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.

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!