Oceans of Instants

2008-03-21T20:16:00.004Z

This is my last post...

well here anyway.

Don't despair (unless of course you're cheering?) because I'm moving my blog to my new website. I hope that you will both continue to read my ramblings and post your insightful comments at the new location.

I'll see you there!

2008-03-20T08:22:00.003Z

A comment on Stieglitz's notion of Equivalence?

My thanks to Lee Weller from Tasmania who sent me this wonderful Schultz cartoon. It just underlines how big a part the viewer plays in the life of any image!

2008-03-16T22:26:00.007Z

Even by my own lax standards...

...it's been too long since I last posted anything here. Having been ticked off by half of my readership (the other one hasn't even noticed I've been quiet) I've decided that I ought to let you know what I've been up to!

Around the second week of January I joined Joe Cornish, Eddie Ephraums, Phil Malpas, Clive Minnitt and Richard Childs for a week in a small cottage at Culnacraig near Achiltibuie in the northwest Highlands. I had been really looking forward to this trip as it was the first time that that select club The CUBS (Complete & Utter Bastard Society) had had an outing since four of us travelled together to Utah in 2003. However the weather seemed set against us making many images with persistent rain and – the real killer – gale force winds for almost the whole week. This meant that we were reduced to trying out our culinary skills on each other (never mind animal testing, some of the meals that I prepared should definitely be banned!) and trying to fill the endless evenings with interminable games of Scrabble accompanied by the pathetic sound of sheep bleating as they flew past the window at head height in the raging storm.

As usual when I go away after a long period without any time off I went down with a case of man flu – a very serious illness! I felt miserable not only because of my respiratory problems but also because the much hoped for opportunity to make images in the convivial company of my peers seemed to be passing me by. Everyone else seemed to be effortlessly making images but I just couldn't see anything. Joe was his usual positive self, Clive was as enthusiastic as ever, Eddie was coming back from a few hours in the rain with some truly astonishing stuff but I could see nothing. I think that a lot of the problem was the pressure that I was putting on myself to perform. Rather than communing with my surroundings, I was getting so desperate that I ended up just looking to acquire an image, any image!

I don't normally think of myself as a very competitive person but this situation was definitely bringing that trait out in me. It almost physically hurt to see them all making interesting images when I had a creative block and I found myself wanting to compete for the prize of an image. Of course this was entirely the wrong approach and for a while I just sank deeper into the mire. Perhaps I should add that there was a degree of external pressure to make an image. Phil & Clive wanted Joe and I to be their 'readers' for the 100th issue of OP and their On Location column. I certainly didn't want to be the one who let the side down by not coming up with any results.

Eventually we got a clear slot in the weather and some interesting light. Hey presto! I found an image. Perhaps I should just listen to the advice I give other people in these circumstances – just be! Sit quietly and take things in, take time to tune in to your surroundings and the image will come to you.

2008-01-01T16:47:00.000Z

Wishing all my readers a prosperous, creative and happy 2008...

May you all have great light, make amazing images and contribute to the discussion here on Oceans of Instants!

2007-12-08T15:10:00.000Z

Lost in translation...

I've just returned from a visit to my local Waterstones. Whilst browsing for Christmas presents (tis the season to spend money...) I came across a copy of a book called Journey Through the British Isles with photographs by Harry Cory Wright. It is one of the recommended books in my local branch, receiving fulsome praise from a member of staff in the Hereford shop. Intrigued that a book of landscape photographs should get such 'positive' publicity I spent a few minutes studying it. You will have gathered from my use of the word fulsome that I was extremely disappointed with what I found between its covers.

First the good news; the paper stock is fine and the reproduction of high quality. The excellent author Adam Nicholson has written the forward. It is a large book (192 pages and 30.5 x 37.5 cm) and hence feels like the price of £40 is justified. The publishers synopsis states:

In the tradition of the great journeys taken by such photographers as Fox Talbot, Fenton and Bourne, Harry Cory Wright set out, in March 2006, on a quest to capture the variety of natural landscapes that make up the British Isles using a large-format plate camera. Beginning in the fragile, frozen beauty of Unst in Shetland at the spring equinox, he travelled down through the Western Isles and mainland Scotland to Northumberland and further south through England and Wales. This stunning book documents Cory Wright's remarkable journey. Each photograph is infused with the unique spirit of its location - from vast, wild mountain ranges to verdant, dewy forests at sunrise, from windswept beaches in winter to fields bathed in late summer, early evening sun. It is a unique photographic record of a journey through some of the most breathtaking locations in the British Isles. Cory Wright's Gandolfi plate camera captures images of exquisite detail and intensity. This is a magnificently produced, large-format book that will appeal to anyone interested in landscape photography.

So what's the bad news? Well I'm not so naive that I don't recognise hype when I see it – nor am I so naive as to not realise that similar hype has been applied to my own work. The pressures of the market encourage hyperbole, publishers do need to sell books after all. However the phrase "[a] book that will appeal to anyone interested in landscape photography." does seem a little dangerous. I realise that sweeping generalisation are always good in marketing land but this is a little too rich.

The important question is does the work justify the hype? Well, I have to say, for this viewer, a resounding no. The majority of the images feel as if anyone might have made them, they feel as if they just present what was in front of the camera without any distillation of the scene. Almost as if they were pretending to be unmediated. They feel like the kind of images that a non-photographer would have made if they had been presented with that scene. They don't feel as if they've been composed. Follow these links to see for yourself:

Candover Brook
Alders
Firle Beacon from Mount Caburn

Maybe their apparent lack of artifice is the point. Maybe Harry Cory Wright is the people's photographer, re-presenting the landscape to the public as they would have seen it (but in more detail because he uses a 10x8 Gandolfi) rather than with any sign of a photographer's mannerisms. But I don't think so, I think that he's just using a different set of mannerisms and that in fact these are quite elitist images – I'll return to this point further on.

For me the real failure of these images is that the vast majority didn't evoke any emotional response in me. As someone who's pretty susceptible to being moved by the British landscape this complete lack of evocation struck me as quite a feat. Now it might be that they're all 'growers' and that continuous study will bring wonderful rewards. I'm a fan of quiet images, however, and feel that I would recognise this quality were it present. I know that I'm in danger here of sinking without trace in the treacherous uncertain ground of taste, lost in the mire of what constitutes a 'good' photograph, but I'm going to press on regardless!

Adam P suggested in an earlier post that he might be making photographer's photographs and questioned whether this was a good thing. Someone he knows opined that he 'wish[ed] to avoid the “dreary photographer’s photography … I'll lose the visual immediacy …” ' This seems on the face of it to be a simple desire to present the world as it is. But more than this it is a desire to avoid a particular style, a photographic 'imprint' that carries with it a set of connotations that this person felt deleterious. How might one characterise this 'imprint'? The photographer's photograph seems to me to be typified by the conscious effort to distill reality (a concern with form, careful framing and composition), the deliberate manipulation of perspective (use of wide angle or long focal length lenses) and careful control of contrast & colour (use of filters). These transformations of reality are elements of a photographic syntax.

Why might these transformations be undesirable? Wishing to avoid them is perhaps a wish to avoid being associated with photography – a desire to make an unphotographic image, one that doesn't declare that it is photographic. An oxymoron if ever I heard one; there can be no such thing as an un-photographic photograph. Cory Wright's images also seem to spurn these visual signs. Instead they use elements from a different syntax; one characterised by passive compositions (an indifference to form and apparent lack of concern with framing), standard perspective (a weak relationship between foreground, middle ground and background) and unremarkable lighting (burnt out highlights, unsaturated colours, little or no filtration). I feel that this syntax is borrowed from, or strongly influenced by, a strain of Modernism – an art movement that is notoriously antipathetic to a concern for the natural world. A strange choice for landscape photography perhaps?

So why do Cory Wright's images fail to move me? Is it just that I don't understand the language that he's using? This possibility cannot be ruled out, nor that he wouldn't understand mine. Is it that I need nature to be enhanced by the photographic 'imprint' in order to appreciate it? I definitely don't feel that this is true. I have no trouble appreciating nature when I experience it but a photograph of nature isn't nature, it's something else. It begs the question, do you feel that photographers – or any other artists – enhance by re-presenting or that they reveal by their selection and applied technique? I feel that it is the latter. Of course Cory Wright has made selections, has chosen which lens to use and where to place the camera. He just hasn't revealed anything to me by those choices. Once again I freely admit that I might just be blind to his message. The syntax that predominates in landscape photography today owes much to the syntax used in landscape painting from the 17th century through to the 19th but has evolved over time. In part its strength comes from the richness of its sources. Cory Wright's images seem to turn their back on this heritage. There's nothing wrong with that per se, in fact that's exactly how revolutions in art begin. I just don't see any evidence of his application of an un-dynamic aesthetic to landscape photography revealing anything new or more importantly evoking a passionate response. The images seem both literally and metaphorically to have no focal point. I don't know what he wants me to look at in an image like Candover Brook. It seems an image willfully without direction. I certainly don't feel that, "These are moments captured and communicated with great intensity. These are timeless photographs that change your way of seeing..." as his dealer's website proclaims.

Or might the crux of the matter be that the syntax that he is using and the one that I, and I would suggest most of my readership, use have evolved from quite different foundations and now have quite different resonances? His syntax has, as I suggested earlier, evolved from Modernism. As such the images have a resonance that appeals more to the art market than the general public (and a consequent economic value). The syntax that underpins my work originated within the American landscape photography of the early part of the last century. Its pedigree, whilst recognised by fellow photographers, has somewhat less cachet than Modernism (and a consequently lower economic value).

It's like he's speaking French (a language in which I only have a smattering of understanding) and I'm speaking German (of which he is equally ignorant). Each has our audience of fellow native speakers and a tiny minority who speak both languages. Does this then mean that there's no such thing as a bad photograph, only something that doesn't translate well? Certainly not! I await your comments...

2007-11-29T11:20:00.000Z

To make or not to make...

On a recent trip to Scotland with a workshop group we twice visited Loch Clair in Glen Torridon for dawn. On both occasions the light was stunning, with the mountain Liathach bathed in a deep red glow for around ten to fifteen minutes – a time period consistent with an LF photographer being able to capture an image! On the group's second visit the cloudscape was amongst the finest that I have ever witnessed. On both occasions the other photographers in the group worked feverishly to capture something of the beauty laid out before them. Yet I found myself unmotivated to make an image. The scene was sublime yet, despite the abundant water, it singularly failed to float my boat.

I began to think that perhaps there was something wrong with me (highly likely). What exactly was stopping me making a picture. I know I'm not known as 'Mr Vista' but I do like a wide view so that didn't seem a likely explanation. There had to be something about this particular wide view that was inhibiting the action of my trigger finger. This worried me for the rest of the workshop. As a landscape photographer how could I not make an image of such an amazing sight? One thought was that maybe it was because I'd seen it before. In truth, not this particular view but similar ones. I don't like to feel that I'm repeating myself so I often conduct a kind of internal examination (ooh, err missus!) of my motives to make sure that I'm not taking the easy route and treading exactly the same well worn path. To add another twist, it had long been an ambition of mine to make an image across Loch Clair in great dawn light. Yet I literally couldn't make the image. No matter how hard part of me wanted to I couldn't bring myself to put the camera on the tripod. Perhaps I was just losing enthusiasm for landscape photography, becoming jaded after years of chasing the light. Perhaps it was time to pack away the dark cloth...

Then, a few days later (on a different continent) a scene grabbed me by the throat and I felt compelled to make an image. Any thoughts of being jaded disappeared in the instant that I recognised the possibility for the image. No longer "a washed up has-been" I returned to the problem of why I couldn't make the earlier image. It occurred to me that though I had hugely enjoyed the experience of those dawns I had also instinctively known that any image I made would be a pale ghost of the depth of feeling that I had experienced. What I had experienced was literally ineffable and any image of it would lack depth and subtlety. It would have had an undeniable attractive, but superficial, gloss imparted by the amazing light but in fact the strength of that light would be counter productive; any hope for subtlety and richness drowned in a crimson flood. Evocations beyond 'Gosh!' or 'warm' beaten to a blood red pulp. The point I'm trying to make is that sometimes you can't say what you feel in a single image. Its range is too poor, its sensory inputs too restricted. I'm not likely to take up cinematography any time soon but it is important to realise the limits.

