If I had a camera like that...

A slight change in direction for this week. I was going to post about more extensive processing techniques, but it occurred to me that there was a topic that might have more immediate benefits for some of you. I will take up the processing discussion on a later date. Instead, I will discuss how to use the more common point-n-shoot camera to obtain better photographs.

A frequent comment I hear at the shows is “if I had your camera, I could take those good photographs, too.'

Well, maybe yes, and then again maybe no. The fact that they are making that statement tells me that they don't really understand photography, so its probably 'no'. Does pro grade equipment take better images? Of course it does, why else would we spend $1,500 on a prime lens or far more on a pro grade dslr body if it didn't improve the quality of the photographs we take? But, in truth, it is only part of the answer. That good glass and pro dslr combine to give some amazing potential for the photographer. But there is the key word: potential. Higher resolution, better quality pixels in larger sensors and world class glass are going to contribute something to the final product, but it is the photographer that determines the results. The main advantage of the higher grade equipment is this: control. The photographer simply has much more control over what the camera is doing. The typical consumer camera is largely an automatic device, removing all the decision making from the photographic process. For the average user, this is actually a good thing, allowing them to take far better photos than would otherwise be likely. The problem for the more capable photographer is that the averaging software that makes these cameras work tend to produce 'average' photographs. Good photography requires that the photographer put something of themselves into the image. In short, this means the photographer must control what the camera is doing. This, in turn, means the photographer has to understand how the camera works. This means much more than pointing the camera at your subject and pushing the big button. A real measure of a good photographer is one who can take great photographs with less than ideal equipment.

I will touch on some of the options available and cover a few of the simple tricks to help you along with those all-to-common automatic point-n-shoots to get better images. The first thing to do is familiarize yourself with the equipment you happen to have. We will assume for this exercise that the camera is a typical, completely automatic consumer camera. I will be using a Canon sd550, a pretty typical example of the type: decent build quality and feature set, 3X zoom, auto everything with some optional style and environment adjustments. This camera is a few years old now and has provided good service as the basic go to camera for family photo album type shots.

The good news is that new cameras are offering more and more manual control options. Even this 'older' camera has some things we can adjust. A quick look at the rear of the camera and I see a dial that lets me switch to one of several modes, fully auto, Manual , Scenes and video. The Manual setting is the one we are most interested in. This opens up several control options which are very useful, if a bit limited. The first and most important is Exposure Compensation, right at the top of the menu on the little Canon. Exposure compensation is a tremendously useful feature that allows you to adjust the scale on which the camera averages the image exposure. The adjusting range is usually plus or minus two stops of exposure (this is a significant amount). Adjusting increments are in 1/3 stop increments, giving thirteen setpoints.

In a full sun shot with some shadows, the camera will average the exposure such that it gets what it considers the best overall balance. The result is that the brightest spots will be 'blown out', that is, that part of the image will be pure white. This is because the amount of light will actually exceed the range of the sensor's ability to record it. At the other end of the range, the deep shadows will probably lack detail and may even be completely black.

I took the sd550 out in the yard and took three shots of one of our young cats. The shots were taken in the exact same conditions: Full, bright mid-afternoon sun. I took a shot at the two extreme ends of the adjustment range and the center (normal) setting. We will start with the first shot, with the exposure compensation set to -2 stops:

(click on image to enlarge)            Photo #1: Exposure Compensation= -2

Note the overall shot seems a bit dark. The mid range of the photo has been dropped down significantly, but most of the image retains good detail. Look at the shadows and you will see that the shadows are completely black, showing no detail at all. On the other hand, the whites of the fur retain full detail and color. This is the tradeoff at the low setting. Now, watch what happens when we restore the exposure compensation to '0' , the normal default setting (bearing in mind the furball model refused to sit still for the shoot!):

(click on image to enlarge)             Photo #2: Exposure Compensation= 0

This is the normal image you would get under the full automatic setting. Note the light and dark extremes have been averaged. The result is that the shadows now show good detail. The small bit of white fur is actually blown out to pure white, but the area is so small that I does not detract from the image. If the white patch was larger, the camera might have sacrificed some of the shadow detail to pull down the whites a bit.

