What happens when artistic license is applied to a photograph intended to make us believe a moment actually took place? What happens when the power of photography is used to compel people to believe something happened, when in fact the moment / event never happened?
I watched a video by Hiroshi Sugimoto this morning about his collection of fossils, and it got me thinking about his belief that fossils and photographs are similar in that both are “time-recording” devices.
Fossils show us a likeness of something that lived millions of years ago. We can see the skeletal impressions of fine bones, and holes where eyes once were, and sometimes even the bones of what it had for dinner, resting forever in what once was an intestinal tract. Fossils are a documentary record of what actually was, at some moment in history.
Upon its invention in 1839, photography became yet another tool for humanity to document history, no less important than the archaeological record. Just as a physical object (like a fish) under pressure created the fossiles, the presence of light reflecting off a physical object could create a photograph, and thus document a real moment in time that fractions of a second later became history.
This is one of the aspects of photography that absolutely fascinates me. It’s ability to capture a moment in time; unique moments that would otherwise be lost forever as our brains quickly dismiss them in an attempt to rapidly process millions of other visual inputs. The realism of a photograph is what makes it so powerful as a ‘time-recording’ device.
People of my generation tend to believe the photographic image. We’ve grown up believing that photographs are a true facsimile of some event, some moment, that actually happened. Simply because most photographs we’ve seen throughout most of our lives were exactly that. While photographs may have been artfully modified to reflect the photographer’s vision (versus the camera’s), there was no doubt that the images were likenesses of something real at a specific moment in time. We didn’t question whether Ansel Adams’s mountains and rivers, or clouds, or cacti were real.
Now to be clear, artistic photography has always had an element of the ‘unreal’ behind it– we call it artistic license. Paintings, illustrations, and even doodles on a notecard are entirely contrivances of the human imagination and depend wholly on artistic license. We accept artistic license in art photography as being okay, because art in any form is intended to make us FEEL, and less so to make us believe.
Unlike art photography, documentary photography is primarily intended to make us BELIEVE, and less so to make us feel. Photojournalism is a great example. A news photograph of an event is intended to make us BELIEVE the event happened, and secondarily to make us mad, or happy, or just make us feel well-informed.
What then happens when artistic license is applied to a photograph intended to make us believe a moment actually took place? What happens when the power of photography is used to compel people to believe something happened, when in fact the moment / event never happened?
It’s so easy to do, especially in the emerging age of artificial intelligence and sophisticated imaging software. Photoshop a 93 year old grandmother in her wheelchair to make it appear as if she’s sitting at the top of Mt Everest. Or two world leaders made to appear to be shaking hands (or throwing punches at each other), even though they’ve never met. Or maybe a small child crying at the feet of a large man. Are these “photographs” real, or are they merely contrivances of the human imagination?
Once photographers–and those who use photographs–hijack the power of photography to knowingly make a false narrative intended to make us believe something that isn’t true, then the power of photography as a believable “time-recording” medium will be lost forever. The intent of a photographer will no longer matter, whether it’s to make us BELIEVE or to FEEL, because we will no longer believe in the intrinsic truth of photographs. All photographs will be viewed with suspicion, as “fake,” as “photoshopped.”
A Prediction: Future generations will likely believe any photograph to be a mere contrivance of human imagination, no more significant than doodles on a notecard.
I fear that’s the direction documentary photography is going, and it disturbs me, no less so than any form of falsehood or dis-information does. No one likes to feel manipulated by someone else, so when someone shows me a photograph and tells me it’s real (i.e., documentary) when it’s anything but, purely to dis-inform me and modify my belief in reality, that person will lose my trust. And I will also mistrust the gimmick he or she used to try to dis-inform me. Who in their right mind actually trusts a magician’s top hat?
Once we as a culture begin using the power of photography (specifically its power of believability) to propagate dis-information, it is certain that we will cease to believe in photographs as a facsimile of some real moment in time. The validity of the so-called “photographic record” will cease to exist. Photographers may just as well be doodling.
Perhaps we’re already at that point in the history of photography. Are we?
I still consider photography to be a “time-recording” device. As long as I wield a camera and make photographs, I will never make a fool of myself by trying to fool those who see them. My photographs all represent a real moment in time–each pixel or grain of silver, and each dot on the page was created by light reflected or emitted by a physical object that was part of the composition when I took the picture–unless I say otherwise–and even then I won’t refer to it as a photograph. Because it would be something entirely different.
How do you feel about this? Do you believe photography should be true to its power as a “time-recording” device or not? Or is it just me and Sugimoto?
Until next time,
J.
PS: Clicking on “Whisper of a Sunrise” will take you to its place in my online gallery, where you can see in more detail all the splendor of this unique moment in time in the Appalachian Mountains.
Let’s talk about the power of mystery in images and why mystery affects our responses to images.
If you are a serious student of art, you’ve undoubtedly read many tutorials about how to use the principles of composition, lighting, and timing to create more interesting images. We all want our images to be interesting, but what does that mean? How do we make our images more interesting; what is it about an image that makes it interesting?
I’ve often watched visitors to art galleries as they browse around the floors. It’s very common to see them roaming around, steadily moving from artwork to artwork, until they stop on a particular piece. Why did they stop on that one? And what is it about that piece that keeps them planted in that same spot well past closing time, I wonder?
I want to deep dive into this topic. It’s intrigued me throughout my study of why some images seem to grab our attention while others do not. It turns out that images that create a sense of mystery can be most engaging, but only up to a point. Ok, let’s prepare to dive.
Our lizard brains love mystery
The science of psychology has lots to say about the role of mystery in the development of modern animal behaviors. I’m going to try to explain, to myself at least, how these theories also help explain one specific behavior in modern humans: why some images trigger a closer look– a worthwhile engagement.
Psychology’s view on mystery is that throughout the evolution of the animal kingdom, a species’ ability to rapidly discern ‘the unknown’ within its environment was critically important to survival of that species. Sounds logical, doesn’t it? Prehistoric rodents wouldn’t have lasted long if they ran wildly into unknown caves, and neither would early man have survived. So the basic skill of heightened awareness to strange encounters in our environment is now something encoded in our DNA, deep in our lizard brains, so to speak.