Like many things it's blindingly obvious once you know it. But it surprised me that it has taken me quite so long to make the realisation. Obviously I've been 'not-making' images for decades, taking the decision to move on and find something else. But usually this was because the subject failed some quality test of my own devising or that what I was striving to achieve was beyond my reach technically, not because simply it was too good. Perhaps it's just another excuse to not take the camera out of the bag, or perhaps it's a sign of some late-found maturity in my photography. I hope it may be.

2007-11-25T11:03:00.000Z

A Photographer's Photograph?

I received a very interesting email from Oceans reader Adam musing on whether there are two classes of photograph; layman's photographs and photographer's photographs. Here (with his permission!) is his text in full for you to ponder on...

A few months ago a friend was looking at some of my photos and said of a fairly straightforward shot from Red Canyon (Utah) that it was a photographer’s photograph. I asked him to explain, and he said something about the way trees were placed around the image, the restricted colour palette (just green and hues of red) and lack of horizon (the sky was desperately bland that morning). I forgot about that conversation until recently, when as part of a discussion about photo clubs, someone else I know said that he would wish to avoid the “dreary photographer’s photography …. I'll lose the visual immediacy ….”. And this time I started thinking a bit more. What is it that makes an image arresting to the general viewer yet also evokes admiration from those who know about photography?

Let’s take the case of a wonderful landscape in dramatic light: as long as we can set up the tripod and point the camera in the right direction, then we will get a satisfactory image whether we use a simple digicam or LF big gun. It’s point and shoot, period. For this exercise I will ignore the problems of balancing out a dark foreground with bright sky etc.

But the enthusiast photographer could perhaps take a bit more care, think about using some elements of the foreground more effectively to strengthen the composition and add more impact. Perhaps using a rock the shape of which echoed that of a distant mountain. Here the photographer hopes to reproduce his own vision and uses some specialist equipment – a wide angle lens and a low viewpoint, or perhaps an LF camera with movements. By injecting his own vision, is he being creative and therefore moving towards being artistic? Well, I think yes if the resulting image is clearly more effective than that first point-&-shoot of what the photographer first saw.

As long as the image follows the conventionally accepted “rules” of composition, is sharp and well exposed, then the p&s as well as the more impactful image should get good marks from a photo club judge – and hopefully the second image will get a point or two more.

But let’s consider the case of pealing paint on a Tuscan door (forgive me DW!) where the subtle colours and textures contrast with the straight lines of the door structure. It’s a technical shot in that it would be difficult if not impossible to get the same image using cameras lacking the movements of LF. The rules of composition are probably irrelevant, the colours muted, the exposure spot on; what could or should a judge make of that? And what could an uninitiated viewer make of it? Unless the photographer manages to convey a sense of the feeling or emotion he experienced when he saw that door, the image will fail: better days gone by, current dereliction, abandonment, someone’s handiwork going to ruin…. Otherwise, it’s just a shot of a door, a so-called record shot and will be judged on that basis. Many non-photographers might just walk on by to the next print on the wall.

Or what about an abstraction from nature, perhaps detail from some colourful tree bark or contrasting colours of lichen and rock. Again the composition will probably not follow the conventional rules, and might leave the viewer to wander around the image noticing little details here and there. Some effort may be necessary and go beyond the "wow" of colours and textures to realise what the image is. Here David’s Detail at Poverty Flats in Utah is a wonderful example.

Are these last two photographer’s photographs? Possibly, but they are not necessarily dreary (certainly not the Detail). Conversely, I have seen some wonderful strong images full of passion being panned by judges for being composed not quite on the rule of thirds, or with the exposure “too dark” despite thereby separating the main subject from its background. Here the judge was seemingly looking precisely for conventional photographer’s photographs and didn't know how to react to something different. And it is that tendency to judge an image against a set of "rules" which strangles original photographic interpretation of the beauty around us.

So, what do I feel?

It's obvious that the interpretation of any image is dependent upon the level of sophistication of the viewer. An expert in Renaissance Art would certainly have a richer experience when viewing the Mona Lisa than the mythical man in the street would. The important question is should I, as a photographer aspiring to art rather than illustration, be worried that some people don't 'get' my images. I think the answer has to be a resounding "No!" This doesn't mean that I'm being elitist. I feel that my images are accessible on a number of different levels. Some viewers will only appreciate the colours or form, some think about the relationship of negative to positive space, some see references to other forms of art, some be lost in what the image evokes for them, some all of the above and more. It doesn't matter whether a viewer accesses the image on one, two or all available levels. It doesn't ultimately matter if an individual viewer isn't moved by a particular image. Neither Picasso nor van Gogh nor Monet nor Turner nor Whistler nor Mondrian nor Pollock were exactly populist for large parts of their carreers. Yet now their works are accepted as important milestones in the history of art. Popularity alone has never been a sign of quality. What would matter was if no one other than the photographer was moved by the images that they made.

I certainly don't worry that camera club judges might mark me down for not using the "rule of thirds" (this is a merely a degenerate bastardisation of the more subtle Golden Section and the fact that they probably don't know this only shows up their ignorance). Art isn't about formulas, it's not something that should be constrained by rules in this way. That doesn't mean that certain approaches aren't better than others, they obviously are. It just means that the whole exercise is more subtle and rich than any rule might suggest. Of course the real reason that judges apply rules is so that there can be some standards for comparison. And here's the fundamental flaw in the whole exercise. The appreciation of any work of art must necessarily be relative not absolute. One man's 10/10 is another's 2/10. The range of possible connotations in any image are too wide and subtle. Trying to constrain the possibilities for solving the three dimensional puzzle of composition by constraining the outcome using rules is a denial of the existence of these subtle signs. It shows a paucity of vision. There cannot be a consistent system for making an absolute comparison between one image and another. Period.

Are there photographer's photographs? Absolutely! If there weren't it would show that no one had really explored the possibilities for the medium beyond bland illustration, beyond the postcard. I feel that the image at the top of this post might well fall into the category of photographer's photograph. The only downside that I can see is that these images are probably less commercial than ones that are more straightforward.

2007-11-24T18:20:00.001Z

Now for some shameless self-promotion...

I've been persuaded to produce a hardback version of my next book, Landscape Beyond, in a limited edition of 500. This will only be available by mail order from me or via Eddie's Envisage Books and final pricing has still to be worked out.

I will also be having my first London exhibition in conjunction with my good friend Anna Booth. Our images will be on view at the OXO Gallery on the South Bank from April 22 to 27 2008. More details on this as we get nearer the time...

2007-11-24T18:15:00.000Z

No post for ages then they all come at once...

For me photography is a voyage of exploration. I believe that we all start with a sense of enquiry, a sense of wonder at our chosen subject. The voyage that we embark on is to discover the limits of what we know about technique, to explore the subjects that we photograph and, perhaps, to open up the unknown territory of our spirit.

I was recently asked by Eddie Ephraums to look at a book that reflected the journey to date of a photographer who I have witnessed at first hand grow from unskilled novice to someone who now taking his first unsupported steps on his personal voyage of exploration. The book is called “Writing with Light” and contains the work of Sami Nabeel. It prompted me to think how a photographer might make the journey from “taker” to “maker” of photographs, from technically competent illustrator to expressive photographer as Sami has.

If I had been writing about this journey at almost any other time in the last couple of thousand years there would have been a well trodden route that the artist would have followed, from indentured apprentice to craftsman and, for the gifted few, on to acknowledged master. But no such clear-cut path exists today. The vast majority of people, like Sami and many of my readers, who would call themselves photographers have “proper” day jobs. Photography is something that they are driven to do in the nooks and crannies of their lives, in the gaps between work and family commitments. It would be impossible for most to give up a regular income in order to pursue photography full time. You may have noticed that I make no distinction between amateur and professional photographer. Like any other artistic endeavour, the title “photographer” is one earned by achievement rather than one achieved by earnings.

With little chance of an apprenticeship the two ways that one might learn one’s craft are by studying the example of “masters” in books or magazines or by interacting with fellow enthusiasts. The problem with either of these approaches is that one needs to receive genuine constructive feedback in order to grow. Studying the printed work of masters only gets us so far. Most books, with notable exceptions, are portfolios or technical “how to” treatises rather works that aim to provide answers to why an image was made. Without a dialogue to explain the difficulties they encountered and their approach to finding a solution all we can really do is admire the result.

In the case of the popular camera press things are even worse. The percentage of good work is quite low and genuine critical frameworks are almost entirely absent. The approach more often undertaken by the staffers vacillates between meaningless epithets and snide criticism. I doubt that many staff writers actually give much thought to what might constitute a meaningful critique. Most are journeymen who concentrate on simple narrow matters of technique, that can be learned by rote, and opt for cheap attacks to hide the depth of their ignorance. One UK photo magazine in particular had a long running series where two of the staffers adopted the good cop/bad cop position of alternately praising to the heavens and then tearing the photograph apart. What this was supposed to teach anybody who contributed an image to this futile exercise is beyond me.

Seeking opinions on our work from our peers can be useful. The developing photographer might turn to camera clubs or the Internet and in theory these should provide them with much needed feedback. The main problem here is one of finding the golden ingots of wisdom hidden below the dross. Feedback from Internet forums is often patchy, with either too many opinions on offer or none at all. Sadly, once again, the opinions tend to lack any rigour. Being told that your image is “great” or “crap” or (the worst of all) “nice” doesn’t help you progress. It seems to me that for visual artists photographers in general (and sweeping generalizations are always good!) have an extremely poor insight into why some images work and others don’t. Most avoid thinking about such questions by literally hiding behind the camera. They focus on the technology and don’t ask why they’re making images or what those images might be telling us. Others avoid asking such questions by resorting to the, “It’s all a matter of taste” argument. Postmodern art has been built entirely on this shaky foundation. Despite everything that such artists say, most of which is deliberately obfuscate, art isn’t art just because the artist says it is. It’s no good just saying “It’s Art, innit.” Opinions in art, just as much as in any other field, need to be backed by reasoned arguments. Modernism firmly defined the artist’s role as searching for self-expression but this is meaningless without insight into one’s opinions and the maturity to articulate them. You have to have something to express. Some years ago, Joe Cornish and I were discussing our landscape photography peers (men do gossip) and noted that none were less than forty years of age. At the time we had no real explanation for this. But I now think that it’s a simple case of needing to have had considerable experience of the landscape before one can make significant images. One can master the technology very quickly but a meaningful connection to the landscape can only come with experience. And experience can only come with time spent in the field.

The general lack of a prescribed direction means that many photographers struggle alone for years before they find their way beyond illustration. There may not be the recognised apprenticeships of old but photographers can still seek mentors. This is the role that I and some other photographers seek to fulfil for students by leading workshops. When I began teaching photographic workshops I had no idea how involved I would become in the photographic journeys of my students. Seeing how students grow in confidence and find their own voices has been both a revelation and a deeply rewarding experience for me. For most students the journey that they undertake is quite modest; they wish to master the equipment so that they might make a faithful “copy” of a landscape that inspires them. For others it is a much longer and harder journey: one of constantly trying to fill in the blank areas on the map of their knowledge.

