David Ward - Landscape Photography - Into The Light

As I mentioned in my last blog entry, I've just returned from a trip to Iceland. I sent off my transparencies for development on Wednesday and Keith the Postie duly brought me back my latest images on Friday. A number of things occurred to me whilst looking at my new images, chief amongst them the question, how can a photograph that I have taken transport me to somewhere that is somehow more than the place that I photographed? But first a digression...

Whilst I've been enjoying experimenting with that new-fangled digibal (sic) phonography I must admit that one aspect of it leaves me feeling (perversely?) dissatisfied; namely, its immediacy. I know, I know; the instant feedback is one of the great things about digital! It speeds up the learning process and helps people to correct mistakes there and then that might otherwise have resulted in a fruitless expedition. But, but!... I like the butterflies in the pit of my stomach feeling of anticipation that I get when I send off some film. The feeling returns, redoubled, when the postie brings me some shiny new images. I experience a heady mixture of high anxiety and the overwhelming desire to rip open the packet to see whether I have any "bastards" or whether I've cocked them all up. The delay between making an image and seeing it, something that is inherent in using film, has once again brought a frisson of excitement and, I'll admit, a certain smugness that I don't feel the need for the instant gratification open to users of digital. Psychologists talk about the habit of delayed gratification – the ability to wait in order to obtain something that one wants – as a sign of sound mental health. I suppose most people would experience this as the habit of leaving their favourite portion of a meal until last; not eating the bacon or chips until you've stuffed down the healthy green bits that you don't really like. If delayed gratification is good then the reverse is surely a sign of dire problems. What a state all those fans of digital must be in! ;-)

Anyway, back to my point... When I opened the packet there were the usual mix of failures (3), adequates (10), successes (10) and very successful images (just 2). (Images in this latter category are sometimes also known as "bastards", though strictly speaking I feel that this classification can only be awarded by a committee of my peers and it is presumptuous of me to classify my own images in this way!) But, what makes these latter two images so special to me?

There are numerous reasons why an image might resonate strongly with the photographer that made it, and most of these might also be shared by an audience. But some belong uniquely to the individual photographer; the image may resonate simply because it reminds them of the time and place when they made the image or because it reminds them of particular difficulties encountered during its making or because they feel it to be a great artistic or technical success. As a practicing photographer these reasons all come quickly to mind but another one is, I think, a little less obvious: it may resonate because it surprises them. The two images from Iceland that I classed as "very successful" also fall into the category of images that surprise me.

I've been struggling to think why this is. It's not simply that they came out better than I expected (that would only make them at the high end of the "success" category) and it's not simply that the image looks different from the reality; that happens to an extent every time anyone makes a photograph. Looking at them I was taken to places that were somehow different from the physical locations. Even though I had been there, the place in the image was somehow somewhere else, somehow different and/or more than what I had expected. Obviously the image was transcribed by light and hence is bound to the point of its creation but I almost got the feeling, "Where was I when this was made?" I don't think that this dislocation is just due to the transformation of perspective or colour. As I wrote above, these are the commonplace transformations present in every photograph that I make and I'm used to them. I suspect that the answer to "Where was I?" is "there!" but that the most important part of the creative decisions in these cases were made by my subconscious. So, although I performed all the physical tasks necessary to make the image, my conscious mind didn't register the significance of why I was striving for the composition or even fully realise how the final image would look.

Looking back at the few older images that I still like the one thing they seem to have in common is that they all surprised me when I first saw the film and that they still surprise me. I think that this quality of surprise might also be a more universal indicator of a successful image as the "surprising" images of mine have generally been the ones that have received the greatest acclaim. A conversation I had with Eddie Ephraums, during work on my last book, seems to support this theory. He was describing the work of another photographer and said that although the images amazed him they didn't surprise him and consequently he felt that there was a limit on his appreciation of the work.

I suppose that the quality of surprise might merely be another way of talking about the quality of mystery that I discuss in Landscape Beyond. But I also wonder if it might relate to something that Ben Maddow wrote in Weston, His Life;

But photographs become something more when they are a record of the interaction of photographer and subject. It is arguable that all great photographs... have this quality – that what we see, what we respond to, is the dialogue between subject and artist, unspoken, unspeakable.

