On The Psychology of Owning a Nice Camera

I’m terrible with New Years resolutions. Remember how I promised to write my blog every week? Yeah, that was fun. But I’m returning to it now with a vengeance, only this time I’m resolving to un-resolve a resolution I made last time. Hear me out, you might like this. There’s madness to my method.

Let’s step into the way-back machine, shall we? A couple of Januarys ago, I had resolved — solemnly promised, I seem to recall saying — to stop making excuses about the iPhone as a less-than-perfect camera and use it unsparingly and unapologetically in my daily rounds and walkabouts. And that, my friends, has worked out remarkably well. It’s a zen thing, really and truly, since the iPhone seems a naturally reflexive part of my eye and brain. It’s impossible not to take pictures, and it’s always gratifying to look at that big, bright screen.

And yet, and yet…

There’s a part of me — the old-school photographer part — that sometimes misses the mechanics involved in creating the fine photographic image. Oh sure, I can run the software perfectly well, but I’m talking about something more visceral and tactile. More eye-to-the-viewfinder sort of thing. More camera.

Calla Lily 2019

In an iPhone era, I’m still an unrepentant camera-and-lens gearhead. And I’ve had them all, even some nice large-format view cameras. Fiddling around under the dark cloth and tweaking the focus and exposure on an image you’re looking at reversed and upside-down on the ground glass was all a part of a grand, ephemeral experience. I came of age, as did many of you, when practicing the craft of photography was an inescapable part of producing its art. It’s a muscle-memory that even today sets my fingers a-twitching.

I don’t have any of those great old film cameras anymore; my last nice medium-format camera was a cranky old Bronica with a lens of pure magic that I traded for some Canon lenses (photographers are notorious horse-traders.) But here’s the deal: I’m going to make sure to walk around a lot more with my Fuji mirrorless camera, for which I own several good lenses and absolutely zero excuses not to use them. And I won’t rely on the air-cushion of RAW exposures, either. Nope, I’ll set color or black & white jpegs, maybe even set one of those virtual film styles (remember Velvia?) and shoot with the same focus-and-exposure exactitude that was required with film. There’s little forgiveness for forgetful or absent-minded mistakes in photography, but of all the things I have looked for in this photographer’s life, absolution isn’t among them.

Quite honestly, I don’t know if it will be the same meditative zen experience of losing myself in the moment that the iPhone has afforded me in these late years. I doubt that it really matters all that much. Being creative needs neither a point nor a rationale, yet this is where so many of us get hung up. Enough! I say. We are awash in moments if we keep our eyes and hearts open to them. Just fiddle with some damn f-stops while you’re at it.

And my resolution to keep to my blog every week? Yes, certainly. Absolutely.

See you in April.

The intrepid author and his trusty Fuji 2021

Daily Devotions

Butcher Shop © 2016

I have no great teachings, I have only great teachers. This humble observation — I forget now where I first heard it — has been bouncing around in my little head all summer long. You’d think with all the stress and social distancing going on, I’d have been more productive, but here we are. And where we are, or at least where I am, is a point in time, after more than half a century of fiddling around in photography, where I should engage with what I’ve learned thus far and pass it on. Well, good luck with that.

I mean, I have spent a lot of time over the years describing such arcana as depth-of-field, hyperfocus, and shutter speed and have come to the conclusion that that only nibbles around the edges of the larger, and stickier, issue of personal expression. No matter what your own means to be creative may be, whether a camera, pastels, pencil & paper, or a guitar, your daily practice of technique must eventually give way to an insistence to create and share. If we’re doing it right, it’s something we’re compelled to do, like breathing, and one way or another we’ve probably been doing it right all along.

This is what others may mean when they talk about the zen of this-or-that, and why I, perhaps a bit presumptuously, think of myself as a zen photographer. And it’s not what you think.

Columbine 2021

The Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh is one of those great teachers whose writings have altered the trajectory of my life as a photographer. In a recent interview on tv (with Oprah, I believe) he was asked how often he meditates, and he replied “I’m meditating now.” This, I get. This is my (almost) daily ritual of wandering. Every footstep is a meditation. Images don’t come to me so much as I go to them; they are compelling, they reassure, they are vespers, they are devotions. They are breaths. This I cannot teach; I can only share.

But I will leave you with this. Hanh also teaches us to “… smile, breath, and go slowly.”

There you go.

That’s our photography lesson for today.

In Contemplation of My Navel (Among Other Things)

Sunset, Puget Sound 2005

Well that’s just me, I guess. Happily wandering down the greenspace trail, iPhone in hand, taking pictures of spring blossoms and whatnot, enjoying the perfect combination of rain and soft light. This activity is pretty rewarding in and of itself, and thinking about how much fun I’ll (hopefully) have when I explore the images on my laptop only adds to the joy. So why spoil it by reflecting more deeply upon it than that?

Because it didn’t use to be this way, is why.