However much the journey varies two things are absolutely clear to me; the student needs to make a serious commitment and they have to believe in themselves. It takes considerable time and energy for the student to find the route to move beyond simple illustration. Even with the outside assistance of a mentor they still need to act as pathfinder through their own jungle of possibilities. All I or any other mentor can do is try to steer them in the right general direction – a little like saying, “Just head west.” It might help in the end but there will certainly be sticky moments along the way. The terrain that they traverse will to some extent dictate their path. There may be ravines that they cannot cross, deep problems to which they have no answer. The mentor can suggest ways to bridge the gap or alternate paths but once again the exact route is for the student to find. They may find pleasant meadows where they wish to linger, but they should be cautious of the easy life. This may lead to complacency and a lack of progress. As I’ve opined before, the life of a photographer is much more akin to that of a hunter-gatherer rather than a farmer. We need to constantly move on and find fresh game.

When I said that the photographer needed confidence to successfully complete their passage from “taker” to “maker” I didn’t mean that they needed to be cocky. They need quiet self-belief that they can manage the journey; self-criticism is essential but they need to be careful that it doesn’t deteriorate into self-doubt. It is easy to remain in the shadow of those who have preceded us – indeed a poor mentor will prevent you from leaving their shadow. The photographer needs confidence that what they have to say is worthwhile if they are to move beyond making banal and vacuous pastiches of our photographic heroes images. A major part of what the mentor does is to provide them with this confidence.

So, what of Sami’s personal journey? When I first met Sami in 2003, he had a 5x4 camera but was struggling with its basic operation. He very quickly mastered the camera but this was only the first and in some ways least significant step. He then began to explore what he wanted to express in his photography. There were many dead ends and false starts, images that failed to meet his critical expectations, but bit-by-bit he began to develop a vision of his own. Four years is an astonishingly short period in the artistic journey of a landscape photographer but he has travelled a very long way since those first hesitant steps. I hope that he still feels, as I do about my own work, that there is still a long way left to travel. The day that we feel we have arrived is the day that the journey ends, the day to turn our back on photography. What keeps us exploring is the quest for unknown territory; looking for ways of seeing that are new to us, images that surprise and delight us. My own journey has been filled with unexpected twists and turns and I pray that it continues to surprise me. If I have taught Sami anything I hope it is that it is better to travel than to arrive.

2007-11-24T16:50:00.000Z

Long time no post...

Where did two and a half months (since my last 'serious' post) go to?!? Perhaps I'm just having a senior moment... but, no. I do recall. Since I last visited you and the other reader I have been engaged in various projects for Light & Land as well as finishing off work on my next book Landscape Beyond.

The text for this was finished back in August but the final image selection and layouts weren't completed until late October. I'm relieved to say that it has now gone off to the printers – though not as relieved as the tireless Eddie Ephraums who has done a sterling job despite my interference/involvement in all stages of the process.

So, how do I feel about my new baby? Well in some respects I think that I'm still too close to it to judge properly. I'm reasonably pleased with the images but don't feel that I can really judge the text yet. I think that this book is more personal than Landscape Within and I felt more outside my comfort zone than when I wrote LW. I owe a big thank you to Eddie for the inspiration for the book. When he and I first sat down to talk about my "difficult second album" he asked me to name the three attributes that I felt essential in the creation of a great landscape photograph. I surprised myself by instantly responding, "Simplicity, mystery and beauty." And a book concept was born. Of course the tricky part was writing the text...

The images used were largely already made. I like to approach the making of a book with a set of images from my 'library' rather than shooting to illustrate the text. I find that this suits me for a number of reasons. Firstly, I'm not the most prolific photographer and the idea of making a set of images to order is frankly very scary. Secondly, because the images aren't meant to be literal illustrations of the text but to stand as works on their own there really isn't the need to shoot specifically to fulfill the brief. For me, the words and images work together and separately, they are interleaved but distinct.

The inspiration for each of my images comes from the circumstances of its making rather than from some grand plan. In fact I find it more or less impossible to make anything other than bland illustrations if I have an external structure imposed before I make an image. Some might see this as a weakness: it means that I feel unable to work on image series. I tend to feel that my photographic work to date is in a sense one very large series charting my explorations in photography. There are many examples of artists having periods working on the same or similar subjects (Picasso's Blue Period is perhaps the most famous) and I do this too. I make series inadvertently (and each image is widely separated in time) because I have a 'weakness' for certain subjects such as ferns or windows. I often worry that rather than working through my approach to a topic I might simply be pointlessly repeating myself. Yet, just when this feeling gets really strong I usually find some new approach and reveal something new to myself and hopefully whoever views the images. Perhaps I should go away and think on this some more...

In between work on the book I've made two trips across the pond to visit the Canadian Rockies in September and Montana & Wyoming. Both were reasonably successful photographically (the image above was made at Biscuit Basin in Yellowstone) and I'll write more on them in future posts.

2007-09-28T14:26:00.000Z

Linhof & Studio September 2007 Large Format Workshop

I promised the participants of this workshop that I would upload a post for them to leave their comments and questions about the workshop and LF – so here it is! Please do ask me about anything arising from the workshop and I will try to answer it as soon as possible. I'm afraid that I will only be able to answer questions from the participants so the rest of you will just have to eavesdrop...

2007-08-31T23:00:00.000Z

One hour to midnight...

Well, with three days to go it looks like I might actually get my text for the next book in on time so I thought I'd take a minute or two off to share another image from my trip to Norway with you both.

It occurred to me whilst I was in Norway that the lifestyle of landscape photographers has parallels with that of hunter-gatherers. Like hunter-gatherers, landscape photographers tend to lead a "nomadic" lifestyle, reliant upon the ability of a given natural environment to provide sufficient photographic opportunities in order to sustain our photography habit.

The variable availability of light and cloud, owing to local climatic and seasonal conditions, means that we are unlikely to stay in one place for long. Rather than bagging a kudu or digging a witchetty grub out of a eucalyptus tree I’m searching for a composition. Both ways of life sustain the individual but whereas the hunter gatherer is feeding their body I'm trying to feed my mind and spirit. Of course, many would claim that being a hunter gatherer is better for their soul (and waistlines!) than Western capitalist lifestyles.

Mmm, life's full of difficult decisions – a fresh wichetty grub or a new composition... I'll have mine toasted on the camp fire!

I'll be back next month, hopefully with something more insightful.

2007-08-19T13:32:00.001Z

Gone fishing...

Sorry for the lack of posts recently but I was away in Norway at the beginning of this month and I am now frantically trying to finish the text of my next book. Aaaarggghh...

So I'm afraid that I don't have any great personal philosophical insights to pass on (did I ever?) but I would like to draw your attention to a fascinating article by a painter called Martin Dace: Towards a new art

It's a wonderful and insightful critique of Postmodernism (well, see KK's post in comments for an alternative view!) and a plea to return to older values for art.

Please do post any comments you have on it and I'll give you my thoughts.

Back to the white hot keyboard (aalctuly olny luke wrsm as I can't tpye that fadt... well not accurately)

2007-07-15T07:43:00.000Z

A guilty pleasure?

I'm referring to showing my images in person to someone else – the prospect of which always makes me feel very nervous indeed. Yet, something still makes me go through the trauma of showing my photographs. Perhaps something about the process gives me pleasure? Am I just revelling in showing off, feeding my ego? I don't think so; it's a bittersweet experience for me, a mixture of anxiety and a hint of gratification. Of course it's the gratification that makes me feel guilty...

On the face of it, surely I should have nothing to worry about when sharing my images. I've been making photographs for close on 30 years, my images have been published in over 20 books and a number of magazines and I've achieved some recognition from my peers for the quality of my photography.

But worry I do. When presenting my images to an audience, large or small, I feel diffident; I worry that my images are unworthy, I worry that the audience won't like them – more than that they won't love them as wholeheartedly as I do.

Don't get me wrong, I don't love all my images and I'm not labouring under the misapprehension that those I do love are perfect. I know that they're not. I'm fully aware that even my favourite images have faults in composition or execution. In fact I'm painfully aware of this, its as plain and as haunting to me as a disfiguring ulcer on the face of a dear friend. I'm certainly more aware of the faults in the image than my audience are. Yet, despite their faults, I still love these chosen images. My images are the offspring of my creative spirit and I love them in the same way that I love my children: unconditionally.

I know deep in my heart that I've made a few images that will stand comparison with the best of my peers. I just don't want to shout about it (though I suppose my two readers might legitimately accuse me of at least whispering loudly through "Oceans..."). Why don't I want to be demonstrative? Is it because I'm English? The butterflies in my stomach let me know that I'm not exhibiting false modesty when I shrink from the limelight. If I were supremely confident but trying not to let my audience see that arrogance I wouldn't feel this bad. Paradoxically I feel confident and unsure at the same time; confident that my images are good but also unsure that they are good enough.

The reason for my fluctuating confidence might lie in part in the findings of a study by Dr. David Dunning at Cornell University. He looked at confidence in relation to ability levels. Dunning compared a group of students scores in a series of tests against their expectations. He found that those with the lowest scores consistently overestimated their abilities. More than that, Dunning's team also found that those with the highest scores consistently underestimated their abilities. The researchers put this down to "the fact that, in the absence of information about how others are doing, highly competent subjects assumed that others were performing as well as they were". I'm sure that this is partly true, but I also know from my own experience that the more I learn about photography the more I realise what there is still to learn. The more I know the smaller my precious hoard of knowledge looks and the more insignificant I feel.

Given my discomfort at showing my images in person, should I, perhaps, confine this activity to only showing them to people who's opinion I value? No, I don't think so. However unpleasant it is for me I need to show my work to as wide an audience as I am able and to listen to what they have to say. I've said before that self-criticism is an essential part of the creative process but I feel that peer review is also – and not just garnering the uncritical opinions of those you trust. That way lies a complete lack of perspective and the withering of creativity. I think that we've all seen this effect from afar in the work of certain pop musicians. There comes a critical point in some successful pop careers where the performer has amassed a considerable amount of money and acquired an entourage. If they are unwise they will have surrounded themselves with yes men;

"Do I look good in this outfit?"
"Yes!"
"Isn't my latest single great?"
"Yes!"
"Wouldn't it be great if I drove my Rolls into the swimming pool?"
"Yes!"
"I am the new messiah!"
"Yes you are!"

You get the picture...

It's been unspoken, perhaps even unconscious until now, but it occurs to me that the reason I show my images is not to feed my ego but to get a perspective on my work. It makes me anxious but I want to find out if I'm one of those incompetents in Dunning's study who is overestimating their ability or if there is some merit in what I'm doing. It would be foolhardy to grant all opinions equal weight but also equally foolhardy to dismiss out of hand those that are critical. There therefore needs to be some system of checks and balances. My approach has been to compare three sets of opinions; my own self-critical view, the opinions of a wider audience and finally the views of those members of my peer group whose work I admire. I tend to filter out opinions that are universally positive in favour of ones where I feel the respondent has made an effort at providing a critique.

The anxiety, then, comes from putting myself up for judgement, opening myself up for criticism. Gratification comes from any degree of validation of my work, especially if that approval comes from those members of my peer group who's work I admire.

So, is it a guilty pleasure? No, I don't think so. It's important to seek and find external positive feedback to counter the inevitable negative effect that arises even from constructive self-criticism. As photographers we need perspective and a context for our work beyond that provided by our own egos. But we also need encouragement if we aren't to become irretrievably disheartened. Showing my images is scary but I just have to grit my teeth and do it!

2007-07-14T15:25:00.000Z

“With the improvement in camera technology, you only need a good eye to be able to take an outstanding photograph. But this has made life difficult for the professionals, who have to be able to demonstrate that they are in a different league to the rest of us.”

Richard Ingram Independent on Saturday 14/7/2007

“With the improvement in writing implements (biros as opposed to styli), you only need a glib turn of phrase to be able to write a load of old tosh. But this has made life difficult for the professionals, who have to be able to demonstrate that they are in a different league to the rest of us.”

David Ward Oceans of Instants 14/7/2007

It still amazes me that otherwise seemingly intelligent people continue to completely misunderstand and misrepresent the process of making good photographs as opposed to happy snaps. I know that I've covered this before on "Oceans..." but it's not going to stop me writing about it again!

Let's look at what Ingram wrote one clause at a time...

