More Than a Rock, 2nd Edition. Guy Tal
And I say to you, before you give your time, and you will have to give much, to photography, find out in yourselves how much it means to you. If you really want to paint, then do not photograph except as you may want to amuse yourselves along with the rest of Mr. Eastman’s customers. Photography is not a short cut to painting, being an artist, or anything else.
—Paul Strand
It is commonly acknowledged in science that when a theory culminates in a logical paradox it is likely an incomplete or incorrect theory, even if successful in making accurate predictions within some limited context. Regrettably, such implicit acknowledgment of paradoxes as indicators of inherent error is not usually adhered to in personal philosophies. In my way of thinking, one’s philosophy of life, in which I include art for those who are artists, must be able to offer consistent answers to honest questions if it is to be trusted. Ambiguous answers are also acceptable, if not always as desirable, but an outright paradox likely is an indication of the imminent need for what may in some situations amount to the very painful and difficult endeavor of changing one’s mind.
I consider myself not just a photographer, but also an expressive artist, meaning, among other things, that I wish for my photographs to convey emotions. Certainly, images of personal significance—departed loved ones, childhood scenes, etc.—possess such power for an individual, but I wondered about the more general case of visual art. I can recall being moved to tears by a piece of music or a familiar scent, but admittedly I find it difficult to think of a photograph or painting (that is not of a documentary nature) that possesses such power. Studies show that of all our senses, smell is the one most directly linked with powerful emotions and memories (this is sometimes referred to as the Proust phenomenon, after French writer Marcel Proust who described it in his book, In Search of Lost Time). Our sense of hearing may be next in line in respect to affecting our emotions, as far as I can tell from surveying some relevant research, although I admittedly did not find a definitive answer, and so I rely also on personal experience—some bits of music can profoundly affect my mood, to a degree that no photograph so far has. So, why am I not a musician?
A similar question arose as I taught a class on visual perception, extolling the importance of visual composition and its ability to communicate ulterior—metaphorical—meanings beyond merely representing certain pleasing (or troubling) subjects. The use of form, lines, shapes, and specific hues may translate into emotional corollaries. To photographers of natural subjects, among others, composition is a constant challenge as we are often limited by constraints beyond our control—by qualities of found light, by the random arrangement of visual elements in a found scene, etc. The same is not true of painters, who may render their compositions with as much precision and as few distractions as they please. Why, then, am I not a painter?
It pleased me greatly to realize that the philosophy I’ve been espousing for some years now offers consistent and unambiguous answers to such questions, even though I had not confronted them directly in the past. In my past, I opted for the route of rationalization: I do not have the proverbial ten-thousand hours to put into new endeavors; I already made a great investment in photographic skills and tools; I’m already known as a photographer; my fingers are too short and stubby to paint or to pluck strings, and I’m not quick enough to maintain proper timing, etc. In reality, the answer is simpler and clearer than that, although it may not seem so: I’m a photographer not because I consider photography superior in its expressive powers to other media, but because photography is more compatible than other media with the experiences that inspire me.
To live life as I do and to experience as I do would not have been possible if the making of my art—be it a musical score or a painting or anything else—required me to disconnect from the visceral experiences, places, and things that enrich my existence and that are the very reason I create visual art in the first place.
If getting a “better” image comes at the cost of diminishing the experiences of wildness, flow, peace, and reverence, then to hell with the better image. If a “great” composition necessitates spending prolonged times in the studio, or standing by a noisy roadway, or mingling in a crowd, or endangering the subject, or compromising the experience of others, then to hell with the great composition. If a “stunning” image requires the use of a drone or other noisy apparatus in a place where few sounds can be considered an improvement over silence, then to hell with the stunning image. The image is not the ultimate goal for me, no matter how “successful” the experience is.
In my classes I teach some means of expression using visual metaphors. I teach these topics not because I know all that there is to know about them (nobody does), but because after nearly three decades of making photographs and obsessive study of various philosophies of photography, I am confident that I can help others find a productive path for the type of art they wish to make. But it must also be acknowledged that, to be proficient in expressing narratives and emotions in photography, or in any other medium, is still a fairly useless skill without also having narratives and emotions worth expressing. The challenge of the artist is not just to master expressive techniques, but also to apply them toward some useful purpose.
I don’t need to flex my creative muscles just to prove to the world that I have “range,” or to compete for popularity or awards. To me, these seem to be shallow and arrogant reasons for practicing art. Instead, I want my work to express my own narratives and moods, or those I find worth aspiring to. Acknowledging that photography may not be superior to other media for such things, and is perhaps even inferior in some aspects, the simple truth is that my images would not exist, and I would not be a photographer today, if photography was not the only medium I know of that allows me to create in the time and manner that fit the experiences I’m after and that inspire my work.
4Art and Philosophy
There are nowadays professors of philosophy, but not philosophers. Yet it is admirable to profess because it was once admirable to live. To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle thoughts, nor even to found a school, but so to love wisdom as to live according to its dictates, a life of simplicity, independence, magnanimity, and trust. It is to solve some of the problems of life, not only theoretically, but practically.
—Henry David Thoreau
Someone recently referred to me as a philosopher. Despite knowing that my own approach to philosophy is quite different from that of professional philosophers today, I admit this pleased me very much. In the words of philosopher Scott Soames, “Philosophy has become a highly organized discipline, done by specialists primarily for other specialists.” In recent decades, philosophy as a field of study has seen a transition similar to that of art—both once made it their goal to elevate life in pragmatic and practical ways; and as academic disciplines, both have since distanced themselves from such lofty pursuits. Both were, at times, beholden to religious and political ideologies, and both often progress by the heroic efforts of people outside of—sometimes even in opposition to—their respective formal/academic disciplines.
I once told someone that Nietzsche ruined my life, in the sense that studying his philosophy made me realize (among other things) that the life I had lived up to that point deserved to be ruined. I was reminded of this again some years ago as I listened to a Nietzsche scholar reviewing a paper he wrote to an audience of the Aristotelian Society. What struck me about the presentation was not Nietzsche’s wisdom but the presenter’s dry and dispassionate deconstruction of grammatical trivia, and the almost obvious avoidance of the practical implications of the philosopher’s ideas. I could not help feeling that if Nietzsche were in the audience, he would have booed the speaker off the stage. After all, Nietzsche was the one who admonished, “Is not life a hundred times too short for us—to bore ourselves?” It is the same sentiment I experience when reading discussions on art (and more so, photography) that focus entirely on minutiae and technicalities, and failing utterly to derive more profound conclusions ensuing out of the concepts discussed.
Certainly, I am not the first to point out such disconnects, in either philosophy or art. Roman philosopher Lucius Annaeus Seneca, writing about those