In a former life, I was content to haul around whatever exceedingly large camera I could find (and I had several choices, medium format and even an 8x10 camera for a while); loaded said camera or film holders with as much Tri-X as I had on hand, grab an equally large tripod, and sally forth. Consequently, every shot was a much more deliberate act, every composition and exposure carefully and exactingly measured. I loved it, every bit of it. And I don’t miss it.

I thought about this today as I bounded down the trail. My biggest camera these days is a lightweight and agile mirrorless one, and I rarely use my tripod, a lightweight, backpacker’s style, unless I’m planning on making some long exposures — you know, in case I happen upon a waterfall or something. My usual “camera” of choice happens to be my iPhone. I keep it in my pocket. Try doing that with an RB 67. My brain takes control over my eyes and hands; I don’t even try to keep account of how many pictures I’m taking. It just happens.

Paseo del Bosque and the Rio Grande, Albuquerque NM 2015

But today, for whatever reason, that same brain has given me pause to reflect upon these two very distinct styles of shooting, these two very different philosophies. One has not superseded the other, nor is one is better than the other. It’s the difference between a narrative and a haiku, a contemplation and a meditation. And for me, the way I go about making photos nowadays is just right. Face it, I’m not encumbered with the responsibility of pleasing a customer anymore (which my cash flow clearly reflects) and the array of photo software available to me makes it far more likely I can achieve the kind of image I have long sought. Sharing is a breeze, and printing is pleasurable. I’m at peace with my wandering.

And that’s just how I roll these days. Live in the moment, shoot in the moment. Besides, there’s more than a germ of impatience in me these days. How much time, as I approach decade number 7, do I have to sit and contemplate my navel — or wait for the damn sun to set just right ? I can’t do it. My feet itch. You’ll find me, little camera and all, happily wandering around the greenspace and the hiking trails, stopping every few feet to see what it was that made me stop and look.

My guess it’s the spring blossoms and whatnot.

When Is Reality?

Albuquerque Balloon Festival 2015

I lose touch with reality from time to time, and frankly I’m okay with that. That’s what being a photographer is all about. I think we got off on the wrong foot back at the beginning, when we decided that a photograph was going to show us the real world, whatever the heck that was. We understood that a painting was inherently an interpretation, but somehow a scene reflected upside-down through a glass lens, scattered on a sheet of film or piece of glass, and rendered as a monochromatic image, was the real deal. Oh, humanity …

I mean, I get it. A photographic image can be a powerful thing. I’ve been obsessed with them for more than half a century. I collect and admire antique photos, and count among my earliest influences the great images of Steiglitz, Weston, and Adams. But the argument that rages today, especially resonant in the digital era, is if the images we are seeing accurately represent an objective reality, or if they are manipulated to such a point that they can no longer be considered a reliable source of information. I doubt they ever were.

Anyway, I’m hardly one to judge. My own work is a good example of a bad example. My photos are well manipulated long before I print, post and share. They’re the result of many many layers, adding or subtracting textures, colors, sharpness, paint effects, whispers, secrets, and sighs. And it’s not just because i want to see what the technology can do, because honestly I’m not that good at it. I’m just not interested in reproducing what I saw; I’m madly intent on revealing how I felt, both then and now. It’s a life-long process, actually.

Maybe it’s our reaction to the photographs taken by photojournalists or other pro’s. Do we expect that the images they show us from the battlefields, the news events, the football games, even the weddings reflect an objective reality, i.e., the “truth?” This unquestionably holds them to an unrealistic standard, and we’d be doomed to unremitting boredom should that ever be the case, anyway.

St. Johns Bridge, Portland 2020

Photographers are storytellers. The decisions they make on how to compose an image or crop a print, to highlight the color or remove it entirely, to wait for just the right light or add their own illumination, blur the background or hyper-sharpen the entire scene, even the precise moment to release the shutter, all come from this. It’s the craftsmanship we expect and admire and sometimes pay good money for. If it’s just information I want, I’ll read a newspaper. If I want to be moved, I’ll look at a photograph.

And there, mis amis, lies the point. We do seek the truth, and we do value honesty, but there’s no way to agree on what they are. Your reality and mine are different, but that doesn’t mean we don’t share a love of a well crafted image, knowing that we bring to it our own experiences, our expectations and values, our prejudices, our quirks, and see in them our own stories, too. That’s why I love looking at photographs, and why I love making them.

And frankly, we should all be okay with that.

On The Psychology of Going Back In Time

Bird of Paradise 2018

Nostalgia is an odd thing. People are always looking back to the past with a greater longing than it probably deserves. Memories are funny that way. Along the way though we will sometimes re-discover old technologies, obsolete techniques, and outmoded ideas and repackage them in a modern vernacular. This can be pretty compelling creatively, and sometimes just a boat-load of fun. Chalk it up to modern times.