“With the improvement in camera technology, ..."

Well, I can't argue that cameras have come a long way since you had to mix your own emulsion, apply it to a sheet of glass, expose without the help of a meter (really not that hard when the sensitivity of the emulsion was so low) and enter your dark tent to process the plate. All within the space of a few minutes, before the latent image degraded irretrievably. But the camera is just a tool, like a stylus or a biro or a quill. The camera doesn't make the image, the photographer does. Improvements in technology on their own only make it easier to make well exposed, badly composed images – as opposed to badly exposed and badly composed images. It's the composition that really matters, and that's the bit that technology can't help you with.

"...you only need a good eye to be able to take an outstanding photograph."

My problem here is with the word "only" – take "only" out and I might agree with this second clause. Ingram is using it here in the sense of "merely". It's like saying, "You only have to be a genius to understand quantum theory." Only implies that making an outstanding photograph is a simple thing, a breeze, just like falling off a log...

Count to ten... the hardest part of making a photograph is seeing the photograph. The completed photographic image, unlike other visual arts, gives no hint of the struggle or effort inherent in its making; it bears no makers marks such as brush strokes or the scoring of a stone chisel. It stands so utterly as a substitute for human vision that it is easy to believe that it has been created without any effort at all. Easy, but not true!

"But this has made life difficult for the professionals, who have to be able to demonstrate that they are in a different league to the rest of us.”

This so completely misrepresents reality that it is either breathtakingly naive or audaciously disingenuous ( I suspect the latter). The only thing that professional photographers have to do to demonstrate that they are in a "different league" is to convince hard-bitten commissioners of photography that they're worth spending money on. These people don't give up their money easily. The photographers have to deliver the goods! And the goods in this case are amazing images often made in exceptionally challenging conditions, technically or physically or both, such as a sports field or a theatre of war. How, I wonder , would Mr Ingram get on in Iraq with his technically improved camera? And let's not forget the amazing images made by non-professionals who also rely on a "good eye". Good photographers are good photographers, whether they're paid for it or not. "Professional" is an artificial distinction seized upon by Ingram merely so that he can bitch.

One final thought, if technology was really that important in making photographs why isn't the world awash with new Ansel Adams' or Robert Capas ?

2007-07-02T14:37:00.001Z

My life as an Artist…

A number of my friends and peers (some are even both!) have been telling me for some time that I should, “Get out there more.” They want my work to reach a wider audience, they want me to be recognised (by whom?) for my contribution to photography (however minor) and they also want me to be financially rewarded for that contribution.

Well, obviously, one doesn’t want to turn down money – as my mother in law says, “Refuse nothing but blows!” We all have to find a way to pay our own way in the modern world but picking the right path can be tricky for some ways of life and particularly for an artist.

The eternal economic question that the individual must ask himself or herself is does one work to live or live to work? For the aspiring artist there should be no doubt that one lives to work – lives to create works might be a better way of putting it. The economic realm should be but a minor consideration for the artist. Few of us, however, have the willpower to turn our backs on financial reward or, even if we are unaffected by the lure of Mammon, to deprive those we love and support of material goods. Of course in the West this is usually a question of picking which “wants” to fulfil rather than which “needs”. The spiritual and moral integrity of what they are doing should be of much more importance to the artist.

It also seems to me that one of the things that is incumbent upon artists is to dream for those trapped in the secular, capitalist world of “proper” jobs. And, by that dreaming, open the eyes of others to new possibilities. It’s perhaps harder to have those dreams when one is a wage slave oneself.

But, in the last half century the artist has moved from dreamer to professional maker in a kind of reversal of the process that occurred during the Renaissance. From prehistory through to the late Middle Ages the artist was usually anonymous. They were artisans rather than celebrities. Their job was to fashion the work in much the same spirit as a blacksmith fashioned metal. Their tools were different but the product, like a horseshoe, had an acknowledged purpose within society. In the case of Art its job was to be educative or transcendental. The artist’s imagination was applied within prescribed limits. There was a tacit awareness that if they made the work too personal its functionality might be compromised, rather like a horseshoe with unnecessary curlicue decorations!

The Renaissance saw the rise of artist as individual, the rise of Artist as Celebrity. The celebrity artist was supported by a system of patronage; they had to sing for their suppers. Artists forged or were more likely offered relationships with rich and powerful benefactors who saw the advantage of a visible association with the intellectual and aesthetic high ground. This was much more often a political move rather than an altruistic one. The patrons weren’t supporting Art for Art’s sake but rather for what it could do for their social standing – much in the same way that in recent years the large corporations have sought relationships with the Art world and museums as a kind of high-brow PR exercise: we might be raping the rain forest but hey, look, we think Picasso is really cool!

By the middle of the 20th Century patronage by individuals had all but disappeared. The artist was left to fend for themselves in the hard commercial world, their work vying for the buyers’ attention with other more prosaic wants. Whereas throughout history Art had served a social purpose, from spiritual or religious through to expounding the dominant ideology, it was now just product.

Which leaves the artist with a bit of a dilemma. What exactly is their job in the Modern world? It doesn’t seem to be expounding a dominant ideology as, beyond “The individual is king”, there doesn’t seem to be one in the West anymore. Is it, then, asking awkward questions of the viewer by making so-called “anxious objects” or is it simply making decorative products? The former was certainly the position adopted by the Modernist avant-garde but commercial pressure seems to be forcing the latter position on artists in the post-modern era.

Most have chosen to ignore the problem by treating Art as just another professional realm, like medicine or law: a task to be performed efficiently, thoroughly and perhaps a little soullessly. The professionalization of Art has meant that economic concerns have become as important, if not more important, to the artist as aesthetic or social ones. In an Art world where anything goes, and the individual artist is king, whose to say whether a particular work of art is “good”? The arbiter has become the market place. How much a particular artist’s work sells for, the works’ extrinsic value, becomes more important than its intrinsic worth. If enough noise is made about an artist, if enough canny marketing applied to their “brand” then chances are they will become “successful” – if the measure of success is purely financial. The gallery owners, even more than art critics, are now the market makers. But what’s more important: the work or the hype?

It seems to me that there’s a huge problem here. The gallery system drives the market and demands a flow of product in order to maintain the flow of cash. Huge pressure is then placed on the artist just to churn out product and the quality of the work invariably suffers as a result.

Despite what Andy Warhol thought, as far as I’m concerned Art isn’t the same as cans of soup and I don’t feel that it has to be sold in the same fashion. When Alfred Stieglitz opened his gallery at 291 Fifth Avenue in New York in the early years of the last century he put belief in the work above commercial value. He sometimes doubled a work’s price, or refused to sell it, if he felt the buyer were just acquiring it as an investment; sometimes, if he were impressed with the buyer’s passion but they didn’t have deep enough pockets, he even sold a work at half price. Can you imagine a gallery today doing that?

Another question is also apparent; what happens to the quiet voice? What happens to the artist who lives to work, who places spiritual, aesthetic or intellectual inquiry above economic reward? Do these people even still exist? Well I certainly hope so as I consider myself amongst their number.

How is all this reflected in my life? The work has always come first for me. I didn’t become a photographer for the glamorous high-flying lifestyle (which is lucky because I haven’t found one!) I’m motivated by a sense of photographic enquiry, both intellectual and aesthetic, rather than by the money – again, lucky! All I’ve ever wanted to be as a photographer was the best that I could possibly be at making images. My friend, and peer, Joe Cornish once said to me that if you truly apply yourself to your art then eventually you will be recognized and rewarded. I’m not sure that van Gogh would agree with him… Sadly for my heirs an imminent demise wouldn’t boost the value of my images particularly – if you’re looking to market a myth tragically middle-aged just doesn’t cut it!

In case you’re getting an impression of me as a tortured ascetic that’s absolutely not me. I love my Art but I also love life. There are just some things I won’t do in order to make a buck. What I won’t do is make images simply because they have earnings potential, this covers a spectrum that ranges from chocolate box to the passionless approach of someone like Andreas Gursky. I’m intent on taking my own journey and making my own discoveries rather than following a well-trodden path.

So, like many others I suspect, I’ve reached a compromise that has entailed a dilution of my artistic effort. I have throughout most of my photographic career produced two distinctly different threads of work: commercial and personal. The former might best be characterised as being purely illustrative and the latter images that, however imperfectly, seek a level of transcendence. But as I approach 50 I’ve become increasingly frustrated with this workaround. I now want my cake and I want to eat it too! So I’m faced with finding a solution to the dilemma outlined above. Do I continue to split my efforts between commercial and personal work or do I throw myself on the mercy of the gallery system with the consequent potentially damaging professionalization of my personal work? And, in any case, little prospect as a photographer of finding commercial success. Or do I find a third way? I’ll let you know how the search is going…

2007-06-17T08:43:00.000Z

"Art, huh, what is it good for?"...(Part Two)

Following on from my last post on Art it seems appropriate to discuss a question posed at a recent talk I gave. A member of the audience asked, "Do you feel that it's your duty to lobby for protection of the environment through your work?" From her manner I think the enquirer was probably expecting a resounding, "Yes!" but I'm afraid that I disappointed her.

A deep love of the natural world is fundamental to my photography but I don't think that it's my job to act as a crude propagandist through my images. I'm happy to write or talk about respecting the creatures around us and protecting the future of our planet and, more than this, to follow this up (as imperfectly as humans do) by trying my best to "do my bit". But for me this debate doesn't have a place in my images, at least not in any unsophisticated and obvious way.

It seems to me that I was also being asked the question, "Why do you only make positive images of nature?" Well one strong reason is that I don't believe that making negative images of environmental destruction is going to change anything. Negative imagery is a turn off. Apart from a tiny minority of committed people everyone else looks the other way. They don't want to see bad things and adopt the visual equivalent of the fingers in the ears "La, la, la I can't hear you" pose.

A subtext of this question is an accusation that by making positive images of the natural world I am somehow complicit in the destruction that goes on everyday. I don't think so! This is a kind of "If you're not with us you're against us!" argument, a bullying attitude adopted by the radical tendency of many different political movements including the environmental one. I refuse to be bullied.

The word "duty" in the question is telling. Who or what do I owe a duty to? This question goes to the heart of the relationship between the public and private persona of the artist. In the minds of some there should be no separation between the public and private realm for an Artist; the Artist should live their Art. From this standpoint, since I am a lover of the natural world, it is my duty to proselytise; to convert the great unwashed to my point of view, to get them on-side in the crusade. Actually I think this is what I'm doing, but in a subtle way.

I make positive images and I refuse to apologise for that. The natural world makes me feel positive and that emotion is one of the prime reasons for me making images. I am convinced that positive emotions are much more likely to effect change than negative ones. Seeing something as beautiful is much more likely to motivate somebody to fight to protect that thing than seeing something as having already been despoiled is. It's simple human nature that negative images cause negative reactions. They cause the majority of viewers to withdraw from the debate because they feel the battle is already lost. Rather than causing an uprising, as the propagandists would have us believe they do, negative images are just too depressing and cause the majority of the populous to run and hide.

Portraying something in a positive light isn't necessarily denying that negative things are happening, it may be a denial but it doesn't have to be. Life is more complicated than that! I'm not advocating support for an apologist position, such as that of Nazi sympathiser Leni Riefenstahl. By making positive images of nature I'm not being an apologist for the governments and multi-nationals who are raping our planet. Saying that something is wonderful absolutely isn't the same as saying that it's OK to destroy it. In Riefenstahl's case she was praising the Nazis, the agent of destruction. If we transferred her position to landscape photography it would be like me praising a particular company or government that was implicated in an environmental disaster. It would be like me making heroic images of chain saws and earth moving equipment – that's not something you'll ever see me do!

