Head in the Clouds. Stevens Creek Reservoir, Cupertino, California. 2019.
I recently discussed a few points about my photographic journey with a small group of friends and colleagues. Later, one of them asked me to send him a summary of my explanation. I’ve decided to answer his request in this journal entry.
At the risk of sounding cliché, here are my thoughts on “what photography means to me.” For photographers, these are common themes — very little of this is particularly new or revelatory. However, each of these themes is absolutely and profoundly true for me.
For me, photography means:
Finding beauty in the everyday
I am less interested in photographs of beautiful things, and more interested in beautiful photographs of “everyday” things — the stuff that surrounds us. This does not mean that I won’t try to capture a beautiful scene if presented with the opportunity. Rather, it means that my mind is perpetually searching for compositions. While on vacation, driving to work, sitting in a waiting room, taking a walk… I’m always searching.
With daily practice, this leads to more appreciation of subtle details and relationships between ordinary things — things that, on the surface, are not inherently beautiful at first glance. Some photographers call this “seeing photographically” or “learning to see.” Whatever it is called, I’m thankful for this developing skill. More than just a tool for photography, it allows me to attain more enjoyment, more appreciation during the daily grind of life and circumstance. It means that I can be almost anywhere, however mundane, and never be bored. There is always something interesting to discover.
Creating connections
If you’ve ever wanted to get closer to someone, to learn what makes them tick, to understand their moods, to appreciate the nuances of their character, then pick up a camera and get to work. Capture, edit, process, repeat.
If you’ve ever wanted to learn more about a place, to appreciate architectural elements that define it, to connect with its culture, to discover the relationships between the physical space and its inhabitants, then bring your camera and start taking pictures. Relentlessly. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.
By sticking with the same subject over time, repetitiously making photograph after photograph, something interesting begins to happen. I pay attention. I inspect every expression, every detail. I learn how to anticipate. I learn when to ignore. And I begin to capture slices of time and scene that matter (to me) — slices that might not otherwise be detectable by casual observation, but that become permanently recorded in photographs.
In essence, photography gives me the ability to form connections; to discover redeeming qualities of a subject, qualities that I might not have recognized beforehand. And it allows me to capture those qualities as evidence that they actually exist.
Coping with constraints
A common notion amongst photographers, and perhaps with artists in general, is that constraints help our process. By eliminating options, the thought is, we allow ourselves space to be more fully aware of the moment. We try harder to make the best of the limited tools at our disposal.
There are two kinds of constraints: ones we impose on ourselves by choice, and ones over which we have no control. For example, I might choose to use a fixed focal length lens instead of a zoom. I might choose to produce square crop photos instead of rectangular, or black and white photos instead of color. I might even choose to remove sharpness from the equation, intentionally shooting with very slow shutter speeds or throwing my lens out of focus. These are artistic choices, not just for the qualities they bring to the final image, but also for the elements they allow me to ignore.
The second kind of constraints, ones over which we have no control, are more complex. These are the constraints about which we like to complain. “If only I lived in a more interesting city.” “If only I weren’t too busy.” “If only I had time to travel.” “If only the light weren’t so harsh.” If only.
I am, of course, not immune to the law of constraints. Learning to accept them, to work with what’s in front of me, to use the tools in my possession, is a continuing lesson in facing reality.
Coping with failure
For every great photograph in the world, there are dozens, often hundreds, of outtakes. The book Magnum Contact Sheets is filled with pages showing contact sheets created by Magnum photographers. Each sheet contains a notable photograph (sometimes more than one) alongside frame after frame of outtakes.
For his seminal book, The Americans, legendary photographer Robert Frank captured more than 27,000 images. He selected only 83 for the book.
Speaking personally, if I capture 10,000 frames per year, averaging 1/125 second shutter speed per frame, my shutter will be open for a mere 80 seconds over the course of an entire year. No matter how I slice it, the odds that I will choose the right 80 seconds are against me. Failure is part of the process. To think otherwise is folly.
Iterating
The antidote to failure is iteration. Iteration is more than simply increasing output through repetition, it is about learning and evolving so that each attempt becomes more successful than the previous. It is the tangible action that converts failure to success. I can try, fail, and learn; but until I try again, until I convert what I’ve learned into action, the experiment remains stalled.
Iterating is how I “make-do” with constraints. Specifically, I embrace what I have, I reflect on what I’ve learned, and then I do the only thing that will move things forward: make something or do something.
I make-do. Repeat.
Finishing
After starting, finishing is the most important thing I can do as a photographer. Without finishing, starting is irrelevant. There are some who would argue that starting is enough; that the “act of doing” is where growth and reward occur, rendering irrelevant the notion of finishing. While I embrace the importance of “doing,” finishing remains essential to me. Finishing is an active decision, not a passive, self evident state. Nothing is done until we decide it is done.
Finishing is essential to iteration. Without finishing, there is nothing upon which to improve.
Finishing is an act of refinement — polishing the details one last time.
Finishing is a “letting go”, saying, “It is out of my hands now.”
Finishing allows focus — clearing my mind to discover and start my next project without distraction.
Finishing is a show of courage and confidence. It invites judgement.
Finishing removes ambiguity. The burden of wondering, “Is it finished?” is something over which only I should anguish, not someone viewing my work.
Finishing is immortal. It leaves nothing to chance after I am gone. The photographs I finish will be my intentional body of work. No one need speculate about what I might have wanted to finish.
Finishing is printing. Make a physical thing. You won’t regret it.
Finishing is sharing — tangible sharing. Frame a print. Hand it to someone. Look at it often. Talk about it.
Finishing leaves evidence — curated proof that I existed, that I made decisions, and that I acted upon them.