I’ll give you a couple examples: in an age of online streaming, where we have at our fingertips (and ears) all the music that has ever been recorded, people are returning to vinyl records and analog turntables. I had a neat old sound system like that once, and those records did sound incredible until I got them all scratched up. And cars. Cars are absolutely amazing now, basically computers on wheels, but the demand for those old muscle cars of the 60’s and 70’s is off the charts. Not that I wouldn’t look cool cruising around in a ‘71 GTO, mind you.

And photography? Well, we’re just as susceptible to the whims of historical way-backs, and we’re actually making a thing of it. I’m talking film. Amidst the ubiquity and accessibility of digital technologies, a lot of photographers, genuinely creative and passionately devoted, are loading up old film cameras and exposing rolls of honest-to-goodness actual film. Every kind of film, be it black & white or color, had its own unique personality and quirks, which at times could be exasperating. These were mated up with our old camera and lenses which, come to think of it, had their own odd personality quirks, too. The combination can make beautiful images, distinctive and personal, which really can’t be reproduced with a digital camera — even ones with so-called “film” settings.

Tulips 2014

Believe me, I loved those days myself. With my Nikon (I owned several) I shot the ever-so-lovely Kodachrome, and even more Ecktachrome which we processed ourselves. Thousands of rolls, without exaggeration. Black & White I mainly shot in medium-and large-format, and even lugged around an 8x10 Burke & James for a while. I started getting disillusioned when it became harder and harder to find the good high-silver black & white printing papers I had grown so fond of, and even some of the black & white films I liked seemed to loose a bit of their robustness as manufacturers tweaked and reformulated them. And then digital photography dropped into my lap like a gift from the gods — well, it was because my job required it, but you get the idea.

For me, photography is no longer a commercial enterprise, it is entirely a means of self-expression. The digital processes I now use give my imagination free reign. The technology keeps up with my vision in ways that the film and darkroom could not, and I’m just astounded by that. I’m seldom disappointed, other than in my own limitations and flaws, which are admittedly numerous. And yet I find myself feeling a sense of gratitude towards a new generation of photographers who are finding their voice in an analog world — and even some of the old guys who never completely left it. (There are even a surprising number of artisans going back further still, to collodion wet plates, carbon printing, even daguerrotypes, but that’s a discussion for a later post.)

But I don’t look backwards; I’m neither emotionally nor technically equipped to do that. I’m not looking forward, either: I don’t let technology drive my creativity. I’m happy just to look inward, see what’s there, and use whatever camera happens to be nearby to get the juices flowing. Nostalgic I ain’t.

But I would totally rock that GTO.

Getting All Your Shots

Among my many other failings and flaws, I am also a big hockey fan. It’s furiously fast, sometimes hard to follow, comes with hotdogs and beer and bursts of mayhem, and the occasional outbreak of fisticuffs. What’s not to love? And it has given us a quote that I conjure back up in my head almost every day, from the incomparable Wayne Gretzky: you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. I get it.

Back when I was shooting film, especially 4x5 and 8x10, I was a lot more selective in my photographic decision-making. Sheet film was darn expensive for a kid making his living in the studio, but that’s not how it all began. Every week, for years, I’d bulk-roll hundreds of feet of 35mm film, Tri-X and Ecktachrome mainly, and shot so many pictures I thought my little Nikkormat would start smoking. The goal was obviously not to produce masterpieces for the museums, but to practice, process, and learn how to be selective when the time came.

What brings this all up is a casual statement made in passing by a young colleague. An excellent photographer in her own right, I was editing some of her photos. They were lovely, but she mentioned how there were some others that she might have taken (sunsets out on the coast) but didn’t, as she wasn’t sure they would look ok. Well, shoot. Now we’ll never know.

Les Petites Ballerines 2018

No, mis amis, go get those shots. You’re not paying a buck a sheet to make an exposure, it’s digital and it’s free. A friend asked me a while back if I ever took a bad photo, and I answered, all the time, but I have since come to re-evaluate even that. I don’t honestly know what a bad photo is, but I know when I’m unsuccessful, when I didn’t capture what I thought I saw, and yes, that happens all the time. Look, shoot, evaluate, learn, celebrate, curse, repeat. It takes a lifetime, and then some.

Be like Gretzky, says I, and take the shot. The more this becomes your daily mantra, your zen, the more those moments become apparent to you. You can always delete a shot that didn’t work out the way you wanted, but you can never go back and re-create those moments you passed up. Who knows what you might have discovered? Maybe nothing. Maybe something truly fine.

As for me, I’m grabbing a hotdog and a beer and a seat at center ice.

Maybe catch a little mayhem.

Under the Icons

Migrant Madonna (Dorothea Lange, 1936)

It all started with a conversation with someone much younger than me (and face it, most people are). She showed me a photo she loved, a sweet image that reminded me of Dorothea Lange’s Migrant Madonna. When I pointed that out, she admitted never having heard of her before, but then immediately recognized the famous photograph when I showed it to her with a quick Google search. And this gave me pause to reflect. Iconic images may resonate onward through the generations, but the people who made them? Not so much. I’m a little saddened by that.