The original question belongs, I think, to the Marxist tradition of seeing Art's role in quite simplistic terms as a kind of supercharged propaganda. I'm absolutely certain that Art can be deeply affecting on a personal level but I'm not convinced that it can work effectively as a means of changing the world on its own. Picasso's painting Guernica is probably the most famous piece of 20th century art inspired by a political will to protest, in this case against the Nazi bombing of a Spanish village. Did Guernica change the course of the Spanish Civil War to any significant degree? I don't think so. Visual Art is a weak tool when used against guns. The pen might be mightier than the sword, as Edward Lytton wrote in 1839, but I'm afraid that images aren't a match for armaments. Partly this is because it's just too easy to look the other way and partly it's because of a deeper philosophical problem: there is no consistent interpretation of a single image, no language in common between the artist and the viewer or even between one member of the audience and another. The message in Art and photography is too unfocused without written words, a caption, attached. The message is literally ineffable.

The visual arts can lend their weight to a debate but they're never going to be instrumental in causing a political u-turn. The will needs to be present already.

I want to show my wonder at the natural world and to explore notions of vision and perception through my images. I am not interested in creating images of the natural world whose sole purpose is to act as a polemic, I'll leave that to those who are more suited to it. Part of being an artist is about being true to oneself. If we force ourselves, or even worse are coerced, into producing Art to fit somebody else's agenda that work can only ever be third rate. Great works spring from the heart of the Artist, they are not imposed from outside. Saying that I don't want to make propaganda doesn't make me any less worthy as an artist or as a human being. That's a nonsensical argument; it's like accusing a plumber of being a bad person because they don't want to be a prima ballerina. If you're moved to make polemical work fine, if you're not that's equally fine. Art is big enough for both approaches.

2007-06-15T23:38:00.000Z

The King is dead, long live the King...

I've been given some of the NEW Velvia 50 to try by Fuji and want to share my findings (so far).

For landscape photographers the prospect of the sun setting on the Golden Age of Velvia has been traumatic to put it mildly. There was a brief glimmer of hope a couple of years ago, a false dawn as it turned out, when Fuji announced a "replacement" in the guise of Velvia 100. I say false dawn because 100 could never be described, even by the most charitable of photographers, as a replacement for 50. The magic of the original Velvia 50 was that it was a saturated film that still rendered realistic colours. It gave the scene a bit of ooomph without the cloying effect of some emulsions from other manufacturers (you know who you are Kodak!). 100 has none of the delightful subtlety of 50, in fact it has been described by some as Redvia for its strong tendency toward overcooking the warm end of the spectrum. Kyriakos Kalorkoti has written a very insightful review of the differences between the two emulsions on his website – follow the links to the articles section and read his review.

So it was with considerable trepidation that I approached my chance to try the new 50. I didn't want to be let down again!

I only had a chance to make two comparison images on my first outing with the new 50 and I've chosen to show this one as it was made in overcast conditions, my favourite light for the original 50.

The first thing that struck me when I placed the two transparencies side by side on the light box was how red / magenta the old 50 looked next to the new. In contrast, the new emulsion appears neutral – certainly not cold as I would have expected from that famously 'neutral' film Provia. This bodes well for my photography because these are the conditions in which so many other films would require an overall warm-up to make them acceptable. I try and avoid using a filter in this way. Its global effect, enhancing the warm tones and neutralising the cold ones, is fine except when you want to emphasize colour contrast in an image, something I do quite often. The warm-up kills or severely diminishes this effect and thus restricts my options for creative use of the colour of light. It's much better to rely on the broad colour response of the original emulsion if you can find one to suit your taste. The old 50 hardly ever needed a warm-up, it just subtly enhanced the colours that were there. The new one looks at first try like it may follow the old's lead.

I had been forewarned by Joe Cornish that his first tests had shown that, unlike its predecessor, the new 50 was near to its advertised speed rating. So, I exposed the original stock at ISO32 – as I usually do – and simply changed the ISO on the meter to get my exposure for the new film. The two images are almost exactly the same density so I've concluded that Mk2 really is ISO 50.

My first impressions (and I only got the film back today!) are favourable. I need to shoot much more film in a variety of different lighting conditions before I can accurately assess whether it truly is a worthy successor. I'll let you know how things develop (sic) and post some more images as I make them. The new film may not quite be the King yet but it certainly doesn't appear to be a hopeless pretender.

Now, anyone interested in a freezer load of 50 Mk1...

2007-06-09T09:16:00.000Z

"It's all down to the equipment, isn't it mate?"...

A couple of years ago I received some fascinating feedback on my book, Landscape Within, from a reader whose flat mate, after a quick flick through my book, apparently made the statement, "Guaranteed, I could take any of these pictures." Let’s call this person The Critic, as opposed to something ruder!

I know many photographers are far more accomplished than I am but must admit I was somewhat taken aback by this statement. The Critic’s statement reflects a depressing and prevailing attitude in society that photography requires little skill on the part of the photographer in order to accomplish good results.

To a large extent this springs from the widely held belief that equipment is more important in the making of a photograph than the vision of the photographer. Photography seems to be unique in engendering this attitude – I would wager that no one said to Titian, “You must have had really good sable brushes to paint that!” – but to make a good photograph it seems that all you need is a good camera. The camera manufacturers have been telling us that photography is easy since its invention (and, bless them, they have made it considerably easier to overcome some of the technical issues) so I guess it's not too surprising that this view is so prevalent. My objection to The Critic’s statement is not the bald assertion that image making is possible for all - it’s impossible to disagree with that at a basic level - rather it’s the implication that it’s easy to make “good” images.

Setting aside for a moment exactly what constitutes a “good” photograph let’s look at some of the assumptions behind the statement, remembering as we do that assumptions make asses of us all.

Seeing the finished image and saying it would be easy to make betrays The Critic’s basic ignorance of the process. Here are just a few of the variables that any accomplished photographer has to consider when making a landscape photograph and some questions to pose to The Critic;

The contrast range of the image and what compensating filtration will be needed to render the tones successfully - does The Critic understand how to use a lightmeter in order to read the luminosity range of the scene? Does he understand that neither film nor digital imaging can render the same contrast range as the human eye can see? Or, does he just assume incorrectly that the camera can solve all this for him?

The light level - does he understand the principle of reciprocity failure for film?

The colour of the light - does he understand that light varies in colour and would he know how to control that variation to produce the results that he wants /sees in the book?

The quality of the light - does he understand under what circumstances it would be better to shoot an image in soft light or hard light? Does he understand how the quality of the light affects our reading of the image?

The direction of the light and the best time to shoot - does he know how to assess when the light will strike a potential subject from the desired direction?

The choice of film stock / RAW / jpeg – does he understand how these choices affect the finished image?

The weather conditions – would the image be better with or without clouds, is it too windy or too wet?

Now, it’s true that some of these problems can be solved by correctly employing the technical features built in to modern DSLRs or film cameras but many can only be solved by the photographer using their expert judgement accrued over many years of experience. I haven’t even mentioned yet the particular technical issues involved in using a view camera, let alone the potential difficulties in accessing the location or the number of visits that might be needed before the conditions are right.

These technical and logistical issues are, in any case, only a part of the problem - and the simplest part to solve at that! I know from my experiences leading photography workshops that the biggest challenge for most photographers is to actually see the potential for an image in the first place. Choosing what to take is the hardest part of photography;

Is the subject worthy of representation, am I just wasting pixels or silver halide grains?

What lens should I use? Do I want to compress the perspective or exaggerate it?

What angle should I use?

What should I place in the frame and what should I leave out? Does that element detract from the composition or does it enhance the image?

But (and I've said this before!) the collapsing of all possible viewpoints into the finished image means that a successful photograph makes the choices taken seem both obvious and inevitable.

Perhaps the most important question to address, therefore, is has The Critic ever made any images like the ones he says he could make when seeing mine? Saying that you could have done something after the fact without any evidence to support it is very easy to do - we can all say that we could have scored a goal like Beckham (well, perhaps not too much of a stretch on recent performance...) but simply asserting it doesn't make it true! The plain fact is that when something is executed well it often appears to be easy to achieve - it might appear effortless but I can assure The Critic that it isn’t!

Taking a "snap" is not the same thing as making a photograph. But the camera manufacturers, for obvious commercial reasons, decline to make this distinction and in the process foster the impression that photography, without qualification, is easy. Given this prevailing attitude and the lack of emphasis on visual education in the UK can The Critic even be expected to tell the difference between a “good photograph” and a “snap”?

If he truly could make all of those images then he should, without question, be a professional photographer - in fact I'd be surprised if I didn't already know him. Maybe my correspondent is living with Joe Cornish!

The preceding was originally published in Outdoor Photography. I've updated and amended it and make no apology for presenting it again – it's still relevant!

2007-06-03T12:57:00.000Z

To paraphrase Edwin Starr, "Art, huh, what is it good for?"... (Part One)

I've spent quite a long time as a photographer pondering on the nature of Art; just what is Art? And specifically I've been seeking to find photography's place in the wider world of Art: not to mention justifying it as Art to a few people! But in the last few weeks (and some might say this is a little late in the day) I've begun to ponder not, "What is Art?" but rather "What should it do?"

I guess the reason it has taken me so long to get around to asking this question is that I was always comfortable with what Art (read photography) did for me. More than that it was bloody obvious! Making photographs allowed me to express myself and viewing Art taught me about other ways of seeing. But what does my photography do for other people? What is the use of Art to society as a whole?

Time was, before photography, before the Avant Garde and Modernism, that Art in the Western world served as a kind of social glue. Paintings and sculpture were used to disseminate throughout society the ideas of the social elite, be they secular or religious leaders. Works of Art contained both explicit and hidden allegorical meanings, often referring to Biblical or Greek sources. There were great Artists but they were subordinate to Art, gifted interpreters and innovators but never the Source of Art.

Then along came Modernism... And Western Art split into a thousand movements, each with their own agenda, each with their own view, each more inward looking than the last. Ultimately Art in the Modernist era became about the individual, it became a celebration of the unique vision of the gifted Artist. Art was whatever an Artist said it was. You might be forgiven for thinking that this was a liberating advance, a break away from the stranglehold of the ruling elite, a chance for us all to have our say. But I don't think it quite worked out like that...

Art for Art's sake became a joke, a practice so inward looking that it disappeared up it's own fundament. Society as a whole came to distrust Modern Art, it was viewed as an elite club that had turned its back on the rest of us. Only Artists could understand Art so why bother to talk to the Great Unwashed? Capitalism seized the opportunity offered by Art's fractured disarray to commoditize it. As Andy Warhol knowingly pointed out, Art had become just another good like Campbells Soup. A proliferation of brands followed, artists who actually made a living from their works climbed from a few hundred across the entire US in the 1950's to thousands in New York City alone by the mid 1980's. One has to ask what benefit did this explosion of expression do society as a whole?

But the Modernists didn't get it all there own way; another "M'ism" had a lot to say about what Art's purpose should be. Marxism held that Art's job was to shed light on human existence; to explain and, at the same time, ease our pain. Artists, such as the Abstract Expressionists, who turned inward, offering no commentary and excluding references to the outside world, were exhibiting the worst kind of decadent behaviour in the eyes of the Marxists. All very worthy but is human existence solely concerned with our relationships with other human beings? The answer is plainly no, so surely Art should have a wider remit.

I believe that there must be room for a middle path between the solipsism of Modernism and the Marxist directive for Art to concentrate on the social world. Surely these are just different forms of anthropocentrism, both equally self-centred. What's wrong with Art looking at the natural world. Not the capitalised, mystical Nature celebrated by Ansel Adams et al but simply the environments that gave birth to Humanity. The natural world is held in common and offers a much wider realm than mankind. It surely can't be true that Art has exhausted the possibilities for exploration and expression encompassed by the planet around us.

There are moments when I'm standing waiting to make an image when I feel completely connected to the world around me; connected to the soil or rock at my feet, connected to the air moving across my body, connected to the birds flying through the air. Those moments are what I seek to capture in my images, to share them with a wider audience and hopefully to evoke a response in return. I make my images for me but not because I want to be inward looking. The work of an artist must be intensely personal if it is to carry any force but it doesn't have to be exclusive.

