way, using time of day (a.k.a. light) and vantage point (high above to capture more stuff). These things are what make Joel Sternfeld's photographs so appealing to me.
On a conceptual level, Sternfeld's photographs are largely illustrative, in a similar way to that of a journalistic photographer. He seems to be photographing places as they are day-to-day without tampering with how they look. From what I can tell, he is not setting up any extra light, or placing actors in the frame, or manipulating the landscape/scene in any way. In other words, the photographer's hand is almost nonexistent. This allows the viewer to take in the scene and focus only on what it contains. With On This Site, we need to read the commentary about the scene's history to give the photograph the extra weight (I question the effectiveness of this approach, however. When I regard Sternfeld's method of taking a static photo and pairing it with equally neutral commentary, I cannot help but feel that there should be a little more to it. Is it too simple, too obvious, to depict these locations in this manner? Does the method agree with the subject matter is represents? I do not know the answer to these questions. I simply can't shake the feeling that there could be more thought put into the process in order to best represent these horrifying stories). The strategy of almost-pure documentation of a scene makes the photographs relevant in that they are very relatable.
After a Flash Flood, Rancho Mirage, California. American Prospects.
This photograph, for example, allows me to take in the scene and the event that it presents to me, and then allows me to interpret it - to compare it to my own life, home, climate, and so on. The photographs speak for themselves.
On one last note, I want to talk a little about something of which I have been thinking. I have been becoming aware of how many professional photographers use the view camera to create their pictures, and I am beginning to realize why. I have never used a view camera before (and most likely never will), so I am not 100% confident in its functions, but what I've gathered from my brief research is that they allow for a lot of detail - more than you could ever get with a 35mm camera or digital camera. This must be a result of the time one must take to expose the negative, as well as the size of the negative itself. It carries a ton of information. Discovering these things about photography is fun, because I am just beginning to figure out all of the possibilities and what their specialties are. It's really just good to find these things out on your own, through experience, instead of being told.
This week, the photographs of David Hilliard resonated with me a lot.
Right off the bat, they have a unique format. They are panoramic, but not in the traditional sense: they are really more like diptiks, triptiks, and upwards (all the way to seven or eight in some cases). Different viewpoints of the same scene sit side by side or on top of each other to complete the photograph.
All photographers represent something that exists in the world; they present something to the viewer that was first presented to them. They RE-present it. Whether it be studio photography with light setups and actors or street photography or landscape photography - it is always a representation. What I think is relevant about Hilliard's photos is that this representation is more lifelike than a standard photograph. They present the same scene to us but at different angles of the same view, and sometimes, at slightly offset times. The picture below demonstrates this.
The man's arm is at his hip on the left, but on the right it has moved (or been moved from?) the side of the house.
Looking at Hilliard's photographs is a little like being there with him. It is like looking out of one's own eyes. When we are experiencing something in real life, we move out eyes around, turn our head, and take in the whole scene in a few seconds. This is the experience that I get when looking at one of Hilliard's panoramas.
I also can't help but think of practically the only other experience I have had with panoramas: the iPhone pano. I know that Hilliard's work is not a direct response to this because his panoramic style predates any cell phone with that capability. Nonetheless, it is satisfying to see this technique done professionally. There is deep thought and consideration in Hilliard's panoramas. They are a joy to look in and look into. And, of course, the quality is much richer than a phone camera shot!
Many, if not all, of Hilliard's photographs have a narrative quality to them.
This always adds to the impact of a photo. It makes the viewer want to figure out what is going on, makes us ask questions and contemplate what we are seeing. Everyone loves a good story, and with photography is can not always be deciphered easily. As for the above photo, I see a couple enjoying a lazy (and romantic due to the roses, candles, and of course, nudity) summer afternoon in what appears to be a cottage. One has fallen asleep by the fire while the other quietly reads a book by the window. Very peaceful.
Others are not so clear.
I suspect that his photographs mainly function in the context of their collection, or series. As with his collection The Tale is True, some photographs tell a more explicit tale, while others serve as punctuation; a breath or pause from the story. I am fond of the photograph above because I can get lost in this place by going deeper and deeper into the space. While I cannot determine what narrative it contains (if any), I find it interesting to look at because of its peculiarity. What's with the castle in the middle of nowhere? Is this truck unloading or picking up the junk, or is it part of it?