Truth is, I can only think of three photographs that can claim true iconic status in the American canon: the Migrant Madonna, most certainly; Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima by Joe Rosenthal, and Earthrise, taken from the Apollo 8 capsule on its way to the moon. You may have one or two on your own list, too (I sometimes think of Ansel Adam’s Moonrise photo as iconic, but probably just among us photographers). But these three posses an undeniable universality.

Raising The Flag On Iwo Jima (Joe Rosenthal, 1945)

I can’t help but think that when a photograph achieves this level of iconic status, the emotional punch — and the photographer’s own story — gets lost somewhere along the line. It’s the iconography of a commemorative postage stamp, perhaps, or an inspirational meme, but not human triumph and tragedy, and that’s what those photographers saw and shared with us.

Earthrise (William Anders on the Apollo 8 mission, 1968)

Well I suppose in the long scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter. Any photograph you look upon is a rorschach, and if you pay it any attention you’ll bring to it your own experiences and biases, your likes and dislikes, and read into it what you will. Plus, the events these represent — the Great Depression, WWII, the race to the moon — are so far removed from us today that the men and women who took them have just naturally faded into the background.

And that’s alright with me. None of us in the creative arts can reliably expect not to fade away, ourselves. As for me, I haven’t photographed anything more culturally significant or artistically revolutionary than the contours of my own (admittedly off-kilter) mind. No earth-risings, no flag-raisings; just quiet moments with me and my camera. And maybe that’s all those photographers expected, too.

It’s just that the world happened to get in their way.

Just Don't Call Me Late For Dinner

I’m not one to start an argument. Being raised the middle child of seven kids, conflict avoidance is pretty much my middle name. There’s noting wrong with a good debate, and I’ve certainly been known to put my two cents in, but otherwise I’m content to let the other guys take the stage. What brings me to this karmic conundrum is an argument (or perhaps just a heated discussion) that has surfaced only recently in my on-line wanderings, and which I’ve put forth to my colleagues over a few cold beers. And now to you. It goes like this: these images people make on their smartphones, uncounted millions of them, flooding the cloud, taking enormous amounts of space, rarely if ever printed … should we still call this photography?

There are those who take this deadly serious, but I confess to a lack of urgency in its resolution. I mean, really. I can’t help but hear in it a not-so subtle smack of elitism. The argument seems to be made mostly by established practitioners of the photographic arts, well-informed and experienced. Photography is their livelihood, as it is for many of my friends, and I can more easily understand it when they perceive threats to that, as surely an easy access to the craft may be. But calling the process something else does little to change it. You won’t keep the wolf away from your door by calling it a dog.

Nonetheless, it’s obvious to everyone — everyone — that something has radically changed. The ubiquity of the smartphone, and the ease with which it helps to take those millions of un-printed images, does give us reason to re-appraise the medium, if not re-name it outright. But not all images are mindless, if indeed any of them truly are. Taking pictures with a smartphone (or for that matter, any digital camera set on automatic) can be just as serious, and thoughtful, and meditative, as any creative act.

The Excited Crowd 2019

So maybe it comes down to confusing creativity with productivity, or spontaneity with carelessness. It’s an easy trap to fall into, but it’s risky philosophically and, yes, semantically. I mean, what would we call it? Smartphoneography? Auto-art? It all seems a bit silly and clumsy. Besides, who’s paying it any attention? Well, me, obviously, but truth is, photography belongs to whomever is aware of the passage of time. Call it whatever the heck you want.

You won’t get any argument from me.

The Right Tool and the Very Right Job

I own a lot of photography gear, far too much by some reckoning. I still have some old and in the way film cameras, 35mm and medium format, mostly just gathering dust. And, of course, my digital cameras, a handful of DSLRs and a small but useful mirrorless system. So I guess you could say I’m covered, but no photographer worth his or her salt ever rests contentedly without longing for just one more thing, and boy howdy there’s always more cool stuff I’d like to own.

So this winter I traded in my trusty iPhone (for the record, a 7Plus) for the wickedly alluring XsMax, Apple’s biggest and baddest bad boy. I certainly didn’t need one; no one on this planet does, but that’s hardly the point. I had lust in my heart for its capable camera.

And therein lies my uneasiness, fully of my own fault and failings. Whether through laziness or expedience, I have let it take over nearly all my photographic adventuring. No, not in the studio, nor in the clinic, but I do less and less of that work now anyways. As I wind down my daily grind in preparation for an honest retirement, I’m out on walkabouts and wandering more and more, and exactly for those I bought my mirrorless camera a few years ago. Now, however, I find that I leave the house with nothing more elaborate than that iPhone, and it usually carries the day.