On a superficial level what we're attracted to in a photograph is the subject, and in many images this is all there is to connect to. We might like or dislike an image because of something trivial, like the dominant colour, but when we really love (or hate) an image it is the photographer's vision of the subject that we are responding to. Surely the vision of a(nother) photographer can only really grip us when it surprises us; when it makes us see something as if for the first time, when it makes us see in a new or different way. The image can amaze us with its technical quality, masterful use of composition or the way in which the photographer has captured a moment of beautiful light but these factors will eventually pall. Perhaps only surprise, in some senses the most evanescent of emotions, will endow an image with lasting appeal.

I'm just back from my fifth visit to Iceland, a country that has really got under my skin. Of course I took my trusty Linhof TK45 with me and made a smattering of large format images. But this year I also took my new phone, a Sony Ericsson C902. I've been using a phone camera to make photographic sketches for a couple of years now but the Sony was a bit of a revelation. It allowed me much more control than my previous phone; giving me the option to control exposure, colour balance and choose monochrome. I really enjoyed playing with compositions in a much freer way than I could with the TK and particularly enjoyed making monochrome images after a gap of almost 20 years. I'm never going to give up LF but it was great fun to make images without some of its constraints. Please click here or on the image on the right to see a gallery of some of the phone pics I made.

A conversation over a pint with my friend, and accomplished photographer, Sami Nabeel has got me thinking a little more about the nature of light and its relationship to the elements of photography. We were discussing photography (what else!) and Sami's wonderful first book, entitled Writing with Light. This title has echoes for me of a much earlier work; The Pencil of Nature, by one of the pioneers of photography William Henry Fox Talbot.

Talbot's title implied that Nature could, through the medium of photography, illustrate Herself: the clear fluid of light (the ink) passing through the camera (the pen) and imprinting itself on the photograph (the paper) – yes, I know it was "Pencil...", rather than pen, but you get my drift! Photography has ever since been tainted with the pejorative suggestion that it is merely a mechanical process, one akin to mystical automatic writing but almost seeming to lack the need for the guiding channel of a human hand that even that dubious process demands. We should reflect, though, that nothing is new in Art, not even this mechanistic slur against the "new" art form of photography. Way back in the 15th Century Leonardo da Vinci was arguing with critics who believed that painting was merely mechanical because, unlike writing and music, it didn't involve the intellect but was simply a craft.

Light in photography is both the creative force and source of the image and, in conjunction with time, it ineluctably binds the subject to image. It has thus achieved a mystical status. Yet, rather than being concerned with this mystical aspect the average camera user tends to take the bond for granted. Indeed the average camera user's only real worry about light is whether there is enough of the stuff to make an image – there's always the uncompromisingly harsh, actinic light of the camera's built in flash if available light fails them. The transition from snapper to photographer is marked by many changes in both technique and attitude but perhaps one of the most significant is the change from a concern merely about the quantity of light to an overriding concern about the quality of light and how to capture this in an image.

This is perhaps what prompted Sami to write on his website that:

The underlying theme of my photography is not that I'm trying to capture the landscape - it's that I'm capturing the light. The landscape is simply the tool I use in my efforts to write with light.

Whilst I have lots of sympathy with this poetic statement I feel that it requires a deeper look. It seems to suggest that, although his images are of the landscape, the subject is secondary to the light. For me, vital though it is to both the mechanical transcription and the feel of the image, light should not be elevated above the subject of a photograph – whether it's a landscape, a portrait or even an abstract. Light and subject dance together in a great photograph, each relying on the other and neither one taking the lead. Should either one be allowed to do so the other will fall out of step and the 'dance' lack expression and élan.

It has long been said, in order to emphasise light's importance, that we don't photograph the land but the light falling on it. Well, we obviously cannot photograph light independent of a subject: 'soft' light, 'hard' light, 'warm' light, 'cold' light can only be observed when they are reflected from a subject. Light cannot be seen, let alone captured in an image, except when it is reflected. The object photographed mediates the transmission of light; it absorbs or reflects varying amounts according to its surface texture and the angle of its surfaces, and it alters the colour of the light. Edward Weston went to great length when making his famous images of peppers to get the quality of light right. He experimented with a number of backgrounds but found a tin funnel provided the right kind of reflected light. The beauty in these images, which seems on one level to be all about the magical quality of the light, truly arises from the way that the peppers' sinuous forms are delineated. Light and subject, here and in every photograph, are inextricably intertwined; the light delineates the subject and the subject gives substance to the light.