(click on image to enlarge)             Photo #2: Exposure Compensation= +2

Last is the +2 setting. The change here is very dramatic, with almost the entire frame overexposed. Even the wood surfaces facing the sun have blown out to full white, retaining no detail at all. But look into the shadow areas, especially beyond the bench, which were pure black in the first image and only retained moderate detail in the second image.

This exercise illustrates one of the fundamental controls available to the photographer. I typically use exposure compensation in brightly lit situations to lower the exposure by about 2/3 to a full stop. I shoot in full manual, so I make this adjustment on the fly. An automatic camera will make the adjustment for you if you use the option. The main advantage of this ability, as I most frequently use it, is that I can offset the exposure of highly reflective surfaces to retain detail in those areas of an image. I can refine the exposure in the body of the image later on the computer if desired. With high-end post processing software, I can adjust the light and dark areas individually to retain full detail across the entire image, compensating for the limitations of the camera sensor. Ideally, the user of a point-n-shoot camera can use this to further refine the images a bit better than the camera will, left to its automatic settings.

For the next entry, we will study a technique for 'fooling' the camera sensor to change the exposure setting to were YOU want it to be. See you then!

Reality, What A Concept

One of the most frequent questions I hear as a photographer is ”Did you Photoshop that?

The answer is invariably “Yes”, but I can never let it go at that. The persons asking the question seem to have a mindset that any really good image must be 'photoshopped', ie: fake. I make it my task to set them straight.

Let's get something right out in front first: Photoshop is an amazingly powerful program. In the hands of a really talented user, images can be produced that are nothing less than mind blowing and often have little or no relationship to reality. It really has become a medium unto itself. The resulting images should be appreciated as art in their own right, if they qualify for that ethereal status, but they are no longer photography in any practical sense. Here lies the problem for the typical photographer and the resulting guilt by association. Photography is unique in the arts in that it began as, and for the most part remains, a mechanical/technical medium for recording 'reality', ie: realistic depictions of scenes that actually existed. Photojournalism is the most obvious example of this practical and common application of photography.

Next, we have to address Photoshop's place in the modern world of photography in relation to most pro photographers. Photoshop is the modern 'darkroom'. Digital technology has allowed us to eliminate the need for all the cost, chemicals and complications of the traditional darkroom. This is precisely the role that Photoshop fills for the vast majority of photographers. Traditionally, film development included adjustments to color, contrast, brightness, etc. More sophisticated processors would use treatments to dodge (lighten) some details and burn (darken) others. Ansel Adams was a master at this process and this his how he produced many of his most outstanding images, by way of a well known example.

Aside from the physical advantages mentioned above, the additional benefits are the ease of the various adjustments. Most common adjustments can be made with sliding scales and the results are seen immediately on your monitor. The vast majority of photographers operate at or near this level. Photoshop has simply replaced the darkroom and is used in essentially the same way. The biggest change is that this technology has made the once very esoteric and complex developing process accessible to so many more people.

An example of typical processing is provided below. I took the original image during a March walk on Fire Island, looking to catch the last of the winter's snow on the primary dunes in the vicinity of the Fire Island Lighthouse. The first image is the untouched file straight from the camera, converted to jpeg format for posting here. Directly below it is the processed image.

(click on images to enlarge)

A quick look at the file shows that the processing included these adjustments:

1 – A sharp eye will notice a very slight counterclockwise rotation (1.5 degrees) and very slight trimming crop to square the frame after the rotation.

2 – Minor sharpening to enhance detail. Digital photos retain a bit of softness carried over from the sensor and some sharpening is often used to correct for this.

3 – Contrast is increased slightly to further enhance detail.