Sunset, Oregon Coast Fuji Xe2 2018

Does it do a great job? Of course it does, but … not always, and it’s that not always part that sticks in me. Sure, it’s the camera that’s always with me, and I’ve captured some spontaneous and serendipitous images I might never have been able to beforehand. But that’s not necessarily why I’m a photographer, nor, I suspect, are you, mis amis. Candid is fine, but what I seek is a more thoughtful creation of an image, the building of a photograph. Its resolution may not be evident to me for days, even weeks maybe, but its discovery will thrill the hell out of me. I need lenses to choose from, robust RAW files, and the facility of exposure and color and focus at my command. I need my eye pressed up against a viewfinder, the rest of the world blocked out and silent. I have to stand behind a camera to get there.

I have lust in my heart for that capable camera, too.

Notes From The Edge

Magnolia blossom and pine needles 2016

Things are interesting on the edges. And I’m speaking photographically, it’s not that I’m living on the edge, mind you. This isn’t a testament to my sanity, such as it is. No, after a lifetime in photography - learning, teaching, making a living - I’m uniquely unqualified to speak in any terms other than visual. And visually, all the interesting things are on the edges.

Edges, of course, must mean there are centers, and there, I think, are where the uninteresting photos dwell. And you’ve seen them - that tree, that mountain, in broad daylight, no shadows, no mystery, no excitement. Even a brilliant sunset is usually a photo from the center. If it’s the color only, without context, the eye quickly grows tired of it and looks for other sources of entertainment. I want to see what that sunset is shining on. I want to find its edge.

It’s what I mean when I say I’m always looking for that perfect light: it’s fleeting and frustrating and subject to the vagaries of time and space. Its the yin and yang of light and shadow, where a landscape hides as much as it reveals, where the soft shading of a human face plays with our emotions, where the last moment of a setting sun is captured in the inky blackness of a watery foreground.

Lily pads 2014

Maybe I’m over-thinking it; I usually do. Maybe summer and winter are just center months, and I need to wait out my dulled senses for the edge months of spring and fall to come back around. That’s when the light is changing, the seasons are in flux, and our visual worlds get turned upside-down. It’s zen photography, and the zen of photography, and it occupies my head and heart.

I’ll just keep on wandering and looking, no matter what. In a former life I’d have said I’m fueled by coffee and dektol, but now I’m just fueled by coffee and, well, more coffee. But I know I’ll always find light that is good and interesting and edgy. On occasion it’ll even be perfect. Kurt Vonnegut said “Out on the edge you can see all the kinds of things you can’t see from the center.” So my advice is to take his, and stand as close to that edge, camera at the ready, as you can.

Try not to fall.

Wherever You Go, There You Are

I had a lot of topics I wanted to write about the past few days. It’s my favorite time of year for photography, the rains have returned to my hometown, and there’s a bunch of cool new things I want to buy. But it was a conversation I had with a friend a few days back that gave me pause to reflect; we were talking about the things we really love about photography. You know, the history, the iconic images, the technology, digital cameras, that sort of thing. Then she asked me, where’s my favorite place to go to take pictures? Hmm. Had to take a long pull on my beer and think about that one. Good question.

I mean, after all, I am a wanderer. I love to travel, I love to pick up and go. I had some great trips this year — the midwest, southern California, the mountains, the ocean — and plans for more. It’s hard to sit still. But I don’t think that I ever travel for the express purpose of taking pictures, rather, it’s a happy by-product of enjoying the newness of a good escape. I wander and I take pictures. It’s a subtle distinction, granted, but totally the point.

It’s not the dramatic I seek. Sure, I love the Grand Tetons, the Grand Canyon, the Grand Canal. They’re beautiful, and I’ll happily wait for some good light and look for some good angles. But what compels me to make a photograph is not that. I’m drawn to the small, the intimate, the quiet voice, the magic light, the music, the whisper. That may well be a thousand miles away, but it may also be in my back yard.

Raindrops on a Nasturtium Leaf 2018

It’s worth remembering that photographs are made with our eyes and our hearts; cameras just move the process along. Every experience we’ve had in our lives, every person known and loved, and yes, every place we’ve ever been will have an impact on how we’ll take our next photo. Wandering is an integral part of that, so let’s also include shoe leather and coffee.

So where, then, do I really like to go wandering for photography? Actually, everywhere imaginable.

And nowhere in particular.

A Minimalist's Reject

Do bloggers take the summer off? In my case, I guess they do, but a vacation from just what, I’m not sure. Mine’s not the sort of life from which one needs often to escape, at least not every day. It’s not perfect, but it is a preamble to retirement, with lots of good coffee, plenty of beer, and more than the occasional walkabout. And oh yes, the occasional need to bring in a couple of bucks.

So off we went, my family and I, to the central Oregon coast. September is a good month to go explore out there; the weather is fine, the light is beautiful, and the crowds have thinned out to manageable levels. And this time, I made a conscious effort to pack along some camera gear. Let me explain.