I'm not sure that I've come to a definitive answer about "What should Art do?" but I think I can definitely make a stab at explaining its role for me. Art shouldn't become so wrapped up in its own concerns that it becomes incomprehensible to a wider audience, it should be inclusive and not alienating, it should express the feelings and ideas of the Artist and, at its best, it should change how we see the world around us. Quite a wish list but one I'm happy to try and aspire to.

Edwin Starr's famous song continued with, "Absolutely nothing, say it again!" This might have applied to Art under the reign of Modernism but I think it's time we claimed it back for a populist audience.

See Part Two here

2007-05-16T11:21:00.000Z

Although I've taken images since 1979 I don't feel that I became a photographer until 1999...

I can more or less pinpoint the transition from "taker" to "maker" to the day when I created the image on the left.

It was the first time that I had consciously 'seen' a part of the landscape as an abstract rather than just a 'detail'. It was also the first time that I sought to impart more than a simple description. This is an important distinction.

The detail is merely an illustration of a small part of the wider landscape, its ambitions are limited to describing some noteworthy (for the photographer) portion of reality. In this way it fulfills the role of answering the viewers' questions (if they have any!) about the subject of the photograph.

The abstract, on the other hand, doesn't seek to answer anything; rather it forces the viewer to ask some questions of the photograph / photographer: what am I looking at? why did the photographer make this image? why did they choose to compose it like this? how does this make me feel? unmoved? curious? what is the scale? is scale important?

These questions, and many more, make the abstract photograph more 'difficult' to view in the sense that viewing an abstract image requires the active participation of the viewer. Most photographs are viewed passively; we absorb what they show without any conscious effort. But, in the same way that a McDonalds is pleasant to eat but no more – because it requires very little mastication – one of these passive photographs leaves no permanent impression on us. An hour, or at most a day, after we've looked at a passive image it's lost to our memory.

What we get out of photographs is directly linked to the effort that we put into the viewing and it seems obvious to me that the photographer's duty is to try and engage the viewer; not simply by making 'pretty' images but by asking something of them in return for the gift of the image. They should sing for their suppers!

2007-04-30T13:33:00.000Z

Dear Doctor...

"My friend has a problem. He seems only to be able to make crap photos at the moment even though he is a good photographer. Does this happen to you ever? I do hope that you can help him!" A reader (name & address withheld)

This is a common problem amongst men and women of a certain age and I certainly do have periods when I don't take any good images. Such dry periods may last for a few days or even weeks. The image at left was made last summer after a week or so of not being able to see a single decent composition. But, quite suddenly, when I had almost given up hope of seeing anything worth photographing I saw this composition. I was walking along a beach without my camera and had to rush back to the vehicle to get my gear (N.B. no rocks were moved during the making of this image!)

More often than not this lack of vision is just a result of not being in the right frame of mind. I find that I need to empty my mind of other distractions – like how I can possibly afford to pay the gas bill or which colour shirt goes best with my eyes (puce) – before I can hope to see anything. I know that for many of us finding the time to make images is hard enough, never mind finding the time to get in the right frame of mind but this step is crucial if we want to make original photographs and not just revisit old ground. It's better to take one's time rather than rush and peak too soon (another common male problem...)

I used to feel very frustrated when I couldn't see, blaming myself for a lack of ability or insight, but I've since realised that I usually just need to clear my mind and relax into picture making. Getting frustrated just makes it worse! OK, I'm not perfect and I do still get frustrated sometimes.

Sometimes this dry period indicates a forthcoming change in my photography. I think that what's happening is a shift in my perception, a reassessment of my work that has gone before or, most excitingly, it might signal my turning onto a completely different artistic heading.

So, I've now begun to see this lack of image making as a positive thing. I know it can be frustrating and depressing but I can assure you that your "friend" hasn't lost the ability to make images. You are probably – sorry I mean he is probably beginning to see things differently and this will eventually work its way through to making new and exciting images.

2007-04-28T13:15:00.000Z

Egoist or egotist...

One of my readers recently said to me that she felt that my images and Joe Cornish's images had no trace of our ego in them. I was puzzled by this comment so I asked her to expand upon her thesis.

As I understand it (and please let me know if I'm wrong – you know who you are!) she meant that the photographic message wasn't being distorted by our egos; that he and I weren't being vain or showing off, but simply trying to convey our feelings about the subject in hand to a wider audience. And furthermore, that this selfless approach gave our images clarity and veracity.

I'm not at all sure that what I do is selfless, in fact I'm fairly certain that, from my perspective, it's the ultimate selfish act. What I'm trying to do, first and foremost, when I make a photograph is to express my feelings about a subject. I can hope that others may like my work but ultimately I make all my images for me. And what makes me share them with others is another selfish desire.

After the creative urge, one of the deepest desires of an artist is to be praised by one's audience, to be recognised for one's work by one's peers, to be patted on the back – in short, to have one's ego well and truly massaged! This is of course also the reason that we find external criticism of our work so difficult; when someone attacks our work they are attacking our personalities at the deepest level. An artist's images are an expression of their inner self. So saying that an image is rubbish isn't at all the same as saying that you hate the cut of their clothes or even that you hate the colour of their hair. These physical manifestations (even though the latter might have a fundamental genetic link!) are only about surface, mere appearance. You can always change your tailor or buy some hair dye but saying an image is poor is an attack on our ego, the very basis of our being.

John Szarkowzki, the American photographer and former Museum of Modern Art curator, organised an exhibition entitled "Mirrors and Windows" at MoMA in New York in 1978. His premise for the exhibition was that all photographs are either "mirrors" of the photographer's concerns or "windows" onto the world. The first are more likely to be concerned with abstract ideas about the world, to fall into what one might call Art, and the latter concerned with seemingly plain descriptions of the world, to fall into what might be termed Documentary.

I would contend that images cannot simply be one or the other, but rather must be a blend. There is no such thing as a pure documentary photograph. The image is fundamentally linked to reality; it is a partial document of the moment and place at which it was made. But the hand of the photographer when they release the shutter is driven by the mind of the photographer – a notoriously biased influence! Similarly there is no such thing as an image that purely reflects the concerns of the photographer. The audiences' interpretation of an image is derive as much by their viewpoint as by that of the photographer. All photographs cannot help but contain an element of ego and an element of truth.

I would still feel flattered (and nothing appeals more to the ego than flattery!) if my reader felt that I let the subject in any of my images speak more loudly than my own voice. In other words that my style or vision, direct expressions of my personality, were subordinate to the subject. I would feel that I had failed if the photographs screamed "Me, me, me!" to the audience. I want the subject to appear as if one were staring into a limpid pool, to be presented in as pellucid a manner as possible. This might seem contradictory given that I stated right at the beginning that the making of images was a fundamentally selfish occupation for me. But, ironically, photographers are alone in the world of artistic representation in finding that the more transparent their style the greater the reputation they may command as photographers.

Every other visual artist seeks to differentiate their vision from that of others in their field, to proclaim it as unique, by dint of overt stylistic devices; van Gogh's textural application of paint, Rembrandt's glowing depiction of light, Lowry's stick men. But photographers wish to impress upon their audience the fundamental truthfulness of what they have seen. The use of photographic mannerisms, such as obvious filtration or extreme wide angle views, only serve to undermine any claims to veracity. Such mannerisms overtly declare the presence of the photographer when they wish to declare what they have seen as paramount. They want to present their work as a slice of the real world, albeit one that only they were gifted enough to perceive and present to the viewer. The unique voice of the photographer is, necessarily, to be found not only in what they choose to photograph but also in the way that they compose the image.

But the photograph is a trick of the light, a visual sleight of hand. It presents us with the photographer's vision, collapsing all possible viewpoints into their single one, but does it in such a way that we ignore this distillation and adopt their 'real' viewpoint as if it were our own. In this way the photographer almost becomes invisible, it's almost as if in some bizarre way they played no part in the making of the image. Perhaps this is why my reader felt that there was no trace of ego in my images.

The evolutionary theorist Richard Dawkins famously made the claim in the "Selfish Gene" that there's no such thing as altruism, that even a bee that gives its own life to protect the hive is ultimately being selfish. Similarly sharing our view of the world, a product of our ego, isn't being altruistic. If I, as a photographer, can claim not only insight but also veracity for my images then people will think that I'm a better photographer – yet another way for my ego to be massaged. But the ego can be subtle, and in that subtlety others may benefit. Ultimately, it matters not how much a photograph is the product of our ego so long as others can extract some good from viewing it.

2007-04-27T15:51:00.000Z

To make or not to make...

A tongue in cheek comment has got me thinking about the infrequency of my image making and wondering whether I should be anxious about it!

The question was posed; if we make fewer images as we become more proficient photographers then what would happen if one ever achieved genius level? Would it mean that one would never make an image again? Perhaps the genius landscape photographer would still wander across the land, a forlorn figure, glancing around from time to time and completing a stunning composition in their head but never bothering to get their camera out of the bag. Perhaps they have achieved some Zen like state of perfection but perhaps it's just a case of seen that before, done that already!

It is undoubtedly true that many photographers (myself included) make fewer images the longer that they have been photographers. Rather than a symptom of creeping apathy or rising indifference this is, in fact, a healthy sign. It means that we're learning from our accumulated experience, that we're realising more consistently what images will or won't work before we press the shutter. I'd be very worried indeed if I was still making as many mistakes now as I did twenty years ago!

Making fewer images doesn't necessarily mean that at some point we will run out of images or feel that we don't need to make any more. I find that the longer I work as a photographer the more possibilities I realise for image making, that I see beyond the obvious and notice subjects that a year or two before I wouldn't even have realised could be used as the basis for successful images. However, these possibilities are often more technically or compositionally challenging than my earlier work. And this factor also means that I'm likely to make fewer images.

So, rather than feel downhearted, I view this dwindling as a positive sign. The images that I make may be fewer in number but I feel that their quality improves with each passing year.

2007-04-08T18:20:00.000Z

How do we compose an image?

Apart, that is, from the obvious route of following some "rules" or re-visiting a "template" from one of our earlier images – we've probably all done this, in fact artists throughout history have re-worked particular ideas. What, I wonder, is the deeper mental process, or processes, that lead to us realising that we've found a composition? I don't claim to be able to make a definitive answer but I want to open a debate.

I think we've all had the experience of visiting a location and not seeing any obvious compositions but then suddenly being struck, almost as if one had been physically smacked between the eyes, that HERE is the picture. Sometimes this is an instantaneous reaction, often there is a process of assimilation of the salient forms which suddenly seem to coalesce before your mind's eye into a decent composition. Sometimes it doesn't strike your companions at all.

The image above, of Vikspollen in the Lofoten Islands, was made when I travelled there with a tour group in 2005. Sunset is very late in August in the Arctic Circle and the group had been having their evening meal and watching interesting light develop to the west of the islands. We had had very mixed conditions with only one decent sunset so far and everyone was champing at the bit to get out and make an image in some glorious late light. This dearth of sunset opportunities had led the group to an expectation of the kind of image they were going to make.

As we drove the 10 or 12 miles to our "sunset" location the cloud began to build in the west and the earlier promise of golden light was extinguished. A sense of disappointment settled over many of the group. They had had a fixed notion of their chosen photographic goal and its likely outcome and now realised that this was not going to be achievable.

The problem was that they were no longer open to the opportunities that still presented themselves. It wasn't going to be glorious but it was mean and moody and this might make an equally powerful image. Wandering around the foreshore I came across this striking boulder, covered in white lichen and perfectly positioned at the apex of converging grooves in the mid grey granite. These suggested an exaggerated perspective (recession on steroids!) leading the eye through the image nexus of the contrasting white boulder – the single, discrete element linking the miniature graphic landscape of the foreshore to the distant greater landscape. But I didn't consciously think about how these elements related to each other prior to making the image. I just knew that it worked, I instinctively and immediately recognised the possibility for a strong composition. How? More on that in a moment, first I want to relate the reaction of various members of the group.