That's it! Very little is done but, as you can see, the results are fairly dramatic. The image is clearer and the details practically leap off the image. The real work was done in taking the original shot, getting the exposure and composition right to achieve the intended image. The steps outlined above just complete the process.

Lets take things just a little bit farther. A really sharp eye will pick up a couple of very, very subtle alterations. Look at the top, unprocessed image. Just to the right of the base of the lighthouse you may see a small object – the top of the flag pole near the lighthouse. Directly below that, on the lower dune line, there is a bit of irregular grass, with another bit to the left and farther up the sweep of the lower dune. These three details interfered with the clean, graphic sweep of the image I wanted. Accordingly, I used Photoshop to remove them. The result is something of a very small step closer to an artists representation than a truly representational photograph, but the changes are so subtle that without being pointed out, no one would ever realize the slight changes were made. You can see the improvement in the clean lines of the dunes as they bring your eye to the center of attention – the lighthouse - without distraction.

The next blog entry will take a look at the next step: using some of the more sophisticated features of Photoshop to move photography from strictly representational to art. See you then!

Visiting with the Past

My wife Nancy and I just returned from a visit to Nova Scotia. I should probably mention that , being of Scottish descent, I am likely to find anything Scottish at least a little bit interesting. That minor caveat aside, we were both deeply taken with the beauty of this part of the world, both natural and man made. The natural terrain bears a strong kinship to that of Scotland, with its rugged, rocky coastlines and deep, dark spruce forests. The polished granites of Peggy's Cove speak directly to a far distant geological past, much like that of the Scottish landscape. A little research indicates that this particular stone mates with similar from northern Africa, though, and not Europe! So much for first impressions. The northern coastal climate is the real source of the biological similarities, favoring spruce over the deciduous forests found farther south. The proximity of the sea accounts for the rest, with its inevitable impact on the local sea oriented culture.

It is the overlay of man made history that drives our interest today. Like much of North America, the incoming Europeans displaced the Native Americans, who have left little more than place names to remind us that they predated the present residents. We Europeans have all but obliterated any other trace of their presence, a direct result of our greater (and still increasing) numbers and tendency to build more extensive and relatively permanent structures. The expansion has occurred over some several centuries now and, where the earlier European settlements remain, they call to the more attentive visitor about our history, relatively brief though it is.

Our main focus on this trip was such a place, a rather well known tourist stop: Peggy's Cove. Traveling as much as we do, Nancy and I are all too familiar with the commercialization which tends to destroy the heart of many of these historic places, leaving a thin shadow of the former reality. Fortunately, Peggy's Cove is largely spared this ignominy. While there is a fairly constant flow of tourists, fed by a series of large tourist buses, the accommodations for the buses and tourists are all kept outside of the small village. If you want to see Peggy's Cove up close, it is necessary to get off the bus and walk through the little village, which is still an occupied and functional fishing village. It remains 'the real thing', not some gussied up caricature of a recently deceased community. The changes are limited to a parking lot just outside the village and a rather large gift shop and additional parking at the highpoint just above and beyond the opposite side of the village, near the well known lighthouse. This seems to have worked well to keep the village relatively untouched from the more typical effects of the tourist invasion, with the hardscrabble nature of a thin existence by the sea evident in the ubiquitous peeling paint and mossy, rotting, but still functional, and functioning, structures.

(click on image to enlarge)

These places were once the norm on the extensive New England coastline and are hardly considered 'romantic' or beautiful by the occupants. As with many occupations, the hard, bare lifestyle was made untenable by the introduction of large scale commercial fishing and the resulting reduction of many of the fish species that these communities depended on. The pattern is echoed in our own local fisheries. The South Shore of Long Island was such a place until fairly recently. The once common fishing boats are now gone, and there is virtually no trace of their former existence, as even their old haunts have been filled with condos and restaurants.