On my many wanderings of late, I’ve seen fit to carry along nothing more than my iPhone (a 7Plus) and sometimes an attachable wide-angle lens. Even my week in Chicago this year (which happily included a Blackhawks game) was photographed by this, and nothing more. It does a beautiful job, and allows me to feel more engaged in the moment. Then again, it might just be tiresome old age and an unforgiving back.

But this time I packed my mirrorless Fuji, and kept it with me on every walk. It truly does create a marvelous file, and my three lenses provide all the coverage I could ask for. In fact, lens versatility is really the great advantage of a camera system over a smartphone. But here’s the thing: I went to a mirrorless camera to reduce the weight and complexity of my Canon system; I was already down-sizing.

Cannon Beach, Oregon Fuji Xe2 2015

And before that Canon system, I was shooting with a couple of Nikon film cameras and a whole pack-full of lenses. Remember, these were solid metal cameras, but my back was younger and stronger. And around that same time, I was out there shooting with a Mamiya RB67, a weighty medium format camera and a couple of huge lenses and tripod. A really big tripod. And before that, my monorail 4x5 and a coupe of lenses. And before that, a magnificent flat-bed Burke & James 8x10 camera, for which I had (and could really only afford) one lens, but it was a doozy.

You can see that my progress through life as a photographer has been not only to learn and grow, but also and equally to shed weight and travel as light as possible. Each of these influences the other. I don’t know how much lighter and faster I could go, but if my glasses could become a good camera I’d give that serious thought. Because this is what it’s really about: the need to make images, not to project one. The more gear I shed, I find, the more impactful is my photography. The moments are clearer, more immediate. And I’m having enormous fun.

But of course now I’m starting to sound a little preachy, and I’ll have none of that. Some of my best friends are dedicated gear heads, and I admire them for the effort. Shoot and share, says I.

As for me, I’ll just take the rest of the summer off.

Zen and the Gentle Art of Looking Sideways

Fernhill Reservoir; Washington County Oregon  2015

I'm reading a delightful book on photography. Ok, that's not such a stretch, so let me explain. I love books about photography and photographers, and even the occasional nuts-and-bolts kind of thing. There's always something to learn. But I find myself moving into uncharted territory, and so far it's a pretty incredible trip.

The book in question is Zen Camera: Creative Awakening With A Daily Practice In Photography by David Ulrich (Watson-Guptill, 2018). Yeah, not the usual f/stop and shutter-speed kind of thing, but one with much deeper implications than your typical how-to. 

I have long been a practitioner of zen photography, I just wasn't aware of it. When you make your living at it, you sometime go on auto-pilot. But here's the thing: the yin-yang of creativity is pretty compelling. On the one hand, it is autobiographical: it is a statement to the world, a reply to the universe. On the other, it is intensely private, a singular moment of personal reflection. Photography in particular is built upon a lifetime of these moments.

Vanishing Park Bench, Clackamas County Oregon  2018

I see pictures constantly throughout the day; some are virtual and remain in my mind, while many others compel me (often unconsciously) to bring the camera to my eye. When this becomes your meditation, it's no longer possible not to see. "The camera" says the wonderful Dorothea Lange, "is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera."  This is my practice of zen photography. This is what's starting to make sense.

I have my own students now, informally, mostly, though I am forever a student myself. I do my best to lead them astray. Really, we're all just a bunch of happy wanderers. I hope they -- and you, as well -- keep developing a life-long vision and philosophy about what is beautiful and honest. Your eye will always be looking inward and outward, forwards and sideways. I'm working on it myself, and so I hit the books from time to time. I really like them.

Even the nuts-and-bolts kind of thing.

 

On The Therapeutic Value of Using A Camera

Photography, we're being told, is good for your head. Well, more specifically, the act of taking a photograph, good or bad. This bit of happy news comes to us by way of a recent article I found on PetaPixel (one of my favorite sources for all things photography) by one Michael Zhang, and it aims to make us feel good about something we've been doing all along. At least that's the idea.

Apparently the trick is to "shoot every day and post online". Guilty as charged, but not sure I feel any better for the effort. Then again, I'm nobody's poster child for good mental heath. Most life-long photonistas probably aren't. But this behavior, according to research, does in fact seem to promote wellness and general mental health. The key is the sharing part. We don't create in a vacuum. Even back before social media we were desperate for ways to showcase our work.

Napa Valley 2016

I don't doubt there's something to all this, and it's instructive to figure out what it is. I take photos every day, and as most of you know, I'm not shy about sharing them online, either. Moreover, it's something I have long encouraged all my young photography friends to do also, though less in the spirit of mental health than in this is what we do. It doesn't need to make us feel warm and fuzzy, but in the end that's hardly the point. Creativity is a must, and it often comes at a price. 

Photography should force us to challenge ourselves, creatively and intellectually, and that often takes us to uncomfortable places. It is here we grapple with our demons, and all the posting in the world will not assuage them, but one hopes we become better in the process. 

