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.

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.

“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 ?

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.

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."