I showed the boulder to two or three people who all failed to see any potential for an image; stuck, as they were I suspect, in frustrated sunset mode. It's apparent to me, then, that the first essential part of the process for finding a composition is opening one's mind to whatever possibilities are around you. Minor White wrote on the state of mind of a photographer creating an image, "the lack of a pre-formed pattern or preconceived idea of how anything ought to look is essential to this blank [creative] condition. Such a state of mind is not unlike a sheet of film itself - seemingly inert, yet so sensitive that a fraction of a second's exposure conceives a life in it. (Not just life, but "a" life)."

Having set the essential precondition for finding a composition it's time to return to the "How?" question. It seems inherent in my earlier description of how compositions seem to suddenly, and almost unexpectedly, arrive in our mind's eye that the "How?" involves largely unconscious processes. I recently read a book entitled Blink by thought provoking journalist Malcolm Gladwell. Gladwell's basic premise for the book is that humans make "illogical", instant, snap decisions (how apt in the context of this discussion!) seemingly on the basis of very little information and that these judgements, made in the blink of an eye, are often better than those achieved through rigorous logical analysis of a situation. It occurs to me that this is how we make our best compositions. Edward Weston wrote on how we compose that, "Such rules [of composition] and laws are deduced from the accomplished fact; they are the products of reflection..." And I feel that whilst some of this "reflection" arises from a conscious appraisal of completed work, both our own and that of other artists, the most important part is subconscious and never spoken or even overtly recognised.

Gladwell explains that these instantaneous appraisals are based upon a sub-conscious sorting of a mental database of facts acquired over our lifetime. I like to imagine that when I'm searching for a composition part of my mind is flicking through hanging files in an almost infinitely deep filing cabinet draw, of the kind beloved by cartoonists (but perhaps that's a personal problem of mine!). Most of the files get rejected – their contents are inappropriate for the compositional problem presented to me at that moment. My subconscious mind flicks on, at an enormous speed and all hidden from my conscious mind, picking out this file and that until it has assembled a group of scenarios that relate to the lie of the land in front of me. Now comes a blending, a synthesis. Still at the subconscious level, my mind selects a part of this file and blends it with a part of that, mixing a tiny portion of a third or fourth and so on. There's a whiff of alchemy or magic about this, indeed adepts have often been credited with almost paranormal insight. But I don't believe that anything magical occurs. The more you see – the more you truly look – the more "files" there will be in your mental filing cabinet and the easier it will be to find images.

One final thought, the fact that the compositional process is hidden from our conscious selves makes many artists uneasy, and especially photographers who's practice is rooted in hard technicalities. These individuals often seek solace in the concrete notion of compositional rules but this is an illusory comfort. Rules bind the user, they don't allow them to find their own road but fence them in. The greatest images almost always defy categorisation using the rules of composition, they're to be found in the great uncharted land beyond the fence.

2007-03-31T15:21:00.000Z

What would a judge think of my work?

This thought occurred to me whilst I was looking at some truly exquisite black & white images taken by Tony Gardner, a participant on a recent large format workshop led by Joe Cornish and I. Tony had a selection of superb high key images, many of which had, to be fair, been judged as prize winners. But the story relating to one image in particular was both depressing and fascinating.

Tony showed us an image that might be thought of as being in the Michael Kenna school, though not in any way derivative of that great photographer's work. This image had been a medal winner at one salon yet when it was presented it to another judge at his own club the judge took a cursory glance and then turned the print to the wall and made the following remark, "This is the kind of image that looks better this way round." What did he mean by this?

Tony took it to mean that in this judge's opinion the image wasn't very good, that the most interesting thing about it was the array of judges' awards affixed to the rear of the mount; first, distinction, highly commended etc. More than that, that this judge was surprised at the accolades that had been heaped upon this image. As I've said before in previous posts, photography is relative. So, we can't castigate the judge for his opinion – that is , after all, what he was called upon to provide. The problem is the manner in which it was delivered.

What gives him the right to belittle somebody's work? What possible benefit is there in being harsh in such an unconstructive way? I can only think that it made the judge feel superior and that, sadly, that's how he thought he ought to feel. He'd been called upon to exercise his judgement. He felt that his opinion was exalted. So, it would seem, he felt that he was superior to the photographers' whose work he was criticizing.

But that is surely not the true role of the judge. He should be humble. He must bear in mind that whatever he feels about the image presented to him the person whose vision it is has no doubt poured their heart and soul into its making. When we attack another keen photographer's work we are making a personal attack on that person. We imbue our photographs with our own spirit, we put our heart and soul into making images and for someone to be so flippant and cruel is inexcusable.

Of course the judge can be critical, that is his role, but any criticism should be constructive not destructive. The latter helps no one to achieve better results. A judge's role is not to show how clever they are but to help the photographers to achieve a higher level of work by praising good work and constructively criticising less well executed work. It is also beholden on the judge to be knowledgeable about photography – not in some narrow, parochial way but in a deep and broad way. Of course this would instantly disqualify many of the judges on the club circuit which is hardly going to go down well. The judges role should be to serve the photographers whose work they are appraising but all too often they appear to feel that they are doing them a favour by deigning to give an opinion, however ill-informed or biased that opinion may be.

Many artists have fragile egos precisely because, to a greater or lesser degree, they expose their souls in their work. When a critic turns around and says that what they have done is c**p they are apt to feel that this is a personal attack on them as creator of the work.

It would surely be more productive and less destructive if camera clubs used a secret ballot sytem to judge images entered in their competitions rather than asking the opinion of an outside arbiter with dubious credentials. How many judges allow their work to be scrutenized and open for possible villification?

I'm still stung by a remark made 10 years ago by an art buyer when I showed her the image on the right. It was one of the first detail images that I had made and reminded me of the stark simplicity of a Zen garden (follow the Rock Garden link). At the time it was one of my favourite images. She glanced at it briefly and quickly pushed it across the lightbox, making the derisory comment, "Oh look, a turd on the beach..." I was devastated. But the real damage was not just the short term shock but that for many years I couldn't shake off that description. The transparency stayed hidden away in my filing cabinet and was shown to no one. Whenever I viewed the image it had lost the power to evoke tranquility and had just become a vision of mamallian effluent stranded by the falling tide... Now you can't get that association out of your head either! What is said about an image, the linguistic tags associated with it, are often stronger than the complex but difficult to grasp feelings evoked by the purely visual information. These feelings are hard to express precisely because they don't relate easily to language. Words swamp them, drown their delicate form beneath overpoweringly concrete signification.

But in the intervening years I've come out of therapy and come to realise a couple of things.

Firstly that my vision isn't necessarily going to be universally accepted by the general public, art buyers or my fellow photographers. What matters is that I continuously critically appraise my own work and that I accept the constructive criticism of my peers in the spirit in which it was offered. Secondly, that the opinions of my peers are far more important to me than those of outside arbiters. I must be, at all costs, true to myself. If I'm diverted from my course by every careless remark passed by a viewer then I shall never make any headway.

To return to the question I posed at the beginning of this post, "What would a judge think of my work?" I guess I don't know, is the honest answer, but more than that I don't really care anymore!

2007-03-17T08:06:00.000Z

I've been talking to my editor...

That's something most writers try and avoid doing, but Eddie Ephraums isn't your average editor. We've been discussing the form of my next book, or rather trying to find a form for it. I'll not go into detail now but something that came up in the discussions has intrigued me. One of the things we wondered was whether my photographs were statements or questions.

This reminded me that when I was a Focus on Imaging a couple of weeks ago I became engaged in conversation with a charming man named Ian Biggar. Amongst the many things we discussed one anecdote stuck in my mind.

He described a conversation he'd overheard on a photographic workshop. The leader asked a participant "What are you trying to say in your image?"

The participant replied "I'm not sure I'm trying to say anything yet. I guess I'm still listening." This struck me as a very worthwhile approach!

When I'm working I try to be open to the possibilties for image making rather than having a fixed outcome in mind. What's important to me is that I'm making an enquiry about my surroundings in my images rather than imposing a conclusion. I'm not seeking to make definitive statements, I don't know the answers.

2007-03-12T09:12:00.000Z

A well known spot...

Well, after two days trekking through the wilderness, getting stuck and getting lost, we finally gained our permits from the BLM and were allowed to enter photographic "heaven", Coyote Buttes North. Well, perhaps not exactly heaven but certainly somewhere rich with photographic potential.

The image was made at The Wave, perhaps the most famous site in Coyote Buttes. Heavy rain just 10 days before we arrived had transformed this side canyon into a beautiful reflecting pool. This portion of the wave was made famous as the cover image on Jack Dykinga's wonderful book "Stone Canyons of the Colorado Plateau" but I was very conscious that I should make my own interpretation. It seems to me that the task of an artist is to express how he feels about his subject and to do this in as original a way as possible.

There is a dubious, and perhaps unhealthy, obsession with the naming of locations in photography. Particular places have acquired an almost holy status: Bryce Canyon, Point Lobos, Yosemite or even Dunstanburgh or (the Grandaddy of them all) The Sea of Steps in Wells Cathedral. The Wave is also just such a place. A criticism that was repeatedly levelled at my book, Landscape Within, was that I didn't name the locations of the images. My reasons for this was not because I wished to be protectionist. I wanted the viewer to interpret the image based upon just what they saw – how I had composed the image, my choice of perspective lighting etc. – rather than what they think they already know about a place.

Why the obsession with Place? Perhaps it's because of the strong, ineluctable, bond between the image and reality. A good picture was made at a particular place therefore that's the place to make another good image. The key word here is "another", not the same but a different image.

But I think that this is only part of the reason. This problem of "location worship" had been forcefully brought home to me on a recent workshop when a participant had shown his portfolio of a dozen or so perfectly executed landscape images. The only problem is that they weren't his images – they were technically excellent copies of other photographers' compositions, often shot in the same lighting conditions and same season as the original. I asked him why, when he was obviously a technically competent photographer, he was repeating other people's work rather than making statements of his own? His answer was that his time was short for photography, fitted in between work and family commitments, and that he needed to be sure that he would be able to make an image when he ventured out. This, for me, is no reason at all.

I make images as personal statements and don't wish to redundantly repeat what somebody else has already "said".

There is another side to this location fetish. Many photographers jealously guard information about their favourite locations, something that I suspect some readers of my book thought I was doing by not naming the places. This secrecy, this hoarding of locations, strikes me as extemely paranoid. Both the workshop participant and these hoarders are suffering from crises of confidence, one worries that they can't find images without inspiration from an external source (another "better" photographer). He thought that he couldn't find images of his own because he lacked the confidence to wander, receptive to inspiration, and let the images find him. Whilst, ironically, the location hoarder worries that a "better" photographer might make a better image in "their own" Place.

Self criticism is a vital part of the creative process, we all need to look at the compositions we've made and assess whether each has made the grade. But this necesary self analysis can turn into a deep seated lack of confidence in one's abilities, even amongst well-known and feted photographers. The hoarder shouldn't worry about anyone making a better image. Photography, like all Art, is relative. We can compare one image to another and decide that we prefer one but we cannot say with absolute certainty that one is categorically superior to another. Indeed we may well change our mind, on a different day with the wind blowing in a different direction. Perhaps what the hoarder fears in a profound way is that people will prefer not simply another photographer's viewpoint (and all the elements of composition, light and serendipity associated with that) but actually prefer the other photographer's view of the world. This is a pointless waste of energy for beauty is in the eye of the beholder. To paraphrase Abraham Lincoln "You can please some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can not please all of the people all of the time."

2007-03-11T09:56:00.000Z

The story behind the image...

This image was made on a visit to Coyote Buttes in Northern Arizona in November 2006. I was accompanied by two friends, Alex Donnelly and David Whistance. We had failed to get permits online for the north (which includes The (famous) Wave) so we had to go to the Bureau of Land Management (BLM)Ranger station every morning to put our names in the lottery, a 35 mile drive from where we were staying in Page. Our names weren't drawn until the second morning so we decided to explore the south section on the first two days.