I guess I already knew that and you probably did too. But something else Psychology tells us is that (and I paraphrase) “Animals are drawn to mystery; they seek mystery. Resolving mysteries is profoundly important to understanding our perceptions (encounters) of what we see (or smell, feel, hear, etc). But before we can resolve mysteries, we must first FIND them. Animal evolution has finely tuned the instinct to constantly seek mysteries in the environment.”
This compulsion to seek out mystery isn’t something we can ignore. Searching for and clarifying strange (mysterious) perceptions is as elementary to our human instinct as socializing and caring for our young. Humans are inherently curious, and we can’t help it.
The obligatory search for mystery isn’t strictly a survival instinct at this point in our evolution. That’s probably not true for every human on the planet, but in general, seeking mysteries has assumed a much less ominous purpose, yet it’s something we still do all the time. “What time is it?” “Is that pot roast seasoned?” “What’s around that corner?” etc, etc. Like I said, seeking mysteries–being curious– is a basic purpose of our lizard brains.
Mystery and human interest are interdependent
Let me share a psychology study I read some years ago and have since lost the reference for, but it’s no less important to the topic. Researchers studied a number of cultures and populations to determine if there is an inherent relationship between a range of novel perceptions (i.e., mysteries) and the interest generated in response to those perceptions.
It happens that humans don’t always find perceptions they encounter to be mysterious. Most encounters are this way; so common and mundane that our lizard brains simply ignore them. Total disinterest.
It’s also true that some perceptions are too mysterious to be believed. Extremely novel encounters can be perceived as ‘unreal’ and therefore unimportant. Again, total disinterest. Consider an image of a square moon, for instance.
The important lesson here is: The level of interest we take in any particular encounter is strongly related to how novel or mysterious we perceive that encounter to be. Too little novelty and our brains recognize the mundane or cliche, and responds with disregard. Too much novelty and our brains respond with a sense of the bizarre, unbelievability, and then immediate disregard.
Between the extremes in novelty is a range of mysteries that generates intrigue and a desire for discovery. Remember, we’re searching for mysteries all the time.
The graph below says the same thing in a different format. Again, I’m recalling the psychology study mentioned above. Clearly, there is a big difference in the interest humans take in a mystery depending on the degree of novelty in that mystery.
This graph is purely notional and not strictly related to time or space. Not all images or visual art styles begin or end as cliche or begin or end as bizarre (although many do, right?). Cliche and bizarre are perceptions, and perceptions change and are very personal.
We can think of the left side of the graph as encounters having no mystery to most people, quickly dismissed by their lizard brains as undeserving of any further interest. The right side of the graph is just the opposite. Encounters over there are so mysterious (to most people) that our brains can’t comprehend the mystery or otherwise judge the encounter to be unreal, and therefore lose interest in trying to resolve the mystery. I used the term “distraction” in the graph, meaning something trivial and undeserving of further attention.
The relationship between novelty and interest shown in the graph is universal to all human populations, but you can’t use it to explain a specific population’s reaction to a specific mystery; it doesn’t work that way. A drawing made by a native in New Guinea may be exceedingly mundane to others in his tribe, but people in my tribe could find that same drawing to be exceedingly mysterious and beautiful. Our interest in things we encounter in our environment (like images) is entirely related to our past encounters, our stored experiences. Well known encounters are perceived by our lizard brains as common and uninteresting. New encounters are perceived as novel / mysterious and our brains treat them differently, until they don’t.
Mystery activates our imaginations
Somewhere between the perceptions of cliche and bizarre sits the realm of mystery that generates (compels) high interest. A little bit of mystery triggers a compulsion to understand the mystery, and in the process of discovery, we call on our imaginations to make sense of the mystery. It is the human imagination that gives mystery its power.
Psychology explains the power of mystery in general to work like this: Perceiving a mystery is a left-brain function. The left brain is where we conduct all our analytical functions, the most rudimentary of which occurs in our so called lizard brain (“What’s that????”). The left brain merely raises the question based on immediate perceptions of what it sees, feels, smells, hears, etc). It communicates the question to the right brain (the creative center) to evaluate the perception and come up with the answer to the mystery (“Don’t worry….it’s only a fly”).
This whole process of immediate perception followed by creative and imaginative resolution is strictly related to the mystery embedded in the perception. If there is no mystery (the left side of the above graph), there is little reason to imagine; the answer is clear already. Done…move on to the next mystery. The whole sequence of such events may take no longer than a few milliseconds.
Well, what happens when the right brain is clueless about what the left brain sent it? Enter the creative process of imagination. First, the right brain compares the perception received from the left brain to its comprehensive database of all known encounters. “It’s a fly.” But, if there’s no explicit match to past encounters (i.e., the experience is novel), the right brain begins to fill in the gaps using imagination. “OK, it’s not a fly”–>”I’ve seen pictures of dragons, and this kinda looks like a dragon.”–> “Yea, it might be a tiny dragon, maybe a (fill in the blank)–>”etc.”
So, a little mystery engages the imagination; more mystery engages more imagination. As long as our brain perceives the mystery as something worth resolving, it will continue trying to resolve it using imagination. This creative process can take hours, days, or even years. And that is a powerful mystery, one that sits somewhere in the upper part of the above graph.
And active imagination is what makes an image engaging
Let’s return to our basic question “why do some images engage us (or compel us) and others do not?”
The sun does magical things in the mountains.
Certainly, anything that holds our attention can be said to be engaging. The longer it holds our attention, the more engaging it is. Images can do this of course, and in a very powerful way.
I’ll refer to my image “Purple Mountains Majesty” for a minute. If you’ve never seen mountains or have never seen a picture of the Grand Teton Mountain Range, you may perceive what you see in the image as novel and mysterious. You’re left only with your imagination to resolve the mystery underlying the true majesty of the mountains themselves, or the elegant quality of light falling on the scene, or the purity of the refections in the water, or a multitude of other imagined or real elements in the image, and sometimes even beyond the image. To you, the image is an abstraction and perceived as novel and mysterious. Your left brain then engages the imagination center in the right brain to help understand the mysteries you encounter as you explore the image.
“Abstract art” is a common answer to “..what type of art causes your imagination to sore?” And that’s a valid answer; abstract art is consistently among the most popular genre of visual art. Lovers of abstract art explain their love precisely because it engages their imaginations to make sense of the shapes, colors, patterns, or forms present on the canvas. All of that imagining takes time and attention, meaning high interest, engagement, and enjoyment.
