More Than a Rock, 2nd Edition. Guy Tal
fires, and showers of fallen leaves swirl down from the tall canopies. I realize that “looks like autumn” and “feels like autumn” are two different things. Today feels like autumn.
The same distinction between looks and feels, I find, applies also to images. Some images look like things, while others feel like things; some images are of things, while others are about things. It is a distinction that defies precise definition and that cannot be distilled into simple rules or technique; it can be described but not quite taught, experienced but not spoken, related to but not fully explained. We know it when we feel it; it transcends mere aesthetics and interest, and adds a personal and intimate dimension to mere appearances. The capacity to make such a distinction between what a scene looks like and what it may be made to feel like seems to correlate with a degree of maturity and mindfulness, rather than any technical skill.
In the documentary film Between the Folds, physicist-turned-origami-artist Robert J. Lang speaks of the significant point in his work at which skill and technique began to take a back seat to expressing emotion. Among other things, the transition also resulted in simplification, favoring essence over technical challenge. I can attest to experiencing this effect in my own work, too, and have heard other artists speak of it, as well. What I found most poignant about Lang’s description, however, was his assertion that every artist invariably goes through a “phase of no emotion” as his or her skills and techniques are honed and practiced, and before the resulting work becomes truly expressive of the person behind it. I wonder, however, if this is indeed a period that all artists go through, or rather a phase that only some artists, if they are sufficiently mindful and dedicated, manage to outgrow.
Having just returned from a stretch of photographic workshops, it occurs to me that in a small way, this also serves to articulate one of the greatest challenges of teaching creative pursuits. It is easy to talk about emotion, about the need for introspection, about slowing down, about isolating the creative voice from distractions, and about seeing beyond simple aesthetics. While techniques for accomplishing such things can be discussed in a class, it is nearly impossible to actually implement them in such a setting. In a workshop, whether you are an instructor or a participant, you are often tired and rushed; you are sharing space with people you just met and may not be entirely comfortable with; you are overwhelmed by new subject matter and new knowledge; and you may feel compelled to socialize and entertain—all of which consume precious attention that would otherwise be available for creative work, and may inhibit intimate states of mind needed in order to make emotionally rich images.
Creating significant works is not what attending workshops should be about, nor is it a realistic expectation. Such an expectation is akin to hoping to win a court case after taking an introductory law class, or performing surgery after a short overview of human anatomy. Photography workshops should provide artists not with recipes for finished work but with new and productive ways of thinking about their art; a deeper understanding of certain subjects or techniques; in a setting where such things can be contemplated and practiced free from the demands of everyday life. Unlike such disciplines as law and medicine, however, teaching art also has the added challenge of providing the student with tools to be applied in the expression of personal and subjective notions not available to anyone but themselves. Put another way, there is great value in learning such things in a workshop environment, but even greater value in how students will later apply them in their own work, with their own subjects, and in the expression of their own emotions.
I’m often asked about “one thing” I might suggest to a budding photographer. While I am skeptical that any such simplistic advice can be of real benefit, a suggestion I will make is this: if you recognize yourself as being in a “phase of no emotion,” make a conscious effort to move past it. This has little to do with how technically proficient you are, how many awards you may have won, or any heroic challenges you overcame to “get the shot.” If your work is lacking in emotion, no matter how successful it is by any other measure, consider looking inward. Ask yourself what it is you wish to accomplish and express, and articulate to yourself the what and the why, before considering the how.
All too often photographers look for technical solutions to creative problems only to realize that the answer is not found there. Skills are important, but only insofar as you have something worthwhile to apply them to.
Lie Like You Mean It8
Why do most great pictures look uncontrived? Why do photographers bother with the deception, especially since it so often requires the hardest work of all? The answer is, I think, that the deception is necessary if the goal of art is to be reached . . .
—Robert Adams
I once complimented a fellow photographer on an image of remarkable beauty—a pristine alpine lake reflecting a blazing red sky and rugged granite peaks. It looked so peaceful and inviting, the kind of place that might move a person to find a quiet perch and conjure up poetry. The photographer’s response was casual and blunt, “Oh, the mosquitoes were terrible up there.” Not long after, at a formal dinner party, I sat next to someone who turned out to be a mathematics professor. We had a couple of glasses of wine and I inquired about his work. Rather than mathematics, I got an earful about university politics and the challenges of securing grants. He then was silent for a moment as if contemplating a difficult question while looking wistfully into his wine glass, before saying quietly, “People don’t realize that math is so beautiful.”
I realized then that the two conversations, although seemingly unrelated, were, in fact, very similar. We tend to glamorize what we do, even knowing that, when considered objectively, our characterizations may at times depart from the realities of doing it. Even in the face of the grand, the mysterious, and the majestic, it is all too easy to miss the thread of significance woven into the fabric of what is always a much larger experience, and never quite so pure and obvious as we might like our audience to believe.
I remember being criticized for suggesting that the answer to the not-uncommon question “Did it really look like that?” is almost always, “No.” In fact, most photographers I know would probably respond with a very confident “Yes,” without giving it a second thought. To be fair, most of them truly believe the answer is “yes” because, while others may not have perceived the experience in the same way, in their minds it really did look—and more importantly, feel—“like that.”
Far be it from me to criticize anyone for manufacturing experiences not strictly founded in reality. In fact, I believe it to be an essential characteristic of any art. Indeed, a good analogy can be found in writing: some writings are fictional, some are poetic, some are factual, and some are interpretive. The existence of one does not invalidate the others.
My own work, by this analogy, is more akin to Nature Writing than to fiction or factual accounts. It is a blend of inspiration derived from true experience and of my inner stories, emotions, and thoughts. In that sense my stories also are like journal entries, describing real events but doing so in a subjective way. My times in the wild influence my thoughts, and I consider natural aesthetics not as goals in themselves, but as means to personally expressive ends.
In this also lies the commonality I found between the photographer and the mathematician I spoke with. Their personal and complex relationship with their work allowed them to draw a clear line between the mundane and the transcendent aspects of what they do. Having found ways to relate their professional pursuits to deeper inner significance, they are able to filter and compartmentalize the two as distinct and separate dimensions of the same experience that can be easily set apart, even if the separation may