The first of these visits was to an area called Cottonwood Cove. I'd never been to Coyote Buttes South (CBS) before but some research beforehand showed that it was just as good as the north though lacking in any "set pieces". No bad thing really as there is more scope for producing something original.

It's a 35 mile drive from Page to the turnoff for the unpaved House Rock Road, then 14 miles on the dirt road (reasonable washboard surface) then turn off onto a narrow sandy track towards the abandoned ranch of Poverty Flats six miles distant (this route had been recommended by a volunteer at the BLM station as the more direct route via Paw Hole was probably impassable due to deep sand). The track was a bit hairy in places, with soft sand and rocky ledges, but we eventually made it to the ranch. Nobody had lived there since the early sixties so there was plenty of photogenic decay to make images of – in my element!

After about an hour, during which I made the image above, we set off for Cottonwood and promptly got stuck in deep sand, about fifty yards from where we had parked. We hadn't seen anybody since we left the House Rock Road and this area is the least visited part of the Wilderness Study Area so we didn't feel at all anxious... Luckily we'd bought shovels and sand ladders – no, of course we hadn't!! We set to with our bare hands to shift sand from under the wheels and put rocks and wood in the ruts for some traction. It was at this point that we discovered that our shiny SUV didn't have any drive shafts at the back – it was 2X4 instead of 4X4. No point complaining to the car hire company as the contract forbade us taking it off road anyway! After about half an hour of digging we heard another vehicle approaching. Salvation we hoped. It was a German guy called Marek who found the whole thing very amusing and proceeded to take lots of digi-snaps of me half buried under the car! He did help dig eventually and we managed to get the car out after about 40 minutes. We asked him what the road was like to Cottonwood and he told us that it was fine, or at least no worse than the ground we had already covered. Suitably reassured we set off for Cottonwood.

You can probably guess what happened next – surprise, surprise we got stuck (again!) We tried to dig the car out for about 50 minutes but only managed to move it about six feet. It was around 14:00 by this time and we had to decide whether to stay with the car or try and walk out. If we followed the road back it would be around 15 miles before we would get to anywhere that we might see somebody else. Alternatively we could cut across country to Coyote Buttes north (CBN) and hope to meet somebody at the Wire Pass entrance as they left around sunset. We knew that there were 20 people in CBN so this was probably our best chance of help. We hadn't seen any more sign of anybody since Marek had left so the alternative was to spend an unknown number of nights waiting with the vehicle. The BLM station had had 14 spare permits out of a possible 20 for Cottonwood after we got ours, so we knew that there couldn't be all that many people around.

We made the decision to walk out via CBN and thought that we would take our camera gear in case we saw something we wanted to photograph en route. We set off up the track and after about a mile came to the crest of the first ridge. It was at this point that we realised the enormity of the task ahead and that we probably wouldn't get a chance to make any images on the way! We could barely see the back of CBN and estimated that it was over 5 miles away. This would make the total distance to walk around 9 to 10 miles across rough terrain, both bare rock and soft sand carrying around 45 pounds each. Aaargh!!

I was feeling very pissed off about getting us stuck, despite assurances from Alex and David that they wouldn't even have got as far as we had if they'd been driving. This was the first time that this had happened to me in 20 years driving to inaccessible places, and I set off at a (grumpy) sharpish pace. In retrospect this was very lucky for us. It took us around three hours to get to The Wave in CBN. We'd only stopped once on the way for about ten minutes breather to eat a snack and drink some water. Sunset was around 17:30 so we knew that we were cutting it fine. There was a small pond in The Wave due to recent heavy rain (the same storm that had wiped out the ladders in Antelope). Alex decided to take his boots off but David and I just waded through. It was a good job that we did as I heard voices as we came out of the canyon on the other side. A couple were just walking past and they told us that they were the last people there! They were amazed that we had walked that far with all our gear and were more than happy to offer us a lift (luckily they had a big enough vehicle parked at Wire Pass). The rest of the walk was reasonably uneventful, though I felt that my legs had turned to lead by the time we reached the dry wash and the last half mile before the car park.

It turned out that our saviors were staying at the same hotel in Page. We offered to buy them dinner in return for their lift and arranged to meet them around 21:00. I went back to my room and had a vigorous shower to remove several pounds of sand from my ears followed by a long soak in the bath. Around 20:30 Alex knocked on my door to say that he'd found somebody to tow the car out for a couple of hundred bucks, the only problem was that they wanted to do it now! It was too good an offer to turn down but as I was the driver on the hire agreement it meant that I would have to forego dinner. The guys that Alex had met were the Navajo guides from Upper Antelope Canyon. I set off with them to pick up a bigger vehicle from the Reservation. I didn't think very much about this until we transferred to the other vehicle and they loaded a lot of equipment on board including jacks, shovels, ropes, and lastly a high powered lamp and a hunting rifle. It suddenly occurred to me that I was driving off into the middle of nowhere with a pocket full of cash and three guys that I didn't really know who also had a gun. The clincher was when then made me where a T-shirt with a target mark on the front – just kidding!

It took about an hour and a half to get back to the car. The Navajos were all really nice guys. Chatting on the way there they said that there was only one towing company in Page. They had had a fire on one of the vehicles that they use to ferry people up the dry wash to the canyon and asked the tow company to quote for removing the vehicle as they couldn't shift it with their trucks. He wanted $800 even though the vehicle was only about half a mile from the main road so God knows how much he would have charged us to pick up our car. I had contemplated telling the car hire company that we had been abducted by aliens and dumped in the middle of the desert but decided that they would probably still charge us a fortune even though they would probably have believed us.

It turned out that there weren't any tow points anywhere on the vehicle so they couldn't just pull it out. They used their shovels to dig away the worst of the sand, lowered the tyre pressures and managed to drive it out, with four of us pushing, within 15 minutes of us reaching the car. A great adventure (in retrospect) but a little worrying at times.

The next day was supposed to be a rest day. Alex had gone off early to put our names in the lottery for permits for CBN. When David and I arrived around 09:30 he was grinning from ear to ear and we rightly assumed that we had got the permits. We decided to spend the day in an area in Coyote Buttes south (CBS) called Paw Hole and had been assured that we would have no difficulty getting there in our vehicle. It was only supposed to be a short walk from the car park but when we left the House Rock Road we found the track quite tricky and bailed out after about a mile because we were (understandably) a little paranoid about getting stuck again. We then had to walk for about 3 kilometers uphill in soft sand. The rock formations were good but nowhere near as impressive as those we had seen on the previous day. We were all fairly tired on the walk back at the end of the day but looking forward to the next day. But that's another story (or post anyway).

2007-03-10T13:55:00.000Z

Fern Frond

The structure of living things fascinates me. The great natural philosopher Robert Hooke noted in the 17th century how when you studied man made objects through a lens the structure became cruder the higher the magnification, whereas natural objects revealed finer and finer detail the more you magnified them. There is a deep beauty in natural forms.

Ferns are a particular favourite of mine because of the elegance and simplicity of the structure of each frond. Mathematicians have realised in the last thirty years that they can model infinitely complex structures by using simple equations repeated many times with the result from one fed back in as the variable in the next. The most famous of these fractal equations is probably the Mandelbrot set – something often dismissively used as a screen saver. The fern can be modeled using such a simple equation, great beauty arising from simplicity.

Kyriakos Kalorkoti is a professor of mathematics who also happens to be addicted to landscape photography and a producer of very fine images. I'm priveleged to know him and we have had many fascinating discussions about photography, reality and art. In an article on his website he writes about the old question of whether photography is Art (note the capitalisation!):

"Much effort has been expended by various critics on the question of whether photography is Art; i.e., can it be included in the growing set of work and activities that are labeled as Art (since there is no generally accepted a priory definition of Art). One of the objections is the fact that a photograph is an image of some existing physical reality (ignoring manipulations).This objection can only be entertained if we go with the facile view that material existence is somehow mundane and thus is of no particular interest to Art; put briefly the view seems partly to be that material existence is no rival to imagination and all that photography can do is to record it. In fact existence of any kind is deeply problematic and mysterious; the nature of material reality is by no means straightforward and is thus more than a fitting source for image making that aims at transformation and revelation."

I find myself so strongly in agreement with this insight!

Why do we praise representations from our imagination above those springing from reality? Photography is partly to blame for this. Before the discovery of the photographic process a large proportion of the effort of painters was applied to producing the most realistic rendition of the world possible on a canvass – that is not to say that the objects or subjects depicted existed but just that they looked as if they might. In other words Art strove to not only express the thoughts or emotions of the artist (or their patron!) but to do so in as "truthful" a way as possible. Making the image look "real" leant it weight as document. Along comes photography, a mechanical process that effortlessly produces images drawn from the stuff of reality. The painter's years of effort suddenly seemed for nought, how could they compete? A new direction was needed and what was left but to travel further into the realms of the imagination. That doesn't make the study of reality in photography invalid, it just makes it something that photography can do better than painting.

2007-03-09T18:20:00.000Z

The T-shirt winner...

At the tender age of 46 I've finally won a photography competition (the first and, so far, only competition I've entered) at choose-film.com.

I've very mixed feelings about this. On the one hand it's deeply satisfying to be patted on the back and told that one has done well, especially as in this case the 'award' was received as a result of voting on the site by my peers. Artists of all flavours are deeply insecure creatures driven to some extent by their egos. Self-criticism is a vital part of the artistic process but it's a tricky balancing act that can lead to us all attacking our own work as worthless. Inciteful external criticism is always valuable and can help us to avoid the deep lows and achieve new heights both in our mood and in the quality of our work.

On the other hand I'm philosophically opposed to the basic concept of photo competitions. Photography, like all art forms, cannot be judged in an absolute way. Photography is a matter of taste. How one feels about an image is just that, a feeling. It cannot be categorically stated that one image is better than another. The work of one great master, such as Ansel Adams, cannot be said to be better than that of another, such as Edward Weston. They are simply different.

2007-03-09T17:10:00.000Z

Achnahaird Salt Flats

Continuing the winter theme from my last post...

I'm often asked by workshop participants to give them the secrets of good composition, "What are the rules?" they ask. In reply I usually paraphrase a comment made by Edward Weston, "To consult the rules of composition before making a photograph is a little like consulting the law of gravity before going for a walk. Irrelevant!"

For me the very best images always break the rules, they surprise the viewer with a new way of seeing the world. What intrigued me about this view was that the fabric of the landscape appears to be almost wafer thin – a tear in the fabric allows us to glimpse sky below and beyond the surface of the ground. Visual ambiguity in a photograph can not only be arresting but also adds a sense of mystery. Humans have evolved to seek early resolution to visual problems and where this isn't possible an image will hold the viewer's attention for longer – think of the work M.C. Escher such as the hooded figures ascending a neverending staircase. So, rather than seeking to describe the landscape in a way that is instantly understood we would do better to try and confound the viewer's expectations. Rules are never going to get us to this point!

2007-03-09T14:51:00.000Z

Blue Snow

I'm fascinated by how photography allows us a new insight into reality by giving us access to different visual fields; insights such as "distorted" perspectives (either compressed or elongated through using long or short focal lengths). Or colour without the in-built filtration applied by our minds. Or the compression of four dimensions into two. I intend to use this space to discuss some of these ideas and to talk more personally about the image making process. The blog is new but I've been making images for 20 years and more so I'll be posting both old and new images and writing a little about each; sometimes profound, sometimes irreverent.

This image was made on a recent visit to Scotland leading a photographic workshop. I think that it typifies some of the elements that I strive for in an image: simplicity, strong lines, contrasting colours. It also demonstrates how an image can be found almost anywhere. There was nothing special about this bank of snow other than the way the morning sun was just grazing the tops of the grass giving the colour contrast with the blue-sky lit shadowed snow.