Bright Autumn Day by J Riley Stewart-Abstract autumn tree along Blue Ridge Parkway
But ask someone who dislikes abstract art about it and they’ll give an answer that might sound like abstraction borders on the bizarre, having no interest to them. Unlike the abstract lover, her right brain had no interest in using her imagination to discern what all those shapes, patterns, or colors mean. Mysterious, perhaps, but interesting, no.
The big difference between the abstract lover and her counter is that in the lover, abstraction engages the imagination while in the latter it certainly does not. The whole of the above Interest Profile of Novelty can be explained by the seemingly desperate need for imagination to make an image interesting.
My personal approach for creating mystery in images
I love mystery in my own (and others’) images. In fact, creating mystery is my constant intent, without being cliche and without being anything close to bizarre. My reason for this is not because the graph says to do that, but because those are the types of images I love and love to make.
I’ll cover a few big ways to create mystery. You may have dozens of other ideas. What do you look for in images that create a sense of mystery?
Prominent Shadows, and other forms of obfuscation
I love shadows and find them mysterious. Perhaps you do too. I have a saying that shows up from time to time on my website or in my blog. It goes like this:
We need light. It provides clarity. But we also need a bit of mystery, and in the shadows we find it.
Featuring dark elegant shadows in images is but one way to convey a sense of obfuscation and mystery. Obfuscation, or hiding things from clear view, confuses our lizard brains and causes our creative brains to solve the mystery. Obfuscation in all its forms can be very engaging. Other ways to create obfuscation include throwing important elements out of focus, hiding elements behind a veil of weather, smoke, or digital textures or even hiding parts of elements behind other elements. These artistic techniques force our imaginations to try to clarify the obscured elements, and in the process, keep our imaginations churning.
American photographer Keith Carter is a master at creating obfuscation in his images. Take a look at his work.
My first awareness of how beautiful and intriguing art can be was when I was in middle school and stumbled upon the romantic works of the Hudson River School masters. They started the American Luminism movement that we recognize today as bright, reflective scenes of sublime nature, often having almost secret, hidden elements of humanity engaged in activities of the day. I loved the sense of light in those scenes, but it wasn’t until I was much older that I realized that it was the subjects hidden in the shadows that really intrigued me and kept me engaged in the images.
Those early images inspire me to use shadow and light in much the same way in my images. While there are many ways to create obfuscation and mystery in images, the use of elegant shadows is very effective. When I say “elegant shadows”, I mean deep tones having details, not solid black areas that have no meaning or intrigue. There is nothing mysterious about pure black.
Certain subjects are inherently mysterious to most Americans. Old castle ruins are wholly unknown through first hand experience, but we recognize them as ancient, rare, and sublime. They can possess immense mystery and trigger our imaginations to conjure up visions of life in the middle ages.
I lived in Germany for almost 3 years back in the 1980s. I was lucky to get to spend many hours crawling around old castle ruins while there. I found myself alone on many of these visits, which gave me lots of time to consider the hidden, mysterious stories that only the stones could tell.
There are many, many other subjects that are commonly perceived to be mysterious, like towering mountains, crashing ocean waves, and perhaps even spiders and snakes to some. Here’s a few of my mysterious castle images that come from my Timeless Walls collection.
We all love images of stranger things. They can be highly mysterious and interesting. Examples include strange relationships among natural (or unnatural) objects or rare environmental conditions: Night. Fog. Severe weather. Scary? Mysterious? Yea.
Uncommon moments aren’t as uncommon as much as they are uncommonly photographed. Consider underwater images, or images of the deep galaxies. Or perhaps the capture of a gazelle by a jaguar. These situations happen all the time, but rarely photographed. But that still makes them uncommon and therefore mysterious.
As a landscape photographer, I’m always searching for weather, lighting, or seasonal situations that depart from my everyday experiences, precisely because I enjoy the mystery in them.
As a photographer, I love seeing others’ photographs. It seems to me that over the last decade or so, there’s been a growing intent to create a sense of ‘shock and awe’ in our imagery. As if by creating unimaginable images, we can grab attention of more people, and that results in greater engagement and greater rewards to the creator of those images.
Let’s talk about the value of ‘shock and awe’ in imagery, especially in photography. Can it be mysterious? Certainly. Perception of mystery is a popular response to images that appear to be “out of this world.” They definitely encourage imagination and (sometimes) gullibility. My personal feeling is that painters and illustrators can get by with a lot more shock and awe than can photographers, because photographs remain generally accepted as ‘coming from reality’ while paintings and illustrations are not.
When done honestly, photographs of unimaginably exotic places and moments can be highly mysterious. I find the most intriguing images in the ‘shock and awe’ category are those that are honest photographs of real subjects and real stories that clearly stimulate the imagination. There are many, and I admire the works of photographers who go to great lengths to show them to us.
And, I suppose, so can hyper-saturated photographs containing unreal colors or super-imposed subjects masquerading as reality be mysterious. To me, such images tend to fall on the right side of Novelty: Interest relationship curve. The more gaudy and unbelievable they are, the farther down the slope they go, to a point where I and most people would consider them to be bizarre, and not in an interesting way. But who knows, perceptions are highly personal.
I try to be authentic in my own work. I believe strongly that photography should inform our perceptions of reality. Heavily manipulating photographs for the purpose of creating mystery through shock and awe isn’t something I choose to engage in, because my left brain quickly labels them as ‘bizarre.’
Many other elements of imagery can compel a sense of mystery and cause our brains to jump into imagination mode, at least until they become common and uninteresting. A new presentation method, such as printing images onto highly glossy metal surfaces, can be perceived as new and mysterious and generate high interest. High Dynamic Range (HDR) photography is another example. The advent of vibrant acrylic paints is another. When the first photographs appeared in gallery wraps, that was a definite departure from the traditional, and people still find it to be very interesting and enjoyable way to present wall art. And what about writing captions or poetry within the framing of an image? Pretty interesting at times.
Consider also examples of artists re-introducing methods and presentations once considered archaic and subsequently generating high interest, partly because those presentations had never been seen by modern people. Platinum-palladium printing, or carbon printing, or tin-types, or any number of once-archaic alternative processes in photography are very interesting, initially because we perceive them as novel and let our imaginations fill in the gaps about how they were created.
There is no end of ways to change methods or approaches that cause a sense of mystery and create high interest (or low interest). Photographers are supremely adept at doing this. Feel free to comment and share other ways you’ve seen artists induce novelty to their artworks, and whether you think of them as interesting or not.