And that, I do believe, is the point: to embrace the moment, to reach deep down inside and find something there worth the telling. It ain't always easy, but it is always necessary.

And in the long run, who knows.  Maybe it'll be good for your head.

Totally In The Zone

I wonder what became of The Zone System. Remember that? Developed by none other than Ansel Adams, It was a powerful way to pre-visualize a black & white print before making the exposure. It required accurately measuring the light in a given scene and adjusting the development of the negative to control for the desired values in the highlights and shadows. It was pretty neat. I lived and died by it. But then, I had a lot of time on my hands.

Obviously, it did not celebrate serendipity. It was a tightly controlled process, anticipating an ideal future image, and that was ok. It worked. I spent many years with Tri-X and Edwal FG7, making black & white prints I remain proud of. But boy, sometimes that seems like it was a lifetime ago, and in fact it was. 

Boat and Koi Pond, Lan Su Chinese Garden, Portland  2016

I don't have any black & white film anymore, nor my really cool darkroom. I have software and the barely refined sensibilities of a zen photographer. The Zone System, as a photographic device, so refined, so elegant, seems now like an out-of-phase anachronism, at least to the way I approach photography today. But are there not lessons we can still take from it? I think there are.

The process broke down light into nine distinct, measurable units of gray, proceeding from pure black to pure white, with graduating shades in between, each predictably metered. You controlled where you wanted a particular shade (and of course its corresponding degree of detail) to fall in the print by controlling how you developed the negative. Selecting paper grade and other considerations were mastered as well, and this is but a light glossing over of the system, but you get the idea. If you were paying attention, what you learned was not so much about light meters and chemistry, but indeed how to look and really see. And what you saw was what light is, and what it does.

Chance, as Adams and others have said, favors the prepared mind. Without understanding and appreciating what light is, and what it does, there is no serendipity, no moment to capture alive and breathing. The magic of light, all of it -- tones, values, textures, mysteries and whispers -- resides deep in my soul. The Zone System taught me this.

It's my Zen System.

A Recommended Daily Dose of Museum

An Orchard on Sauvie Island     2016

You wouldn't think winter is a great time to travel, but it's actually a great time to hit the road and reflect on the view. And I'm not talking tropical vacay, no; my latest little walkabout was a late winter/early spring jaunt to the cold climes of Chicago -- one of my favorite places any time of the year. Visiting family there is a joy I look forward to every year, but the sublime pleasures of this city are nestled in the art galleries and museums. (There's a couple great bars there, too, but that's probably a different story.)

While wandering about the magnificent Art Institute, I found myself completely taken by a landscape painted by Camille Pissarro, considered by some the father of French Impressionism. The Chicago Art Institute houses one of the world's finest collections of Impressionism, and photographers -- even those otherwise unfamiliar with art history -- consider it influential. It's easy to see why.

As I sat there gazing at the painting, trying to lose myself within it, I was struck by its immediacy, how it captured a fleeting light, a composition at once worldly and, paradoxically, quite ordinary. It was, in a word, photographic. And this, of course, sent my mind wandering to far off places.

Market and Delicatessen, Chicago   2016

The Impressionists and photography came into this world at roughly the same time, and I think both have had a profound and lasting effect on each other. Art historians and scholars (if you haven't noticed, I am definitely neither) can argue this point, but I can speak for me. My earliest training and influences were all in painting, long pre-dating my entry into the photographic world, and I recognize that consciously or unconsciously I have always tried to somehow incorporate that influence into my work. I don't want my photographs to look like watercolors or oil paintings, no, but as I've gotten older in this field I've begun to recognize that I've walked down their paths too, and carried some of the dust along with me. It's been a fine and beautiful stroll.

Couple of good bars along the way too, by my reckoning.

Plato's Travelogues

February is a fine month. Up in these parts (the Pacific Northwest) it skirts that untidy line separating winter from spring, so the weather is always unsettled and interesting. It's just made for photography. Plus it's my birthday month so I can always count on a little celebrating and some fine añejo tequila. And it's the month I can always count on a great road trip to somewhere with my brother Jim. Nothing but good times.

2018 February fell right in line with these great expectations. Whereas last year at this time we plunged head-long into the beautiful rain from San Francisco down to Monterey Bay, this year we enjoyed some soft sunlight on the old Lewis & Clark highway along the Columbia River. The lower reaches of this great river, especially on the Washington side, are little explored but so well worth the effort.

Skamakowa, Washington   2018

There are two ways to wander, of course. One is wandering aimlessly, and I put a lot of stock in it. No particular place to go, no particular purpose in mind, it's a meditation and a presence. Good photography sometimes comes of it, but it's not always the point. Who looks outside, dreams; says Carl Jung; who looks inside, awakens. Sometimes you can wander aimlessly just sitting quiety by yourself.

But the second way is purposeful and celebrates good company. This is the purview of the walkabout, and I draw as much inspiration from my companions as I do from my surroundings. Good photography is often the natural result of shared enthusiasm. 