The light is obviously important in an image (essential in the mechanical sense I outlined above) but it is only one element in a good photograph. I think that there are four key elements; light, subject, timing and composition. (And before anyone says, "Those aren't the same elements that you talk about in Landscape Beyond!" I would like to point out that whilst I wrote that they were all essential ingredients I didn't write that they were the only ones. I would contend that beauty, mystery and simplicity all sit within composition.)

Joe Cornish famously wrote in First Light that timing, light and composition (TLC) were his three essential ingredients for a photograph. No mention of subject. Perhaps that's because we all take it for granted that a photograph has a subject, that a photograph is of something. We classify photographs in many different ways but one of the most common is by subject. I would guess that most of the people reading this blog will be "landscape photographers" – a definition of what we do by subject if ever I saw one. So, regardless of whether we take note of the elephant in the room or not, subject is always there.

I am certain that there is a genuinely synergistic relationship between the elements TLC + S(ubject). Each is enhanced by the positive characteristics of the others, each diminished by any negative characteristics in the others, the whole becoming much more than the constituent parts.

The degree of excellence of the finished image obviously does depend to an extent upon the quality of the light falling upon the subject. But quality here refer to light's attributes; the feel of the light not to some idealised notion of excellence. The light need not be remarkable for an image to succeed, it must however be sympathetic or appropriate. The light must be excellent only in the sense that it provides the best fit with the TLC+S, so that it produces the greatest synergistic effect when combined with them. Incredible light alone is not enough to make a good photograph. Photographing a poor subject in amazing light will not save it from mediocrity nor will making an amazing composition in unsuitable light elevate the image above average at best. In fact, incredible light can actually limit the power of an image, it can overwhelm both subject and composition, as I feel it has in a sunset image I made last year in the Lofoten Islands. Whilst a viewer might well go "Wow!" it would not be because of my input as photographer working to combine light and subject but rather because of the unbelievable amber light. I think that the light is too powerful here, too sickly sweet. And just as when you eat food that's too saccharine one quickly tires of it so the viewer soon tires of this light. More subdued lighting conditions would have resulted in a better balance with the composition and led to an image with more lasting appeal. Of course, that's not to say that it wasn't absolutely incredible to be there.

What should be apparent, then, to the nascent photographer is that one must attain harmony between light and subject, the two physical elements, in order to make a good image.

One final thought; composition is essentially a question of balance. And timing brings light, subject and composition together in accordance with each other. Harmony, balance, accord – three words that might conveniently be wrapped up into one word that aptly describes what we are trying to achieve in a great photograph; concinnity. Oh dear, you're thinking, it's one of David's odd words again! Well, that's as maybe but this, sadly now rarely used, word does seem to be particularly apt when applied to the photographic process.

The OED defines concinnity as:

1. Skillful and harmonious adaptation or fitting together of parts; harmony, congruity, consistency.

2a. Beauty of style produced by a skilful connexion of words and clauses; hence, more generally, studied beauty, elegance, neatness of literary or artistic style, etc.

2b. with pl. A studied beauty or elegance.

It seems to me that sense 1 very neatly sums up what all photographers are trying to do when they try to solve the multi-dimensional puzzle inherent in photographing a subject. And sense 2 describes what landscape photographers, at least, aspire to in the final result.

An interesting thread about "iconic viewpoints" has been developing in the comments on my previous blog entry (A matter of opinion...). This has got me thinking about the strange concept of "ownership" of a viewpoint.

Before we get down to brass tacks I want to look at definitions. As the local representative of "Pedants are We" I feel obliged to point out a fundamental problem with the phrase "iconic view" in the way it has been used in the comments by Alex and Alan. An icon is:

• a person or thing regarded as a representative symbol of something : e.g. this iron-jawed icon of American manhood.