(click on image to enlarge)

Visiting places such as Peggy's Cove calls to us, as it reminds us of a recently lost history and way of living. It is interesting that we now find beauty in the spare, plain structures placed so precariously exposed to the elements. There is nothing to be found here that is not functional in some respect, the rare dalliance with the unnecessary restricted to a coat of brightly colored paint on a window frame or a boat hull. All else is unadorned in its pristine directness, built to a purpose. As the bulk of the tourists moved ahead, Nancy and I lagged behind to more closely examine the intimate details of this wonderful place: surprisingly bright colored mosses growing through the peeling paint on the base and foundation of a small wooden outbuilding, the moldy details of a hidden stairway between two buildings, a haphazard pile of bright orange trap floats and rust. Rust was everywhere, ever present. No item of steel escapes, as evidenced by the rusty streaks marking the presence of steel nails in the buildings. Here were the trace details of an active seafaring life grown in place for many, many years.

Why do such places speak to us so strongly? It must be more than simple 'quaintness' of a type of life since past. Do we yearn for the simple directness of such an existence rather than the fast moving complexities of the present? Do some of feel that we have lost something important, even vital in the transition? When I look out on our own Great South Bay, and see not a single individual remainder of the once omnipresent clammers and oyster boats, I know we have lost something important in the local community. The Bay can no longer support the oysters, clams and scallops that once put Bluepoint and the Great South Bay on the map, a victim of overfishing and pollution runoff from expanding suburbia.

It is one of my few regrets that these things, taken so for granted at the time, were passing away even as I watched. My recognition of what was happening came far too late, too late to record all but a few scattered remnants. But I look and find the bits and pieces where I can. Not all has yet been erased and built over, not yet.

Silence

I visited one of my favorite blogs last night, written by another photographer whose photography and writing I admire, Guy Tal. Guy's blog is always worth a visit. His commentary often reflects many of my own thoughts and today I will focus on a particular aspect of his recent post that caught my attention: silence.

How often do we experience true silence, at least in the respect of the absence of man made sound? I would venture that this happens very, very rarely for most. In fact, I have observed that most people become distinctly uncomfortable in the absence of some kind of man made background noise. Do you leave the television on even when you are not watching it? Do you have to at least have the radio playing, even when driving? This seems to be the normal state of affairs for most. Humans are deeply social creatures and the presence of some form of man made noise seems to offer a form of comfort for many.

Another aspect of this is the constant din of more subtle man made sounds that pervade our lives, mostly unawares. As I write these words, I am sitting on my deck this Sunday morning, enjoying a light breeze as I finish my second cup of coffee, listening to a woodpecker announce his presence in one of our wild cherry trees and the wind chimes occasionally doling out a deep, mellow note. The cicadas are starting to send out their insistent love calls, a sure sign of another hot July afternoon in the offing. This idyllic moment has an underlying current, however. I can hear the distant roar of a powerboat on the Great South Bay, an alarm activating at a neighbors house as they start their car, the low, steady thrum of many wheels speeding along the Sunrise Highway, a brief burst of a siren and finally, the horn and low rumble of a passing train. These sounds fill a space that is so constantly present that most of us don't even realize it is there – until it isn't.

One of the great gifts of a back country trek is the absence of these constant, man induced sounds. This is especially so during a solo journey, when I've gone whole days without seeing or speaking to another person. I have observed three distinct reactions to persons who venture out to these 'silent' places. Some do not notice. They remain busy enough with the details of their respective activities that they miss the change. Others become distinctly unnerved by the silence. They must have a radio or something, anything, filling up that empty space. These people will never be at ease out of a man made environment. The third reaction is one of blessed relief – as if an invisible weight has been lifted. As you may have guessed, I am very definitely in the latter group. I will actually start to stress out in a major way if I can't get away from the constant, underlying din occasionally, even if just for a few moments.

(click on image to enlarge)
Fortunately, while my backcountry time has been much reduced lately, there are other options. The best one exists as much as a factor of timing as location: the predawn. The simple fact that most people are sound asleep at this early hour reduces the activities that generate much of the noise. Add to that a little bit of distance and silent bliss can result. The best, easily accessible local place for this is Fire Island. A short fifteen minute drive followed by a mile or so of walking and one can find themselves in a silent reverie. Here, the 'noise' consists only of crashing waves and wind, and depending on the weather, sometimes even those sounds are absent. The only other entry might be the occasional cry of a gull.