I have a few opinions on the interview between Luc Sante and Stephen Shore, most of which stem from the same topic.
Right off the bat, Shore speaks about mentally modeling one's picture. "The image an experienced photographer has in mind, whether it be conscious or unconscious, can guide all the little decisions that go into making that picture." I find that I do this in all areas of art-making, especially those that I am most inspired to make. I have a "mental model" of the final result in my head and the whole time that I am creating the piece this final result is all I aim for. And a lot of these decisions are, indeed, unconscious.
Later in the interview is when I begin to disagree. I began getting the sense that in Shore's and Sante's minds the best (or most successful, most powerful) photography is thoroughly considered. It is completely intentional - the more intentional each element is, the better. "When you have a really good amateur photograph, it's generally because of some force of entropy." When this was said, Sante and Shore were discussing how accidents can sometimes become strong elements in a photograph. I don't believe that good photography needs to come from the mind; like any art form, it is visual and can be interpreted based on the visual. I can appreciate a photograph simply because I think it contains something beautiful. In fact, some of my favorite photographs do not speak to me on any conceptual level.
I love this photograph by Richard Benson because it contains something I find beautiful. It is one of my favorite photos, even though I have never pondered (or will ever know) what the artist was thinking when he made it (credit: Pace/MacGill Gallery, pacemacgill.com.)
A digital photograph I took while trying out a new lens. I think it's beautiful, but would Stephen Shore consider this a good photograph if I told him that it wasn't thought out or conceptualized?
This, of course, does not mean that the photograph does not need to be considered. I do agree that a considered photograph will come out better than one that was not. I suppose that there needs to be something that sets professional photographers apart from all other photographers (especially in this age of Instagram photography and art sauce), and this thing naturally is the "mental model." I just can't help but think that there must be some room for error and accident in good photography.
In Shore's defense, his response to the question of professional photographers working with accident was nice: "Things happen that photographers don't see, can't anticipate, and benefit by."
In the last few lines of the interview, Shore speaks again about what makes a good photograph good, and I understand what he is saying completely. A good photograph is not necessarily taking a picture of something that is interesting (though I can see this being the case with, say, journalistic photography) but taking a picture of something and by doing so, making it interesting. I have a little problem with the words he uses, though. He words this as the "distinction between photography and illustration." When I hear the word illustration - and this may just be my graphic design tendencies - some beautiful artwork is conjured. Illustration can be beautiful. Perhaps Shore is speaking of the word "illustration" as a verb, not a noun: the distinction between illustrating a scene or photographing it.
"I sometimes see a blind spot in people who are otherwise extraordinarily astute," says Shore in reference to his artistic and brilliant friend who "just didn't get photography." I would like to add as a last thought that I can sympathize with Stephen Shore's potter friend. I have been photographing for years, have succeeded in a couple college-level photo classes, been to quite a few photo galleries in New York City, and I still am unsure of what makes a great photo...great. Sometimes you just get it, but other times, you may wonder just what all the professional photographers see.
Last Wednesday, photographer Angela Strassheim presented some of her bodies of work, including Left Behind, Pause, and Divine Bounty.
The photographs that Strassheim showed for the lecture were made because of some sort of personal interest - mainly because of an experience or an expression of emotion. As a result, they are powerful photographs. They are eye catching. Some of them are uncomfortable, some of them are beautiful. One, titled "The Spanking" (below), was disturbing to me.
After the first few seconds of looking at the picture, I still did not know what was going on, but I did not like it. I asked myself, "Why is a man slapping a grown woman's bare butt? Why are her pants all the way down, but not completely off?" Strassheim described that this was not the exact situation that she was put into when her father used to spank her, but rather it is a depiction of how she felt while it was happening. All of the discomfort that I feel when looking at this photograph is what she felt - and then some. For this reason, it is a very successful photograph.