An icon in this sense is something that stands for a class of things. The Buachaille Etive Mòr (or more correctly the view of the crag Stob Dearg from Rannoch Moor) is therefore iconic in the sense that its pyramidal shape stands for all mountains. Like Mount Fuji, it's the way that we draw a mountain – ideally with snow on the top – from childhood onwards. The mountain may be iconic but the view is not. A well known view in itself does not stand for anything other than itself. It is therefore not iconic except in the sense that it stands for a class of images: other well-known views. Perhaps it would be better to use the phrase "classic view", rather than iconic, meaning a view or photograph that is well known.

Anyway, pedant mode off(ish), the idea for this blog entry was also prompted by an email that I recently received about my upturned boat image that graces the hardback cover of Landscape Beyond (see right):

Hi David

I've thoroughly enjoyed a wandering meander around your well presented and inspiring web site. I found it via an article in last month's Outdoor Photography where I was amazed (and also very pleased) to see in print the image of 5 stones on the upturned hull of that clinker-built boat in Achiltibuie, as it was me who put them their to create an interesting focal point.

I shot the image several different ways but ended up favouring the landscape view.... I went back to the area around 6 months later and not surprisingly the stones had been moved so I don't suppose many other people found this little gem.

All the best

Alan

Well, I must admit that my first reaction to this email was to feel slightly deflated, of course it could be argued that I shouldn't have felt inflated in the first place. But the truth is that I'd always been very pleased that I had "discovered" this boat and stones composition. I though that this find was mine alone, a product of the careful exercising of my finely honed vision (yeah, right!). But now, it no longer felt as if it was entirely my picture, it didn't feel as if I could claim true ownership of the image. There was a feeling of loss, heightened by my perception that this was an important image for me. As the cover image on my latest book it was almost my Half Dome or my Cuillin Hills from Elgol – it was one of my classic views.

But hold on a minute! When Joe Cornish or Ansel Adams or any other landscape photographer makes an image of a vista they can only work with the forms that are presented to them. The vista is "found" in exactly the same way that the boat and stones were "found". Ultimately it matters little whether the unseen hand that placed the mountain or rock was a deity or another mortal soul like me. There are a couple of minor differences to do with how one goes about making the image; for instance, with a vista the photographer doesn't have much choice about the relationship between middle ground and background – unless they want to walk a long way. As a result the choice and positioning of foreground elements becomes one of the most important aspects of composition for this kind of view.

Whilst in the closer view, small changes in position can make very significant changes in composition. Similarly, a change from short to long lens can cause a proportionally larger change in perspective. It's usually impossible when photographing a vista to change the lens and keep the framing the same. In the closer view one can change lenses and, by changing position as well, keep the framing more or less the same but radically change the perspective. What's important in either case is not the elements that are included in the frame so much as how the photographer chooses to arrange them in a composition.

When I feel that one of my images is successful I feel proud of it, it's my baby. I naturally have a sense of ownership, but of the image rather than the place.

The idea of ownership automatically throws up the idea of theft. If we can "own" a photograph then someone can "steal" a photograph. We're talking about intellectual property here and the fine line between plagiarism and interpretation. There is nothing wrong with the latter, as Sami pointed out in his comment on my last post, many great works in classical music have been interpretations of themes or melodies originally written by another composer. The distinguishing characteristic of the former is that it fails to add to the canon of work and provides the audience with no new insights or nuances of evocation through interpretation. Basically it's a sterile copy, often made for cynical commercial reasons.

My classic views tend to be of anonymous places, rather than well know ones – or at least geographically identifiable locations. Perhaps the problem with some classic vistas comes when a large number of images are made in a small geographical area. These classic viewpoint positions are relatively easy to find but it's actually quite hard with some classic vistas to come up with a new, interesting and worthwhile interpretation.The elements of the photograph (foreground, middle ground and background) are all to an extent fixed which means that the images tend to look very similar. But not always. In the hands of a true artist the familiar can become unfamiliar. This is when the notion of interpretation really becomes worthwhile.