(click on image to enlarge)
Here, at last, the hidden distractions can melt away and the mind can relax, availing itself to the more subtle presence of the natural world. Sitting for a little while alone on a bit of driftwood watching the slowly brightening glow of the eastern horizon, there is something that breathes life deeply back within. Everything seems to open up. I feel the dampness of the sand beneath my feet, smell the brine of the ocean with its complex mix of life and death where land meets sea. The mind and the senses can once again reach out. The result is a renewed connection with the ground beneath my feet, the air that I breathe, the expanse of the sky above, an all too brief respite from the din that drives the real world away.

The Art of Creativity

Among other bad habits, I am an avid reader. I spent a good portion of my wastrel youth soaring through the galaxy with the great writers of the science fiction genre, such as Asimov, Heinlein and Herbert. As I grew older, my interests gradually shifted from the E.E. Doc Smith 50's style of Buck Roger adventures (what better name for a grand villain than 'Ming the Merciless' and the brutal Fenachrone!) to the more thoughtful and involved stories of the great Isaac Asimov and writers of a similar intellectual vein. Science fiction became a medium with which to study the human condition, absent the usual direct or implied baggage carried by terrestrial location. Asimov's 'I Robot' series is a model example (the badly butchered Hollywood movie version not-with-standing). More recent years have seen a clear shift in my reading towards non-fiction, primarily relating to the study of the human mind and the nature of consciousness. In retrospect, over the decades there has a been a clear trend towards this direction, the seed planted long ago and fertilized by these excellent authors: the study of the mind, behavior and how each relates to the human condition.

One of the more interesting and fascinating topics along these lines is that of 'creativity'. What is it? How does it happen? Where does it come from? This blog entry does not attempt to answer those questions. I will delve into those dark woods another time. Instead, today I will write about a more immediate facet of creativity: when is one's creative work 'good enough'? This aspect is likely the first question that will quietly and inevitably force its way into the thoughts of anyone attempting to create something new and considering exposing their work, regardless of type or medium, in the public forum. This thought was prompted by a passage I read in my current book of interest, Ray Bradbury's 'Zen in the Art of Writing'. As a side note, this book is an excellent example of why it pays to explore the writings of a favorite author outside of the more well known works. Asimov is another example of a writer known for his science fiction but who has an enormous lexicon of non-fiction writings – but I digress. Mr. Bradbury wrote of receiving an unexpected letter from a person whom he deeply admired, the great art historian Bernard Berenson, but whom he had never met. The letter was written in response to an article Mr. Bradbury had written for the publication 'The Nation' defending his science fiction work (he does not state why he was defending it). The letter read as follows:

“Dear Mr. Bradbury:

In 89 years of life, this is the first fan letter I have written. It is to tell you that I have just read your article in 'The Nation' — "Day After Tomorrow." It is the first time I have encountered the statement by an artist in any field, that to work creatively he must put flesh into it, and enjoy it as a lark, or as a fascinating adventure.

How different from the workers in the heavy industry that professional writing has become!

If you ever touch Florence, come to see me.

Sincerely yours,

B. Berenson”

Ray Bradbury wrote this vital comment in describing his reaction to this unexpected message:

“We all need someone higher, wiser, older to tell us we're not crazy after all, that what we're doing is right. All right, hell, fine! But it is easy to doubt yourself, because you look around at a community of notions held by other writers, other intellectuals, and they make you blush with guilt. Writing is supposed to be difficult, agonizing, a dreadful exercise, a terrible occupation.”