Summary
In serious studies of art, we seem to skip over the fundamentals of how we as humans behave when we encounter the range of beauty, inspiration, message, or any host of outcomes often assigned to art appreciation.
In this article, I’ve tried to describe my interpretation of the involuntary psychological connection between mystery and imagination to explain why images compel engagement. Humans, like all animals, constantly seek mystery.
Visual encounters that trigger first a sense of mystery, then imagination to solve that mystery, is as old as humanity itself. Knowing this linkage exists helps us understand why certain images grab our attention and compel us to think about (imagine about) them, often for several minutes or even years. The association between mystery and the imagination also helps us understand why we dismiss common, cliche images and quickly reject bizarre, “unreal” or otherwise extremely novel images.
I go through periods of my art-making when I begin suspecting that my images are too boring, and not worth making anymore. At the same time, I’ve gone back to those images that are more abstract and mysterious, and respond to them in a completely different and more enjoyable way. I think if I can find that zone between too common and too novel, I will eventually get more enjoyment from my image-making. And if I’m able to find that sweet spot, I hope others will too.
I like taking photographs, but I love making photographs. And making photographs requires more than a camera.
Everyone today takes photographs. Is just too easy not to. We all have a camera with us most of the time, and there’s always plenty of people, events, places, food, and pets to take and share pictures of.
But what does it mean to “make” a photograph? Is making a photograph different than taking a photograph?
It’s interesting that there is such a distinction for photographic art. No one ever says “take a painting” or “take a sculpture.” It’s only in photography that we can both take a photograph and make a photograph. And yes, there is a difference between taking and making a photograph.
So what’s the difference? Why are some photographs made while others are merely taken? Are we just talking semantics here?
Not really. When folks talk about making a photograph, they are implying that, in the making:
the result will be something that doesn’t already exist, and
the making will require some degree of personal expression, in other words, the maker (i.e., the photographer) shapes the final image to suit his/her abilities and, most importantly, their artistic intent for making the image.
As an example, a painter–once choosing to make a picture of a mountain valley–eventually must decide what that valley will look like in the final painting. The fact that the painting doesn’t already exist is easy to accept. The idea of a painter expressing his/her vision is also easy to accept. It can be highly representational, or abstract, or surreal, or any number of styles open to the painter, consistent with their artistic abilities and limitations. They can paint in a river or forest that isn’t on the landscape naturally, or they can choose to remove physical elements from the landscape they don’t want to appear in the final painting. The ‘making’ of a painting is entirely up to the artist. We readily accept that.
Well, it’s much the same for making a photograph. To make a photograph first requires a camera to capture the scene (i.e., the taking part), but it also requires much more. Making a photograph also requires that the photographer have a vision of the final image and the skill to express that vision. The range of possibilities open to a photographer is as vast as that open to oil painters or any other artist, especially true in this digital age of compositing multiple images and other digital manipulations possible today.
Back before the digital age, the distinction between taking and making photographs was much less confusing than it is today. Years ago, the only way to get a photograph was to make one. Sure, just like today, the pre-digital photographer first had to take a picture, but the result was incomplete and essentially without value: they couldn’t do anything with the exposed film until they developed it, evaluated it, and printed it (including all the possible creative manipulations made during the printing to realize the photographer’s vision). Back then, all photographs were made, not merely taken. Taking a photograph was only the first step of many steps required to create / make a photograph.
Jump forward to the modern digital age and all that changes. I’d guess almost 99.999% of all photographs we see are simply taken. We stand, we click the camera, and voila, there’s the picture on the back, ready to share on Facebook or Instagram. “..Look what I had for breakfast !…” Not very expressive, but we’ve all taken these photographs.
Remember the vision part? Now we’re entering confusion territory, my friend. Some would say that even a snapshot was “made”, not merely “taken.” And that can be true, because the difference between taking a photograph and making a photograph has nothing to do with the technology used. And it has nothing to do with lapsed time or effort involved. It only involves an intent and skill of the photographer to say something important in the creation. If the photographer’s vision is to make an image that compels an emotion, AND if the audience has an emotion, then that image becomes art by definition. And ALL art is made, again by definition.
Let’s contrast the snapshot approach (i.e., merely taking a picture) with the expressive approach to truly make a photograph.
In the image below (“Birch on the Rocks”), I was struck by wonder in the small birch tree seemingly plopped on top of the boulders. I found it while on a walk in the Allegheny Mountains in West Virginia, a beautiful nature location and a nature photographer’s dream destination. I wanted to make an image that expressed that wonder; the wonder of the tree’s placement in nature and its precarious life choice. There was a certain positioning of the tree and its related objects that I had in mind–using the art of previsualization–so I placed my camera to make sure that I captured those relationships, knowing the final image would require additional editing and “making” to realize the imagined final image.
Below is the image that my camera gave me, and I knew that to express the wonder I felt, the camera’s image was going to need some work on my part (i.e., the ‘making’ part of my vision).
This is the image from my 4×5 camera
Final expressive image of Birch on the Rocks
My preferences for expressing, or making, images is generally traditional. I rarely use photoshopping tools beyond cropping, adjusting contrast, dodging, burning, and spotting. That’s the case with this image. My principle goal was to clearly emphasize the light falling on the small tree and its perch, which I accomplished by burning in the distant background and immediate foreground, while also dodging the small tree roots and rocks immediately around the roots. I felt the final expression was much better in showing the wonder I felt when I walked upon this small tree on its rocky perch.
My point is that just as a painter has the liberty to make a ‘scene’ express what he/she wants to say about their subjects, so does a photographer have those same liberties. Photographic art can be just as expressive as any art form, and the best photographs are made, not just taken.
It’s a fair question. Why do artists make art? What I say next may make you see that what I’m actually asking is “why the hell do artists make art, given how few people actually appreciate it.”
Let’s say you’ve gone to college to get a degree that allows you to freelance. You then enter the job market and begin selling your talents. It’s difficult, but you make do, living small and cheap, perhaps taking a second job to make ends meet until your freelance business takes off. Eventually you’re able to focus all your time and effort into your passion, and all is well.
The 2017 report from Artnet describes how this happens in the professional visual art-making world, or more accurately, how it doesn’t work.
Would you continue working in your primary job if it only provided you a fraction of your basic needs to live on? What if the things you make in that job only sell once you’re dead? Who would do such a thing?