Photography seems to be the way that Angela Strassheim interacts with the world, and how she copes with it. As with the above photograph, she uses photography as a way to express her emotions. She will not feel satisfied until she gets it just the way that she imagined it in her head (I certainly know that feeling). As with the photographs in Left Behind, Strassheim uses photography as a way to bring herself closer to her family. She gets a social and personal experience out of photographing her nieces and nephews, as if photography is a unique connection that can only be in existence because of the camera. However, when asked about her relationship with strangers (such as those in the photograph "Untitled (Storytime)"), she said that there is some small talk at first but beyond that she just concentrates on photographing and directing. I wonder if the personal connection is present when she works toward it, as with her nieces and nephews, or if it simply depends on the circumstances.
Angela Strassheim's photos are so powerful, in part, because they are cinematic. Maybe it has something to do with the camera she uses (a view camera, mostly) or the light. I'm pretty sure it's mostly the latter. She sometimes sets up studio lighting on her subjects to create a very dramatic scene.
Untitled (Butterfly)
In the above photo, there is obviously a lot of light coming from the window behind the boy, but there is also light illuminating his front. The result is a uniform light with very few shadows. In the photo below, the light seems to be coming from the point of view of the camera. Once again, it illuminates the scene uniformly, almost like a flash applied to the entire room.
Untitled (Fishtank)
I admire Strassheim's photography because it never fails to make me feel something. They are often aesthetically pleasing because of their formal qualities, and they often suggest a strong emotion or narrative. The cinematic quality brings it all home by giving the sense that these are photographs created by a master who knows what she's doing and has all the resources she needs.
The above link is for an article from the BBC. The article reviews the train accident on the Metro North Harlem Line that occurred on Tuesday, February 3rd.
BBC World News is my news engine of choice, and I check it every day to keep up with events. Until I read this article, I had not though much about the collision; I had just heard that there was a train accident on the Metro North. Then I realized how serious it was. The Harlem line (where the accident happened) is the same route that I take whenever I go to the city from SUNY Purchase. The front train car collided with an SUV that had for some reason stalled on the tracks, which I believe was a freak occurrance (the NTSB is still investigating the events). But what bothers me the most is that the door to the front train car would not open. It was jammed, rendering the passengers trapped as the interior of the train car burned out. "If there was an engineer problem or a train problem, or an equipment problem, we'll learn from it. But sometimes, there are just accidents," said Gov. Cuomo at the scene.
This may be true, but I can't help blaming Metro North for the unsafe door that was stuck. Many small factors add up to make a disaster like this one, and many are not anyone's fault in particular, but I have a feeling that this small factor should have been avoided by Metro North's safety features.
This, and the fresh memory of the December 2013 accident that left four people dead after a train car derailed, were fuel to my outrage upon reading this story. This news hit close to home and made me consider that I might not be safe while taking my usual train ride to the city. I quickly looked up several more articles by more local journals. I was planning on riding a train to the city that weekend, and with the accident in mind I was not so sure. After I was satisfied that I knew every detail there was to know, I decided that if there was a current event that I was most passionate about, it would be this one. It always helps to make art about something you're angry over.
With this outrage in mind, I figured that the most effective way to communicate my position (and the most satisfactory) would be to show it in a physical and unmistakable way. No subtlety. I went to the Metro North station in White Plains where all of us SUNY Purchase students go to get to New York City and took photos of the station. I tried to photograph the casual things, like the benches, signs, train schedules, and of course, the tracks. I even got some train cars in there, too. Then, after I developed my film, I melted those Metro North photographs with a lighter until it sizzled and bubbled. I also scratched the film with a small needle, mainly on the parts of the photograph associated with the accident: the train car, the tracks, the rails. I wanted my anger to come across, so I took a direct route by calling back to the fatal fire of Tuesday's accident and by permanently damaging the film.
I've never done something like this to my film before, so it was innovative for me (although I know that the tactic has been used many times before). There's just something about the raw aggression involved in destroying one's film with fire, that demonstrates my emotions toward this topic. I hope that the emotion comes through to the viewer when the photographs are done.
Based on the photos that I seem to be making (such as these two), maybe I will go in a geometric direction. I am drawn to taking photos that are symmetrical (like these) and that have organized formal qualities (like these). Or maybe I will go in the direction of eerie and isolated like I was planning. I will have to have look at them and decide.