All this boils down to the simple fact that what's important in any photograph is how the photographer interprets the scene. As Alan Rew pointed out in a comment on A matter of opinion... :

For example, with reference to the Old Man of Storr, if Michael Kenna (whose minimalist photos never cease to amaze me) were to use that location, I'm sure he would produce something radically different from either Joe's or David's versions but which was still original and valuable (I'm imagining the stones shrouded in fog as one possible 'MK interpretation').

If we accept this, and I do, then ownership in a photograph cannot be about a place, it is entirely about what the photographer makes of that place. No one can own a view or viewpoint no matter how well they've interpreted it in a photograph – and I'm sure that Joe would be the first to say that he doesn't own Roseberry Topping or The Old Man of Storr despite his many wonderful images of these places! The single most important factor in a great photograph is its execution, and, incidentally, it matters not a jot whether the concepts for this are expressible in words by the photographer or not. The execution of the image is the part that belongs to the photographer: the choice of lens/film/filtration/shutter speed/aperture/framing/timing/lighting and so on. These choices during an image's execution determine not only the visual style of the image but also how successfully it conveys what the photographer felt.

So, returning to "my" boat... Having looked at Alan's interpretation of the boat and pebbles and mine I am satisfied that (for me!) mine works better. Therefore I still "own" it. Phew, I thought that I'd lost it for a while!

I am not generally in the habit of checking to see whether my books have been reviewed on Amazon, but I was pointed in that direction by a friend who said that I really must read the first review of Landscape Beyond. He said that the review was favourable, but had a sting in the tail. Mentally prepared for the worst I was not too unpleasantly surprised to read that the reviewer “felt that it was beneath [me] to demean other photographic authors.” I was a little taken aback by this comment and had to think for several minutes before I could make any connection between his comment and my book.

Eventually I realised that he could only be referring to a couple of critical quotes from the wonderfully opinionated writer David Lee about the work of Andreas Gursky. These appeared in my chapter on Beauty. I have reproduced the passage in full below so that its context remains intact:

"Proponents of high Modernism fear beauty because it may swamp their logic. They fear that it will beguile the viewer into accepting a lie. From their stance beauty is something that clouds the vision, something that obscures or, at best, elaborates upon the truth. If beauty is untruthful then the obverse must be true of ugliness, seems to be the `logic’. Anything ugly then takes on an unimpeachable authenticity. We can see the effect of this dominant philosophy in the art photography market, where the deliberately cold, drab and enervating work of photographers such as Andreas Gursky is not only highly praised but also the most economically successful photography of today. David Lee, writing in Ag magazine, noted:

'Self delusion abounds in all walks of life. . . there is a universal belief, taken as read, that Andreas Gursky is a great living photographer but on the visual evidence alone, without reference to price tags, size and the promotional rhetoric of his galleries and doting critics, there is nothing to support this view.'

We might usefully ask why Gursky's work fails to persuade Lee at a visual level. I think it is because the work doesn't evoke an emotional response. His images are illustrative rather than transcendent. The concept may be exciting but the execution is dull. Isn't it important for the visual arts to stimulate us visually? For many Modernist and Postmodernist artists the manner of representation is more important than the subject – the intellectual has taken precedence over the visceral, the emotional and the decorative aspects of the image. An ugly image is seen as intellectually more successful than a beautiful one, almost irrespective of its message. This is a clear case of the triumph of style over content. In other words just what the over-eager intellectuals were seeking to avoid in the first place.

Beauty is a rare quality in our everyday lives and we hunger for it but does this mean that it will necessarily deceive us? Are we all so callow as to be overpowered by its simple presence and not to seek other levels of meaning in an image? Clearly for some this will be the case. But surely those who rail against beauty are those least likely to be swayed by appearances, those best equipped to find deeper meanings?

David Lee went on to write:

'I wish sincerely that someone would explain Gursky's genius to me because I’m damned if I can see it or, more importantly, feel it.'

This last point is for me the most telling: we should feel something other than disdain or boredom when we experience art. For me, one of the most important criteria for a good work in painting, sculpture, music or photography is that it should evoke an emotional as well as an intellectual response. Interacting with works of art should make our heart beat faster, make us feel sad or happy or wistful or depressed or whatever. . . Just make us feel!"