Answer: most visual artists in the US.
In the US, only 1/4 of all professional artists make $10,000 or more per year from their art.
In 2018, the federal poverty threshold for US individuals was $12,140 annual income.
So, which artists are making big money? You probably know them by name: Pablo Picasso, Andy Warhol, Gerhard Richter, Claude Monet, Georgia O’Keefe, and many others. But what you’ll notice right off is that, well, most of the artists reaping huge monetary rewards from their art are……. dead.
Does this mean most living artists are dirt-poor? Not at all. Many have supporting spouses, offer complementary services (e.g., classes and workshops), or even have another full time job, either related to their artistic talents or not. There’s no such thing as a starving artist, because starving is not sustainable.
But that’s the dark side of being an artist, and not at all what I wanted to focus on in this article, and that is this:
Monetary impediments aside, artists will continue making art– until they can’t.
It’s quite astonishing, if you think about it. Against all odds, artists continue making art. Artists have chosen a life path having few opportunities to make even the most meager living. And yet, they still create. They create because making art is important to them, and because they know that making art is important for Humanity.
I believe it says alot about the creative drive of people (all people, not just professional artists). Even when the public-at-large doesn’t appreciate it (i.e., buy it), artists will make art– until they no longer can. And they stop only when they no longer have the time to make art, or no longer receive even the basic rewards necessary to enable them to make art, including the satisfaction they get merely from receiving appreciation from an audience.
Let’s be clear. Making art is not entirely an altruistic, self-serving endeavor. We all know artists who say that’s the only reason they make art, but I know of no artist who doesn’t expect at least a small degree of external reward for making their art. Sometimes, perhaps oftentimes, mere appreciation–the occasional “thank you for making your art” –is all the reward they need. And for some, the necessary rewards goes beyond the simple act of applause.
I know no professional artist who rejects being paid for their artwork; just the opposite. Most artists hope to make enough money from making art to cover expenses and even make a decent living– while they are still alive. Unfortunately in the US, visual art is very under-appreciated, as proven by the 2017 Artnet study.
The under-appreciation of art in the US isn’t just of visual art. Virtuoso violinist Joshua Bell played Bach masterpieces in the Washington, DC subway station for 45 minutes one cold January day back in 2007. A thousand people passed by; hardly anyone seemed to notice. Very few stopped to listen. His total coin-drop for the session was $32.
Bell admits that he didn’t enjoy the experience. Here he was, an artist at the top of his game, and to this particular audience, he was nearly invisible. A near vacuum of human interaction: That was the worst part of his experience, he said. Bell didn’t expect to make a lot of money from his 45 minute performance, but he did expect people to stop and listen; perhaps even applaud.
Appreciation for our artists cost nothing, folks. The next time you see an artist performing or sharing their passion for making art, a small hand clap goes a long way. Better yet, a purchase of their work will be a huge help to them continuing to make their art. Because if they stop, Humanity may miss something extremely important.
Hug an artist today. Better yet, add to your art collection and help an artist succeed in life.
“Chapel of Ease” – Moss drapes the portico of an antebellum church ruin in the Carolina Lowcountry.
I like taking photographs, but I love making photographs. And making photographs requires stewing over them.
This article comes from a selfish, artist-centric perspective, but I thought you might appreciate hearing what one artist thinks about rushing the process of artmaking.
Making art has nothing whatsoever to do with enjoying art. In fact, when the process of making art becomes important to the process of enjoying art, something has gone terribly wrong. The end result should stand on its own without you having to consider whether the artist used oils or watercolors, or fat brushes or bamboo sticks, or a digital camera or a film camera, or whether it took the artist 5 minutes to make the artwork, or even 5 years. Enjoying art requires only the finished piece, the fine art product.
So, why even talk about the extraneous aspects of making art? Because sometimes we artists need to remind ourselves to slow the hell down and stop being in a such a rush to produce “anything, just to get it on social media.”
Making art is one of those things you can’t rush. Even Bob Ross, who used to create those beautiful mountain landscapes in 30 minutes on TV back in the 80s, would make a number of practice proofs of the scene before going on camera. He sure did make it look easy, though.
In this digital age, so much is made of how quickly a photograph can go from “click” to “share.” Smart phones have literally shortened this time to mere seconds through any cellular connection. Thousands of software tutorials show us how quickly we can modify a straight photograph, right from the camera, to any number of “artistic” renderings with just a few clicks of the mouse. But is ‘being quick’ a good way for an artist to behave?
Using film like I do has a way of slowing the process of making a picture. Selecting a composition, setting up the camera, and even recording the shot in my field log is a very deliberate and careful process.
After settling on a composition, the picture-taking process is very mechanical, very non-creative. I think it’s fun, but I can surely understand why some wouldn’t find it so. Then there is the time-consuming process of getting the picture to a state where I can see what I actually took (or more precisely, what the camera gave me). First I have to develop the film, and it often takes me a couple weeks to get to that. Next, I have to scan the negatives–which may take a day or two–and still I only have a very preliminary look of what I envisioned in the field.
But once I have the negative digitized, the creative part starts again. And it takes me days to weeks to turn what the camera gave me into a finished fine art print for exhibition.
That’s the point with making art: you can’t rush it. It should be a very deliberative process. Numerous artistic decisions and actions have to be made; often by trial and error. Some of these deliberations are downright painful in terms of the mental anguish involved. But this ‘stewing’ over my art is so worth it.
As with many things in life, the personal return from making art is proportional to the level of investment: the more I find myself stewing over a particular photograph, the more excited I get about it. I feel very little emotion toward pictures I take with my iPhone and share through social media. In such pictures, I’ve invested almost nothing. They are mere snapshots.
Pictures that require personal investment and stewing are a different story. I like taking photographs, but I love making photographs. And making art requires stewing over them. Often it’s a fight. Sometimes it turns to hate. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose. Regardless, I’ve learned something in the process as an artist, and from that I get personal satisfaction.
What do you think about this? Have I overlooked an element of making art that benefits from doing things fast instead of deliberately? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
“Chapel of Ease” is available as a large-scale, hand-varnished fine art print from here, and you can see other images from the Carolina Lowcountry while there.
Exposed–Skeleton of a small tree, standing apart from the protection of the forest.