The importance of the message within this response cannot be over-emphasized. Regardless of the source or subject of our individual creative muse, it is our own unique muse. There is no shortage of critics in the world, far from it. Back in the mid-seventies, I had two experiences with critics that effectively killed my nascent art career. I was, admittedly, a rank beginner, untrained and unschooled. I was working primarily in water colors and airbrush. My work was heavily influenced by two artists whom most would never mention in the same sentence, Maxfield Parrish and Roger Dean. I had received much positive support from friends and family, such that I even started selling my work in local art and craft shows. I remember being happily shocked when I sold a good chunk of my entire inventory in an early show. That success lead me to try the next step: the commercial world of art sales. This took two forms: approaching galleries and record companies. By way of explanation of the latter, album covers were a hugely popular medium at the time. This is how I became exposed to Roger Dean's work – his series of album covers for the progressive rock band Yes.

During a successful show in a local town, I was encouraged by an attendee to approach a local gallery to sell my work. After the show, I visited the gallery and introduced myself to the person in charge, explaining my success in the show and the suggestion made by one of his patrons. I had with me a large framed original of one of my favorite paintings for his consideration. The criticism was instant, scathing and delivered in such an aloof and arrogant manner that it served to extinguish any glimmering of pride in my work completely and totally. In my naivete, I had been skewered soundly through the heart and this stuffed shirt bastard couldn't care less. If anything, he seemed rather proud of his use of carefully sharpened words.

My next misadventure occurred shortly thereafter. I had an appointment with the art director at Columbia Records, one of the major music labels at the time. I arrived on time for the appointment with a portfolio of prints. Being realistic about my abilities compared to the professional work I'd seen, and not yet fully recovered from my prior experience, I was expecting a rejection. What I was prepared to happily settle for was some constructive criticism and maybe some friendly suggestions. Little did I know the world I was unexpectedly walking into. Something happened first, however. Upon exiting the elevator in the high rise Manhattan tower, I became immediately lost and instead of entering the receptionist area, I accidentally entered the back offices. I had wandered around for a few moments when I stumbled across an office with a man sitting in an armless, upright chair. Leaning against the man's legs was what was clear to me as artwork for an album cover, about 30 inches square. Surrounding both were about six or eight men in suits. I listened for a just a bit and suddenly recognized the tableau for what it was: an interrogation. Why this subject? Why this color here, and that color there? - delivered in cutting intensity. I cleared out before I was spotted.

I finally found the receptionist and introduced myself. The pretty and pleasant woman made me comfortable and announced my presence. I waited. I waited some more. I waited some more beyond that. After a full hour, the receptionist apologized and explained that something had come up and the art director would not be able to see me after all. I asked if he could at least take a look at my portfolio and she agreed to bring it in. Anticipating this possibility, I had left a note attached to my work asking for constructive comments. In less than five minutes, the portfolio was returned and my note was found torn to bits in the bottom of the folio. My budding career as a freelance artist ended in that office.

We jump thirty five years to the present. With a couple of exceptions as requests from friends, I had not painted another work in all those years. I briefly fiddled with pencil and pad in the early eighties, but quickly gave that up too, in spite of a strong reaction from friends. Over the years, I had very occasionally dabbled in photography, but my nomadic lifestyle did not lend itself very well to the film medium, having to rely on third party developers to see what worked and what didn't. It wasn't until the advent of digital cameras that photography and I really connected. I started taking photographs of our backpacking journeys and almost immediately started getting commentary reminiscent of my old paintings. I slowly realized that my old friend, my creative self was returning. There was a fundamental difference in my approach, however.

All my earlier work had been done with the public in mind. Each painting was done with the intent to impress an audience. This was no longer the case. Every photograph I now took was done for strictly personal reasons – because I wanted to capture a specific image for myself. The audience had ceased to be a participant in the creative process. The image had to speak to me and me alone. I did not realize it at the time, but a vital and important change had taken place. For creative art to work, it must reflect something of yourself, to 'put flesh to it' as Berenson wrote to Bradbury. Whether or not an audience will accept or approve is a deeply secondary matter. It should have absolutely nothing to do with what you create, be it a novel, a painting, a photograph.