So I relish my road trips with Jim, I look forward to the inspiration and the open road, and I especially love the unsettle weather -- inside and out. I love February.

Nothing but good times.

Channeling My Inner (And Outer) Ansel

                               Cormorants-Eye View of the Morrison Bridge and Willamette River, iPhone photo, 2014

Let's review the old ways, shall we? The creation of a photographic image has always been a multi-stage process. Load the film, trip the shutter, unload the film onto stainless steel reels to develop, and then, finally, fire up the enlarger and have at it. Even in a digital world, the process is largely, if only slightly imperfectly, analogous. Insert card into reader, create folder, download images. In other words, it's always been, as Mr. Adams instructed us, a formally constructive event from beginning to end.

I have no problem with any of this, of course. In fact, I've been celebrating it for almost half a century, so I'm in no position to be critical. But I've recently discovered that the way I'm approaching my craft now has turned this paradigm upside down. I refer, of course, to my ever-expanding use of the iPhone, and my growing awareness of photography's zen. They arrived at this party in separate cars but are leaving it hand-in-hand.

What I'm embracing is the counter-intuitive way I go about creating the image now. There is no second-part after I make the exposure, no loading up the card-reader, no folders to create and label. I go everywhere with my iPhone and am constantly moved -- compelled, even -- to take pictures. These then magically appear in my Photos program on the Mac with no further effort on my part. They're just...there. It's a wholly dissociative process, and I'm happy to take creative advantage of it.

                                                                              Basket of Yarn       iPhone photo,    2015

I'm allowed to actually discover, rather than re-construct, the image that had somehow captured my attention in the first place. Yes, occasionally it's disappointing (life is like that, sometimes), but more often than not it's fresh and surprising (life is like that sometimes, too). I've gone back, usually much later, to see and be moved by elements in an image that I was not really aware of at the time I took it. I'm seeing them again for the first time. And that's the point.

Photography is all about, and only about, being in the moment. I'm trying not to think about what will come after, I want only to be lost in the visual now. The discoveries will come later, and will arrive on the wings of their own moment. So I'm sorry, Ansel. I'm no longer pre-visualizing, I'm just, well...visualizing. 

Whatever process you use to feed that creative voice is great and legit and possibly even groovy; don't let anyone tell you otherwise. But this is what I'm using more and more to find my voice, and my zen. It's been working, it's been fun, and it's all I really need.

Well, that and good walking shoes. And coffee.

The Right (And Wrong) Stuff

Mossy branches and blackberry bushes                  Oregon             2018

So I've already blown my New Years resolution to post a blog every week; lets just add that to my list to lose weight and cut back on the tequila. Fine ideas, noble even, but only marginally in the category of possibilities. But here I am nonetheless.

What brings me here are my reflections on a day trip my wife and I took this past weekend out to the Columbia Gorge -- specifically the Dalles and the Dalles Dam -- to witness a feeding migration of the great American bald eagle. We were invited to join a group sponsored by the Friends of the Columbia Gorge, of which she is a long time member. When it came to the introductions, I mentioned that I was merely an acquaintance of said gorge, but the humor was lost on this august group so early in the morning as it was. In any event the eagles made a impressive showing. 

The problem is, I'm not really a wildlife photography guy, so I don't have any wildlife-appropriate lenses. If you know me, you know I'm philosophically opposed to the mindless accumulation of photography gear. Simpler is better, says I, although deep down I'm just as much a gearhead as the rest of them. But my longest lens, a 55-200mm zoom for my Fuji, was clearly designed for non-eagle shooting (although I have some great photos of squirrels raiding our bird feeder). My wife, a watercolor artist, was appropriately outfitted with powerful binoculars and an artist's imagination. I ended up taking photos of my beautiful surroundings, and made no complaints for the opportunity. It was a gorgeous morning.

Old fishing platform and the Dalles bridge on the Columbia River          2018

It's pretty simple and obvious, really: if you aspire to be a wildlife guy (or girl) you have to get with the program and put out the bucks for some seriously long glass. You can only get so close to a bald eagle. Or a grizzly bear, for that matter. My little 200mm lens was the proverbial knife at a gunfight. I have friends who publish world-class wildlife photography with lenses that are upwards of 10-times that humble length. And all of them enjoy getting up before sunrise with much better attitudes that mine.

As for me, I'll enjoy the ambiance. The Columbia Gorge is a treasure; it's Oregon's gift to a barely civilized world (well, that, and a Willamette Valley pinot). And oh, that river. Rain or shine, blustery winter or blue summer, it never fails to impress beyond words. I'm hardly a sentimental guy, but in all my many years of gazing upon it (including my pre-verbal childhood in Washington, the son of an adventurous father) it always takes my breath away. A humble lens can capture its many moods, and probably capture yours too; eagles are only optional. That's why this gorge, and its river, has so many friends.

Or in my case, acquaintances.