Well, try as I might I cannot see any point at which I demeaned Gursky. I constructed an argument about how the notion of beauty has been spurned by many Modernists and used Gursky’s work as a supporting example. I was critical of his work but I expressed my opinion in a reasoned way. That is a long way from demeaning someone.

And why is it "beneath" me to express an opinion on another photographer's work? The phrase suggest that I may have crossed some ethical divide and debased myself in the process. To me opinions are as essential to making art as the creative process. In fact I can't see how one could be creative without an opinion on what one was doing. Is it just "not cricket" to say that you don't like somebody else's work in public? Something to be muttered behind your hand only to close friends and colleagues? Are other artists' egos really so fragile?

We are allowed to dislike the work of other artists, whether they be painters, photographers, sculptors, composers or writers. I have no doubt that many people dislike my work. I don’t lose any sleep over that fact, and I doubt that Andreas Gursky loses any sleep over what I think. Placing one’s work in the public domain opens it up to criticism, whether we consider it to be fair or not. That’s why it’s so scary! When an artist is passionate about their work, as I am, then they place their beating heart in the open every time they show a piece. It takes courage to do that. But without that courageous act our work would remain a private pleasure, something tantamount to the sin of onanism. Art should be shared, it is something that feeds the Human spirit in the same way as love does.

I believe that passion is an essential ingredient in any artistic endeavour and I was making a plea for passionate photography in the quoted passage. Being passionate about one’s work naturally leads to holding passionate opinions but I don’t see anything wrong with that. It’s not wrong to have an opinion, it’s essential to have an opinion if you want to make images.

A passage from Ansel Adams’ autobiography seems apt:

"To be fully committed, an artist has to believe so strongly in his own work that it is difficult to have affinities to other artists’ production. If I truly believed in the art of another artist, I would be making it rather than what I am making."

I am certain that Adams does not mean to infer that one cannot appreciate the work of other artists; simply that one must adhere to one’s own path. The comment underlines my view that one needs to hold passionate beliefs about art in order to be an effective producer of art.

In fact it is absolutely essential that we dislike a proportion of the works of art that we see around us. We cannot love some artworks without the balance of disliking others. If we loved everything we saw it would mean that we had no critical faculty. Without the internal critic none of us can progress and develop our work.

Of course this isn’t the first time that I’ve ruffled a few feathers by expressing my opinion. On a recent forum thread one poster commented that he was “saddened” by my remarks on this blog about some of the work of Harry Cory Wright. He seemed to feel that I was trying to, in some way, restrict the breadth of work that falls within the genre of landscape photography. Let me assure you that this is very far from my intention. I simply want to take part in a debate. Without such debates artistic endeavour will stagnate, landscape photography would fall to the level of the lowest common denominator. Of course, debate is inevitable no matter how much some might wish to create an atmosphere that stifles critical opinion; any group of like-minded individuals in a field of endeavour will always hold differing viewpoints. I simply cannot understand why some people seem afraid or offended by others expressing an opinion.

Having a personal opinion is not the same as being prescriptive or proscriptive about the opinions of others. I’m not directing other people to think in a particular way; not telling them what they should or shouldn’t do when making images. I believe my audience to be adult and fully capable of making up their own minds. I’m simply telling people how I feel about something. Though I’m sure that it’s nothing new, there is a worrying trend in society for people to attack others for expressing robust opinions without feeling that they need to back up their own attack with a reasoned rebuttal of the original argument. Frowning on the opinions of others merely because they had the temerity to express them is tantamount to an attempt at censorship. I wonder if this all springs from a fear of litigation or whether it is merely the product of a society in which any kind of intellectual debate is avoided in favour of a quiet life.

I subscribe to the humanist, libertarian view that we all have an equal right to express our views and that it is our duty to uphold that freedom. The production of works of art is part of that freedom of expression. As Voltaire famously wrote, in a letter to M. le Riche, “Monsieur l'abbé, I detest what you write, but I would give my life to make it possible for you to continue to write.” I defend Gursky or HCW's right to make whatever images they wish to (okay, maybe not to the death!), as they should defend mine to express my opinion of their work.

 Of course, all of this is just my opinion, let me know yours!