Have you ever wondered what it is about a photograph that makes you stop and stare? Not many photographs will do that, but some do, surely, and those are good photographs. What makes a good photograph? Or more importantly, what makes a photograph good?
I look at a lot of pictures; it’s my job, so to speak. I admit though, that very, very few make me stop and stare. A quick glance is enough to tell me when a picture just isn’t important enough to stop what I’m doing to explore it.
Is it the same with you? Do you skim over most of the pictures put in your face, but every now and then find one that keeps you spellbound for minutes at a time? What is it about such pictures that are so important that you feel compelled to spend your time with them?
John Szarkowski, the long time Director of Photography at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, had clear ideas about what makes a picture a “good picture.” He said
“The best pictures are important because they achieve the high goal of art: simply and gracefully they describe experience–knowledge of the world–that we had not known before.”
Simply put, Szarkowski suggests the two main attributes of a good picture. First, it has to be simple and graceful. Second, it has to show us something new.
Simplicity and gracefulness relates to the aesthetics of the picture, and aesthetics relate to the craft of the artist.
A good artist having a high level of craft knows how to create something that is simple and graceful. I love my 5 year old granddaughter’s drawings, but they aren’t what I would call simple or graceful. I love them for a reason that has nothing to do with aesthetics. But I doubt my next-door neighbor would feel as I do about my granddaughter’s drawings.
Long ago I decided what simple and graceful meant in my own craft. Simple means compositions having not more than 3-4 components, such as “trees+water+sky” in a vista landscape or, as in Exposed– “tree skeleton+foreground foliage+background forest”. All the rest of the chaotic forest environment I edited out when I took the picture to give me a chance to make the final image simple and graceful.
Simple also means using lines and simple shapes to lead you through the story. For example, Exposed contains simple lines created by the foreground foliage that lead the eye to the main character (the tree skeleton). The tree then itself presents a simple line leading you to the dark, forbidding forest, which then stops the eye to return to explore the story of the small tree and foliage again. Lines and shapes can be very subtle yet still be effective in leading us through the visual story.
Graceful is more difficult to describe. Gracefulness has less to do with the subject of the picture and more about how the artist presents the subject. I love photographs having dramatic but delicate lighting and a wide range of mysterious shadows. And I love elegant, natural transitions from light to shadow. On the other hand, I dislike harsh, empty highlights as much as I dislike empty, pure black shadows. To my tastes, such harshness in a image lacks gracefulness and elegance.
Szarkowski’s second point about knowledge of the world–and I find this the hardest part of making good photographs–relates to the visual story told by the picture. He says a good picture will “..describe experience..that we had not known before.”
If a picture doesn’t change you in the least, perhaps it’s because you’ve seen millions of similar pictures; it shows you nothing new, it’s too common or cliché. You probably found the story boring, uninteresting, and thus, not important.
When an artist does show you something you haven’t seen before and you find the story compelling and interesting, then you are more apt to remember it. This new memory will change you, perhaps ever so slightly, but change you nevertheless. That is what Szarkowski meant by the “high goal of art.”
It’s not easy to make a picture that simply and gracefully says something entirely new to people who see it. That’s why there are so few good photographs. And with so many pictures being shown to us today, it’s harder than ever before to make good photographs that reveal something new.
The last thing I want is for my pictures to be cliché, common, or unimportant. Instead, I want to make only good photographs. I want to be deeply moved by them, and I want others to be deeply moved by them. They should show something new, to change the way people think about the world. To perhaps even find room in their visual memory for it to live forever! It’s a very high bar to reach, and I’m prepared to never reach it, but there it is.
If I ever reach that bar, it means I’ve succeeded as an artist, because I will have created something that approaches “the high goal of art.”
When you find a picture that tells you a story (i.e., an experience) that is new to you, and the story is well-told through high-craftsmanship (simply and gracefully), then you’ve found a keeper that you’ll enjoy for years. Take action to own it and live with it–either in your visual memory or on the wall of your favorite space. As I like to say, you deserve to live with the art you love!
Want to read how other photographers answer this question? Read this article.
A note about Exposed:
Forests offer so much to see. Yea, there are trees, I know. But what often draws me to forests is that there are also lots of interesting characters and shadows hiding things from the light. And sometimes, I find something in the forest that is well-lit when it shouldn’t be.
This small tree, long dead and only now existing as a skeleton of what it once was, is an example. The dark, shadowy forest in the background suggested to me that this small tree should have been back amongst its peers. Under the protection of the canopy. But instead it was out in the clearing, exposed to the elements of Mother Nature and Man, and the result is clear. The story didn’t end with the death of the tree, however. Visual stories rarely ever end, do they?
Exposed is available as a limited edition fine art print from 14×11″ to 40×30″ here
See hundreds of other examples of scenes from nature, romantic landscapes, and old nostalgic architectural subjects /here/
I’ve talked about the power of nostalgic images before and it probably won’t be the last time I mention it. Experiencing nostalgia is a huge part of being human, and it can be a common emotion that art can evoke in us.
Unlike timeless landscapes and nature pictures, still life images can be highly nostalgic. It doesn’t really matter whether it’s a still life painting or a still life photograph; certain subjects can be strong reminders of something important in our past. A picture of a bouquet of flowers might remind us of something our mothers cared for, or a setting of tools might remind us of our granddad’s workbench, or an image of a desk and chair may remind us of our mother’s daily tasks. The list of nostalgic visual triggers is endless, and no matter how many times we see such images, the feelings of nostalgia never fade.
At 66 years old I’m a member of the last generation who lived through times of wooden buckets with rope handles. Now days, like most things, buckets are plastic, and have plastic or wire handles. In fact, it seems most objects today are plastic. Plastic houses. Plastic cars. And, therefore, plastic landfills (don’t get me started.).
Remember that scene from the 1967 film “The Graduate” when young Braddock was advised to “go into plastics..it’s the wave of the future”? Well, it wasn’t far from the truth, was it?
Common to my generation is the longing for everyday objects made from wood, or metal, or rock. So when we are reminded of those times, it can be quite nostalgic. (If you’re not of my generation, then there are other kinds of objects that affect you just as much; objects that you grew up with and long for today.)
For instance, as a young boy visiting my Grandpa Elmer’s place, I can recall like it was yesterday being told to go draw water from the well ‘out back’ and bring it back to the house. Grandpa’s well was the type with a large wooden bucket you dropped into a deep hole in the ground and then used a big crank and thick rope to bring it back up. That chore was no small feat for a scrawny kid like I was. But I don’t recall ever thinking it was work; it was more like I was doing something important for my Grandpa. And to this day I can still smell the sweetness of that water.
