More Than a Rock, 2nd Edition. Guy Tal
of eminence in all such men as these, who never create anything themselves, but always lurk in the shadow of others, playing the role of interpreters, never daring to put once into practice what they have been so long in learning.” In a similar vein, Alfred Stieglitz, lamenting the introduction of easy-to-use cameras and the resulting popularity of the medium, wrote, “In the photographic world to-day there are recognized but three classes of photographers—the ignorant, the purely technical, and the artistic. To the pursuit, the first bring nothing but what is not desirable; the second, a purely technical education obtained after years of study . . .”
Physicist Stephen Hawking went so far as to declare philosophy dead because philosophers have not kept up with advances in scientific knowledge. Indeed, what novel ideas can a philosopher not familiar with such things as quantum physics or neuroscience offer about the nature of reality and human perception, working from assumptions and intuitions that fail to consider newly established facts, especially when such facts contradict innate intuitions? What novel work can artists contribute to enlighten and inspire their audiences if beholden to traditional templates of so called “acceptable” art, or venturing no further than showcasing technical skill or travel budgets?
People naturally resist change, and many fear knowledge and theories that put to question their deeply held beliefs, no matter how factual or plausible. Worse still, at a time when more knowledge is available and accessible to more people than ever before, reading appears to be declining and many simply give in to confirmation bias and seek no further. Therefore, advances in philosophy, science, and art are not always received with popular acknowledgment. Anthropologist and philosopher Loren Eiseley wrote, “It is frequently the tragedy of the great artist, as it is of the great scientist, that he frightens the ordinary man.” But so what? Let ordinary philosophers, scientists, and artists worry about the ordinary man.
The concern for popularity is yet a greater hurdle for novel ideas than the concern for the fears of “the ordinary man.” Much of Seneca’s philosophy is contained in letters he wrote to his friend Lucilius. Among many pearls of wisdom found in these letters is this bit of advice: “Lay these words to heart, Lucilius, that you may scorn the pleasure which comes from the applause of the majority. Many men praise you; but have you any reason for being pleased with yourself, if you are a person whom the many can understand?” Nietzsche outright boasted, “Those who can breathe the air of my writings know that it is an air of the heights, a strong air. One must be made for it. Otherwise there is no small danger that one may catch cold in it.”
The most profound philosophy I read in recent years did not always come from ordained philosophers, and the most meaningful art I have seen in recent years most often did not come from graduates of art schools. It is here that I see another commonality between philosophy and art: the best philosophers I know are those who live their lives with the attitude of a philosopher, and the best artists I know are those who live their lives with the attitude of an artist. This has nothing to do with whether such people are “professional” philosophers or artists, and everything to do with their willingness and courage to shape their lives after what they hold to be true. In other words, these are philosophers and artists who practice what both philosophy and art were originally conceived for—to help answer the greatest question that any person can ask: what is the proper way to live? And by that distinction I am proud to be considered an artist and a philosopher, if only in the minds of some.
5The Things Themselves
The artist is a receptacle for the emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web.
—Pablo Picasso
As I made my way home after teaching a workshop in Colorado, I headed south into the high peaks of the San Juan Mountains, stopping on occasion to admire the spectacular scenery. My plan, if it could be called that, was to set up camp in the first place that seemed welcoming and secluded, and to spend a couple of days writing and photographing. Alas, such a place did not present itself. Awed as I was by the majestic views, they felt alien to me. Lofty peaks and abundant woods, verdant and fragrant, looked and felt and smelled wonderful, but to me the call of the sandstone desert beyond was stronger and I kept driving. Beautiful images were to be had, but I wanted more than just beauty and more than just images: I wanted the comfort of open, desolate places; I wanted naked rocks and shrubs and landmarks whose names I knew, and whose stories—at least some of them—were familiar to me.
I ended up on a high desert mesa, surveying before me layers of rock and earth, from the crumbling slopes of the Chinle Formation, through the deep crimson cliffs of the Wingate Layer, and up to the sensuous rounded domes of the Navajo Sandstone, among others. The entire span of the Jurassic period stretched before my eyes—60 million years of some of the most dramatic geography, climate, and life in the history of the planet. At a time when these sculpted rocks were giant dunes—the largest sand desert ever to exist on Earth—dinosaurs walked along their edges and by the shores of the shallow sea whose former floor, lifted almost a vertical mile from its former elevation, today is arid and colorful badlands.
Rabbitbrush, snakeweed, and sunflowers in profuse bloom were everywhere—harbingers of autumn. In the twilight, small bats fluttered about as the low sun ignited the pregnant clouds of distant monsoon rainstorms in vibrant purple and gold. The air was rich with the scents of pine, juniper, sage, and petrichor. This is home to me, as comfortable and familiar as the inside of my own house.
I photographed in a metered rhythm, fitting with the slow unfolding of quiet drama before me, a frame at a time, closing my eyes on occasion to inhale the distinctive air of the high desert and to savor its silence. As darkness set, the familiar call of a Great Horned Owl and a slight breeze in the junipers lulled me to sleep.
I believe that one’s art cannot be fully appreciated only by its final products, no matter how impressive or pleasing they may seem, to an observer lacking deeper insight into the mind and motivations of the artist. In that, my opinion is in opposition to what some call formalism—the belief that works of art should be self-contained and require no further knowledge (e.g., of their provenance or the biographies of their authors) to understand fully.
My own relationships with my subjects, and in a lesser way my relationship with the medium of photography, are among the things that make my photographs more meaningful to me, by virtue of making my life experiences richer and more personally significant. Try as I might, I cannot treat my experiences and my art as distinct and separate things. I believe that the same is true for viewers of art, and not just for artists—the more viewers know about what the work means to its creator, the more meaningful it is likely to become to them, too.
Vincent van Gogh died having never achieved recognition for his work nor any indication of his posthumous celebrity. He pursued his art not for financial gain but because, in his words, “The feeling for the things themselves, for reality, is more important than the feeling for pictures.” Similarly, Edward Weston, who struggled financially for most of his career but nonetheless pursued his calling oblivious to such mundane considerations, proclaimed, “Recording unfelt facts, acquired by rule, results in sterile inventory. To see the Thing Itself is essential . . .” Paul Strand, not only a pioneer of what we now term “fine art photography,” but also one of the first to deserve the distinction of being a humanitarian photographer and a documentary filmmaker, made this similar observation, “Look at the things around you, the immediate world around you. If you are alive, it will mean something to you, and if you care enough about photography, and if you know how to use it, you will want to photograph that meaningness.”
My favorite artists are those who seek significance in their work—a significance that comes from familiarity and fascination—from having a personally meaningful relationship with their subjects and medium, rather than just using them to produce records of superficial impressions and objective qualities. Robert Adams put it poignantly, writing, “If a view of geography does not imply something more enduring than a specific piece of terrain, then the picture will hold us only briefly; we will probably prefer the