(click on image to enlarge)

An audience may not approve, but for the artist this should be irrelevant as far as the real art is concerned. Will it sell? Maybe not. The photography I consider my best seems to sell the least. These days I do produce images expressly to sell, but as a general rule these are not what I consider my best artistic images, the ones that speak deep to that place inside. They are good, sound work, 'pretty pictures' as it were, striking a cord somewhere within the purchaser, but it tends to be related more to pleasant memory than something that touches deep within, along with my ability to capture images in a certain way. Make no mistake, there is a place for this and good images still require talent and skill, but it is sometimes a bit like doing a cover song than singing that heartfelt personal ballad, to use the musical analogy. The good news is that art can also result from this process as well, it is just a little less likely.

(click on image to enlarge)

The trick, as the old bit goes, is to work with what you know, those subjects which have a deep emotional hold on you. Only in this inner place can you begin to create something that will reflect your heart and emotion. Here lies the home and source of art. Connect with this part of yourself and 'good enough' may well take care of itself. As the years have progressed, I have learned that I can include more and more in this internal creative space as my experience and understanding increase. Now, even when working with a new subject or location, I am more likely to be able to make that vital emotional connection and it shows in my work.

I no longer consider the audience when visiting with my creative muse. It is more akin to two old friends sharing a private moment together, sharing an intimate conversation, our private lark and adventure. When the winds blow favorably, the results will speak to a greater understanding, a place that even the audience may recognize.

Taking a Moment To Pause

Well, it's been a busy month. We have come out of a series of successful shows, including a last minute invitation to the Bellport, NY show. This turned out to be one of our best shows of the season so far and we will definitely be back next year. The only fixed show date on the horizon now is the Sayville show, which was our strongest last year. Hopefully that pattern will repeat! We have some invitations for various shows come September and October, but we have made no hard commitments yet, as we have to see how our summer plays out. It is also a bad sign that I'm a week into July and I haven't even taken the kayak out of the garage yet.
The Bellport show was unique for the season in that it was a dedicated art show, not a combined arts and crafts show. I find that dedicated art shows are much more satisfying, both for the better sales as well as the more interested, and interesting, audience. People who take the time to attend these shows are there for the art, so the visitors are more focused on what the artists are offering and more inclined to express their interests as they visit your display. This is very enjoyable, as any artist loves to discuss their work with an interested audience.

Aside from the usual inquiries as to locations, technique and equipment, Bellport stood out in that a recurring theme percolated to the surface pretty frequently with quite a few visitors to our display. Several visitors took a lot of time to really stand back and soak up my images and almost all of these commented on a common element within the images: They pointed out that it was clear, regardless of the varying subjects or locations, that I had taken the time to really see and consider the particular moment or scene I was photographing. More interesting, and satisfying to me, is that they stated that this came through as a very strong element throughout my images.

I had taken a moment to pause and really see the subject.

This simple point highlights a critical aspect of successful photographic work. It also reflects what I consider a quality missing in much of our far too busy daily lives. So much is missed in our constant rush of obligations and responsibilities that we take upon ourselves. If we don't take a moment to slow down and step off the speeding treadmill occasionally, too many of us find that our lives have flown by in a blur before we had a chance to actually live them. This is something that I have long refused to accept. I have just as many responsibilities as the next guy, maybe more than most considering my dual careers and long list of interests and activities, but I take the time to break out of the mental monotone that too many of us seem to maintain during the normal day. This takes effort to do. My favorite quote, credited to Jeanne de Salzmann, addresses my approach to this in a very direct way and can be seen on the header of this blog, which should give a bit of a clue as to how important I consider this concept:

"You do not realize enough that your attention is your only chance. Without it you can do nothing.”