I’m drawn to nostalgic subjects that remind me of the good old days. “Water from the Well” is a simple setting of old oaken buckets that reminds me of good times I spent at Grandpa’s house long ago, and that makes my heart smile, every time.
What does it remind you of? I’d love to hear your story.
I want to share something that you may take for granted, or perhaps never even thought about. And that is “..where do art titles come from?” How do artists come up with their titles for artwork?
As art lovers, we’re accustomed to seeing titles (or names) on artworks. Titles are a convenient way to refer to a particular painting or photograph. So instead of saying “that photograph by Gurski of the Rhine River that someone bought for $4,200,000” we simply know it as “Rhine II.”
Photography especially lends itself very well to titling of images using nominal or geographic descriptors. After all, most photographs reveal real moments, real locations, and real subjects. In fact, titling photographs to identify the subject or the location is the tradition of the medium. Whether it’s Weston’s “Pepper” series or any number of Ansel Adams’ titles (“Half Dome,” “Snake River”), or even Gurski’s “Rhine II.” The title of the image often reveals the name of the subject itself, no question about it, just call it what it is.
I find such an objective approach to titling photographs a bit unsatisfying. When I stand before a scene in the field, I try to think about the concept I want to communicate, the story the scene is telling me. It is this story that I want the title to describe and not so much the physical entity in the picture. The title I give to a finished photograph often reflects the story that struck me at the time of capture. In fact, I often write the “working title” on the field log I keep for every picture I take.
For me, it’s important to title photographs this way. First, it helps me recall how I felt when I discovered the scene, and second, it guides how I want to interpret the picture to extend and clarify that feeling.
“Standing in Obscurity,” the featured image above, is a good example. I could have called this image “Trees in Fog Along Skyline Drive,” but that would say nothing about my mood or emotions as I stood before the scene. At the time I found myself contemplating how those graceful trees, shrouded in fog as they were, might represent how many of us, me included, often prefer to stand in obscurity, hidden from the world, doing our ‘thing’ without any need to feel observed or judged. That was the storyline that struck me as I shared the foggy morning with these trees, and that lead me to the final title of the image and guided me during the expression of the final image.
Every artist has their own way of coming up with titles for their artwork, and none of them are wrong. I have to admit, though, that when I see a piece of art named “Untitled,” …well, I just don’t get that.
Regardless, whatever the artist has named a particular picture, don’t let it keep you from dreaming up your own story. It’s your fantasy, so write it however you want!
If you’re an artist who is often stuck naming your pieces, does my approach give you an idea you hadn’t considered before?
If you’re a photography art-lover, do you prefer objective titles or more conceptual titles like I’ve described? Leave a comment below and let me hear your thoughts on the matter.
There is deception in art, it’s a given. Even photographic art is never an accurate record of reality, even though some of us accept it as such.
But in the case of art, deception is not evil; quite the contrary. Accepting the deception leads us to ask questions, which (eventually) may lead us to a story worth remembering. And that’s a good thing.
More than any other medium of visual art, photographs can objectively inform us. That is, they represent an actual experience, a real moment in time involving real subjects, that paintings and other forms of visual art simply can not.
Not all photographs inform us. Some styles of photography create such obvious deceptions that the first question we ask is “..how did the photographer do that?” The deception is too obvious to be believed. In fact, informing us is not the purpose of such photographs, so they don’t fit within this discussion. It’s sometimes fun to see how photographers ‘photoshop’ natural subjects (like the “multicolored” Giant Squirrel of India) to create internet sensations… yea,… right.
But real photographs, photographs that represent actual objects and the relationships among them, can indeed inform us. Further, they can also evoke stories of real characters and help us develop our own set of personal experiences. Example: Most of us “know” the Golden Gate Bridge, even if we’ve never been to San Francisco.
Still, if you only know the Golden Gate Bridge (or any subject for that matter) through photographs, there’s still plenty you don’t know about it: its actual size/scale, its actual color, its movements, or the actual texture of its painted steel. What you know is incomplete and therefore deceptive.
When confronted with incomplete information, our brains automatically kick into an analytical mode to try to understand the missing pieces. You can’t help it. This is what our brains do naturally, and the more curious one is, the more the brain will question, and eventually fill in the gaps with imaginary information– deceptive information. This phenomenon is the essence of deception in art.
I had an experience this past week that made me think about how important this whole idea of photographic deception is to our enjoyment of photographic art. I want to share it with you.
My experience relates to a photograph of an old sycamore tree along a local creek that I took a couple years ago. “Gran’s Lap” is a straight photograph (albeit an expressive photograph). It clearly shows how she’s suffered from many years of erosion as the spring floods repeatedly wash over her roots. And yet, she still clings on and is thriving. That’s one story, at least my story. Yours may be different.
Before reading on, try to develop in your own mind some sense of the scale of the tree and her bared roots. You likely have no preconceived idea of her actual size, you only have what is framed. There are no wrong or right answers, only what your imagination will lead you to conclude. The title I’ve given you may even bias your imagination, who knows?
Gran’s Lap: an example of how we can be deceived by a photograph.
Picture yourself sitting down on Gran’s Lap for a quick rest along your hike. (I’ll wait).
So, now that you’re there, is the ‘lap’ big enough for your toosh without falling into the creek? Or is there plenty of room to share?
Over the months since I took this picture, my own memory recalls that Gran’s Lap was just big enough for me to sit comfortably and enjoy the sounds of the creek. Oh, I should tell you that I’m not a very big guy, because what I say next might lead you to think I’m gargantuan.
This weekend, warming weather encouraged me to take my 7 year old grandson James on a hike along the creek. We visited the old sycamore. I’m not sure why, but when seeing this tree this weekend, I was amazed how large it was. In my memory–probably biased by the photograph I took–it was much smaller. To give you an idea, here’s the same tree with James sitting on it, as shot with my iPhone.
My surprise by the actual size of ‘Gran’s Lap’ got me thinking how photographs can be very deceptive to our eyes. Even so called “straight” photographs can’t be believed.
All photographs are deceptive to an extent, aren’t they? There is always some important context missing, because photographs can’t possibly include everything our eyes see as they sweep across the entire field of view and as our brains interpret scale, depth, color, and movement to give us the most complete picture of everything we see.
