More Than a Rock, 2nd Edition. Guy Tal
we are also likely to come away from the actual scene hoping somewhere to find it in art. This is because geography by itself is difficult to value accurately—what we hope for from the artist is help in discovering the significance of a place.” (However, I think that a place may have not just one significance, but as many significances as the number of people who come in contact with it, and sometimes more.)
To be sure, I am tired of the rampant self-promotion in photography. I am disappointed with the pervasive copycat culture that, for many, substitutes for art. Portrayals of places and subjects with which the artist has no deeper intimate connection may well be beautiful, even astoundingly so, but when appreciated as art, these images rarely amount to more than just distraction, decoration, or entertainment. If anything, I believe that such impressions amount to a lack of understanding of what art is beyond aesthetics, or rather what it can be, if so practiced—a life-enriching, courage-giving, meaningful exploration of, and interaction with, one’s world, both within and without; a liberator of the noble, inspired, singular spirit that is within each of us and that is often muted or suppressed by repetition of safe formulas.
I hold the purpose of art to be, as described by Pablo Picasso, “washing the dust of daily life off our souls”; or, as expressed by composer Robert Schumann, “To send light into the darkness of men’s hearts. . . .”
I am equally tired of the delusions of importance that plague so many artists of our day. All art and all people are ultimately forgotten. Civilizations fall; species come and go; planets and stars and galaxies disintegrate. Art may endure a bit longer than its creators, but nothing is forever. The greatest power of art—both to artists and to viewers—is the power of affecting the present: the power of life encountering and seeking to understand something about the world and about itself. Art rewards not because it, or anything else we do, “matters” in the long run, but because it matters right then and there when we engage in it.
6Driving Miss Camera
Creativity is not the finding of a thing, but the making something out of it after it is found.
—James Russell Lowell
In order for photography of natural things to enter the realm of the fine arts, it must first be acknowledged that, before assuming any meaning, photographs are products of machines; that natural phenomena are products of forces independent of, and oblivious to, the emotions and significance ascribed to them by human beings; and that art is a manufactured product of the human mind. Therefore, the photographic artist’s task is to find a way to relate these notions in a balanced and meaningful way.
Indeed, much of the resistance to photography in the so-called “art world” is founded on the belief that most photographs place too much emphasis on the first two, and often neglect the third. It may pain some photographers to acknowledge it, but I believe that such resistance is, to a large degree, justified. Distinct from mere aesthetics, art does not materialize at random; it has to be created, deliberately and thoughtfully.
When photographs are appreciated in terms of technique, technology, or aesthetic appeal already inherent in the subject, the photographer’s role is reduced to that of a recorder, rather than a creator, of images. It baffles me to encounter emphatic statements from photographers proclaiming themselves artists saying, in one choice of words or another, that their images portray things “as seen,” and by extension that their own imagination and creativity played no role in their work; that their images venture no further than what was captured by their cameras under fortunate circumstances; and that their images appear just as they would to any random observer who happened to be there at the time, thus requiring no special insight or creative skill. Such statements can easily lead to the conclusion that these photographers are little more than operators of equipment and chauffeurs for their cameras, rather than having creative minds that take an active, decisive role in expressing their own narratives about, or through, the subjects photographed. Too many proclaim with foolish pride that their images are objective facsimiles (as if that was even possible) of naturally occurring events, and they fail to see the greater value of expressing personal significance, even if involving a “departure from reality,” to borrow the words of Ansel Adams.
In art, the concept of reality is more nuanced than it is in documentary, representational contexts, such as photojournalism. In art we are no longer talking about the reality of the scene, but about the reality of what the scene means, or symbolizes, to the subjective minds of artists and their audience. Or, as expressed by Aristotle, “The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.”
To record accurately the light reflecting off subjects is a technical matter (a marvelous one, to be sure, but still one made possible by feats of technology, rather than human creativity). The finding of aesthetically pleasing subjects is a matter of skill (often benefiting also from a degree of luck), rather than a product of emotion and creative thinking. Creativity—a requisite for art—means the production of novel things, things of the creator’s own mind that were not there in a literal sense and that would never exist were it not for a unique, imaginative, and creative mind touched by a spark of inspiration. If nothing is manifested in the image that originates purely in the subjective mind of an artist, then what makes it creative? And if creativity indeed is an indispensable component of art, then what makes such images art?
There is certainly admirable skill and undeniable pleasure involved in transporting one’s camera to scenic locations at times when interesting phenomena unfold, and in successfully recording and sharing such moments in beautiful images. But no matter how impressive the result, for a work to be considered creative art requires that it reflect more than just attractive subjects or naturally occurring feats of light and geography. A subjective element also is needed.
It is not unusual to find groups of photographers competing for the opportunity to make nearly identical copies of well-worn compositions in such places as Yosemite’s Tunnel View, Mesa Arch in the Canyonlands of Utah, or Oxbow Bend by the Snake River in Wyoming. The results of such practice are predictably beautiful or, rather, beautiful yet predictable, and decidedly unoriginal. Creative art is not simply the recording of objective circumstances, nor is it the result of following recipes prescribed by others. There’s a distinct line between recapturing known compositions of known locations, and utilizing found visual elements to articulate personal and subjective meaning—a line separating creation from representation, and elevating art beyond aesthetic appeal.
There is indeed great joy to be had in visiting magnificent places, whether photographed before or not, and just as much value in impressions of natural beauty for its own sake. But to an artist such accomplishments pale in comparison with the satisfaction and transcendence that ensue out of creating something truly and uniquely personal, weaving the experience of creative epiphanies, experimentation, experience, discovery, interpretation, excitement, curiosity, awe, and wonder into something never before seen.
A great image is not the same thing as an image of something great. The art is not in getting there or in getting lucky or in camera settings or some processing technique, or really anything that does not reflect a personal and emotional—and, by extension, original—response from an artist as a unique and creative being.
The Phase of No Emotion7
But I did not always know just what it was I wanted to photograph. I believe it is important for a photographer to discover this, for unless he finds what it is that excites him, what it is that calls forth at once an emotional response, he is unlikely to achieve his best work.
—Bill Brandt
After two weeks on the road, I am finally home. There is something about this place that I always love coming back to; something that goes beyond the veneer of the red rocks and the big cottonwood trees, a deeper sense, a feeling of home. The last few days have been among the most beautiful of the year, but I was still in “work mode” and needed to unwind. Today the winds picked up, temperatures dropped