This quote speaks to the center of the quality with which we choose to live our lives. A growing concept within psychological circles is that we are truly conscious a very small part of the time. Apparently, we switch in and out of fully engaged consciousness without even realizing it quite frequently. This is not as outlandish a claim as it might seem at first glance. Consider, for a moment, a learning experience such as learning to drive a car for the first time. There are elements of apprehension, joy, maybe even a little fear as you move the vehicle out onto a public road and into traffic for the first time. You are fully engaged in that moment. You are right there, right now. Presently, assuming that you have a few years (at least) of driving experience, where is your attention as you navigate those well known routes? Chances are that you have set the 'chore' of driving to be attended to by a lower level of your mind while the higher levels are attending to something else, possibly something quite mundane – reviewing the grocery list, listening to a favorite bit of music, etc. The complex process of driving a car has been relegated to an automatic process and your attention may be elsewhere or not even engaged at all. This is the mental place where we spend most of our time. Living, or even just seeing fully requires that we break out of this habit as much as possible.

(Click on image to enlarge) A Magnolia bloom seen one morning while walking to work.
It takes effort to do so. Part of the problem is that we slip in and out of being fully attentive so automatically and smoothly that most of us don't even realize it has happened. The direct result is that we can move through the world largely unaware of our surroundings. For the photographer, this is not at all acceptable. We must be engaged with our surroundings as much as possible, as often as possible.

(Click on image to enlarge) A natural color reflection, barely visible, but I noticed it as I walked by on the trail.
My method for doing this has two basic parts. The first is to be engaged with the constant flow of light in and around my surroundings. This constant scanning keeps me alert for unexpected photographic opportunities and works quite well. The second part is simply forcing myself to stop. To pause, even for a brief to take a moment to look, really look and consider the scene before me. This latter point sounds easy enough, but that is often not the case. How often has something caught a flicker of your attention and your reaction was to get back to that when you have the time? Ten minutes later, that moment is likely not even a memory. The power of habit and momentum can be extremely difficult to break. The effort comes in the form of actually making yourself STOP. Stop to look. Stop to consider. Stop to contemplate. Stop to really see.

This is the place that good, even great photography comes from. You must pause a moment. Only then can you fully absorb the scene before you, to fully engage with the world around you and the possibilities that it offers.

It's Show Time!

This weekend is the first outdoor show of the season and we are busy, busy, busy getting ready. Posts may get a little less regular as the next month is pretty solidly booked with shows in various towns on Long Island. Stop by the News and Events page on the main web site for the upcoming show shedule.

In the meantime I will share a few recent images. First up, is a study of an interesting brownstone detail on 38th Street in Manhattan:

(click images to enlarge)

This is one of those little surprises that hit you when you least expect it and why it pays to carry a pocket camera at all times. I've walked by this spot literally hundreds of times and for some reason, on this particular morning, the light, the details, the textures all just clicked. I used the Canon G9, which spends a good part of its life in my briefcase, on full manual and no flash. Something about the way the G9 works responds really well to texture style sharpening with images like this.

Another example of the value of always being prepared to capture a surprise opportunity is this little study taken during my niece's wedding. We were waiting just outside the country club's bar (is a bar in a country club still called a 'bar'?) when the play of light around these empty wire frame tables and chairs caught my eye:

The graphic shadows of the wire mesh and legs were fascinating. Here I put the Canon G9 to work once again, stashed in my jacket pocket. Settings were manual with no flash. as usual.

One more shot, recently dug up during a review of old files, is this unusual little number. Taken during a mid-day visit to Argyle Park during a snowy, cold winter day, this shot is a very subtle graphic study. I was taken by the potential in the way the flat, gray light reflected off the surface texture of the moving water contrasted against the frozen water and the snow covered bank. Getting the composition 'just so' is critical in an image like this if all the broad forms are to work together.

As I was out scoping potential subjects, on this day I was equipped with one of my pro cameras, the Canon 5D. The lens was the standard 24-105mm and a tripod was used, along with a polarizing filter to control the amount of reflection off the water's surface.

Thanks for visiting. Back to running prints for the upcoming shows. If you happen to be in the neighborhood, be sure to stop by!