Photographs can inform us only to a certain extent. Often they only give us enough information to make us question. And the questioning starts because photographs (especially good photographs) first and foremost deceive us, and make us ask “what is this photograph about?” Then our imaginations take over to fill in the answers, and the next thing you know, there’s a story that emerges.
Not every photograph you see will cause you to stop and question what the photograph is about. But sometimes, the subjects or compositions or colors or textures that a photograph may show you is only the start to your enjoying it. When you see such photographs, let your imagination take over and explore the deception, and you’ll become the wiser for it!
What do you think about deception in art? Leave a comment below, I’d love to hear your thoughts.
A lot has been written about the health benefits of art. But there’s a much more common implication in that knowledge than the benefits of art hanging on hospital walls.
For many of us, this time of year can be really stressful. Did you know that art can reduce stress and improve health? Florence Nightingale did. In fact, she was one of the first to recognize the health benefits of art.
We know that art moves us emotionally. That’s its only purpose, really. But why do some of us respond to a piece of art in a positive way while others respond to the same artwork in a negative way? Is it the artwork that makes us respond so differently, or is it something in us? The short answer is “yes.”
Let’s start with a story. Two boys are standing at a busy intersection with cars and busses zooming by. One of them stands at the curb edge, toes literally hanging over the curb, relishing the rush of turbulence as the vehicles pass. The other is standing away from the curb, placing hands over his eyes, eagerly waiting for the traffic light to demand that the chaos cease.
Such it is in life: some of us relish stress/adventure; some of us hate it and will avoid it at all costs. Most of us fall somewhere in the middle of the range, but it’s safe to say that most of us treat excessive stress as something we’d rather avoid than embrace. It’s not healthy to be stressed out all the time.
I worked in the healthcare industry for over 40 years, so I have a fair sense for the misery of disease and the relief in healing. For years I’ve been intrigued by the research into the effects of art therapy (the act of making art) and art intervention (the act of viewing art) to speed recovery in patients suffering from a wide range of temporary illnesses and severe stress.
The beginnings of modern art-related healthcare goes back to Florence Nightingale. She is credited with the movement that led to placing artwork in hospitals as a way to improve healing. Nightingale wrote in her 1860 Notes for Nursing that “the beneficial effects of art was not only on the mind, but on the body as well.” Her beliefs have since been proven time and again in a number of scientific studies.
One of those studies is something we see every day in our modern hospitals and medical clinics. What do you remember about your last visit to the doctor’s office? Do you remember the color of the walls and carpet, or do you remember the abundance of art on the walls? Most likely, it’s the art you remember.
We decorate our hospitals and clinics with art for a reason. Research shows that art improves not only mental but also physical well-being. It reduces length of hospital stays, reduces the need for certain medications, reduces blood pressure, improves patients’ satisfaction with their treatment, and reduces the cost of healthcare. Being sick is very stressful, and art helps reduce the stress, which helps restores health.
Not all art is beneficial in reducing stress. Some art actually enhances stress.
Different art styles and subjects generally evoke different feelings. A 2003 medical study showed that art having easily recognizable subjects from nature tended to restore health in patients faster. Art depicting calm or slowly moving water, verdant foliage, flowers, open landscapes, warming park-like scenes, non threatening animals like birds and pastorals, and natural scenes having nostalgic cultural artifacts are common restorative styles of art.
“Carter Shields Cabin” – from the Quiet of Appalachia Collection. A nostalgic homestead at the edge of a verdant forest and bathed in warming light.
Restorative subjects may appeal to those of us who are more like the kid standing well away from the busy curb, or who want to use art to create a calming, stress-free space or to realize the health benefits of art.
Just as some art calms and restores us, there are other styles of art that do just the opposite. Patients exposed to non-representational images and images having negative icons responded negatively to treatment. Specifically, art that is ambiguous, surreal, or abstract tends to evoke strongly negative emotions in people already experiencing stress or illness. Abstract art triggers the analytical/computational parts of our brains, and people who are already stressed out tend to interpret such images as potentially dangerous or harmful, not helpful, to their states of health and mood.
Certain iconic shapes, forms, and tones can evoke fear, apprehension, and suspicion even if highly representational and realistic. For instance, images containing visual negative icons like dark, razor-sharp or jagged edges, or subjects that represent dangerous situations such as rapidly moving water, or fire, or cold icy scenes are often interpreted as ominous and even hair raising.
People whose nature it is to be more like the boy with his toes hanging over the edge of the curb, or those wishing to raise the level of excitement and tension in their favorite space might prefer artwork that is more abstract or visually ominous in style.
“Blackwater Falls at Full Force” by J. Riley Stewart. Torrential waters, deep shadows, and a heavy sense of gravity can evoke a sense of adventure and excitement.
As a final point, researchers claim that people very often react to the same art differently depending on their current mood or underlying nature. We can expect stressed or stress-averse people to respond very positively to restorative, calming styles of art and react negatively to abstract and visually ominous art.
Is your art working with you, or against you?
So, are our responses to art due to the art itself or are they due to something in us? The answer is yes, it is both. Art is the original “interactive media,” and we should expect our responses to a certain style of art to change as our moods and health change.
What we now know about the health benefits of art and how it affects our moods provides a compelling reason to consider how art might affect us in our own living and working spaces, doesn’t it? How do you feel about the art you have displayed in your favorite space? Does it calm you when you’re stressed? Does it bore you when you need a bit of excitement? Or is it just right? If not, perhaps you’ve changed.
Have a comment about this article or want to share your own experiences? Please leave a note below!
I’ll leave you with this reference if you’d like to read more about the health benefits of art: https://www.healthdesign.org/chd/research/guide-evidence-based-art
Happy collecting! And I hope you have no more stress than you’d like during the holidays!
J.
Copyright, 2018, J. Riley Stewart
This article is adapted from an earlier article I wrote in 2015.
Not all photographs inform us. Some styles of photography create such obvious deceptions that the first question we ask is “..how did the photographer do that?” The deception is too obvious to be believed. In fact, informing us is not the purpose of such photographs, so they don’t fit within this discussion. It’s sometimes fun to see how photographers ‘photoshop’ natural subjects (like the “multicolored” Giant Squirrel of India) to create internet sensations… yea,… right. 
