Something to Say About Photographic Narratives

So, should visual artists try to explain their creations, or just let them speak for themselves?

Recently I read an article by Neal Rantoul, who writes for Luminous Landscape. The title of the article was “A Disturbing Trend.”

What did he find ‘disturbing?” That young photographers today typically include written narratives along with their photographs. He made other points, but this is the one I want to talk about today.

He blames this trend to narrate photographic images on what’s being taught in MFA courses, and finds it inferior to when he was an emerging art photographer. In his day, photographers would exhibit single photographs on a wall or in portfolios or books–usually titled but nothing more–and let the images “speak for themselves.” Rantoul believes that the old way was better, because each viewer of an image could study the image without interference and develop his/her own interpretation, and thus realize a more fulfilling experience.

I don’t have an MFA (that’s a Master of Fine Arts degree). In fact, I have no formal schooling in photography or the arts at all. But that doesn’t mean I have no opinions about what makes a photograph engaging, interesting, and moving.

On this matter, I agree with the youngsters. When I can, I like to include at least an inkling of the backstory or concept behind each of my photographs. I do this not to inflict my artistic intent on anyone, but only to help explain why I thought it was important to make the picture in the first place.

Just Enough Dirt
“Just Enough Dirt” -It doesn’t take a lot to flourish for these side-walk plants along a street in Warrenton, Fauquier County.

There’s a consistent reason why I choose to make a photograph. It’s because I want to remember the subject or moment–or more importantly a question or idea that strikes me upon experiencing the subject or moment. The questioning and remembering is a huge part of why I’m a photographer in the first place.

Anyone can make a picture of a tree, whether a photographer, painter, or illustrator.  And we may or may not enjoy it. That’s entirely up to each of us. But I think most people will better appreciate and remember the picture when the artist communicates their intent. Sometimes, even often, that intent can be communicated in the title alone, and that’s okay.

Left unsaid, I sometimes wonder why a picture was made in the first place, or even if the artist had any purpose at all in making the picture. And if I find myself wondering why a picture was made, then that means I’m not engaging the picture but instead I’m engaging the artist, and I’ll probably not remember either. The experience is far too fleeting to remember.

I appreciate it when other artists provide a short narrative about why they made a picture; I’m truly interested. An interesting title or narrative starts my mental process of engaging with the picture myself. Only after I consider the picture can I begin to appreciate it. And remember it.

So if a simple narrative starts my mental process going, that’s a good thing for the sake of the art and for me as a consumer of the art.

Unlike Rantoul, I don’t think photographic narratives compromise a viewer’s ability to imagine things for themselves. Art lovers are imaginative folks, and no matter what the artist says regarding his/her intent in making the picture, an art lover, when sufficiently interested in the picture, will take it another step, or in another direction, or embellish it altogether with their own emotions and feelings. When that happens, they will remember it, and perhaps grow to love it, and isn’t that what art is all about?

What do you think? Are you at all interested in what the artist has to say about a work of art that he/she created? Do you appreciate knowing what was in their head at the time? Or would you rather just see the image and make up your own story? Let me know by replying to this email; I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Until next time,
J. Riley

P.S. Clicking on “Just Enough Dirt” will take you to its place in my gallery, where you can explore it (and its tenacity) in detail. 

About chiaroscuro- clarity with mystery

example of expressing chiaroscuro in photography
Foot of the Fall

When done well, artfully expressing chiaroscuro gives the eyes lots to see in both the brightest parts of the image as well as in the darkest. The sense of depth can be profoundly interesting in such images. I like to say “Light without shadows is nothing, because shadows are where the secrets hide.”  I enjoy getting lost in the shadows. Do you? 

Now, let’s talk about chiaroscuro

You might want to know first that Wiki says about chiaroscuro  “..in art, is the use of strong contrasts between light and dark, usually bold contrasts affecting a whole composition.”  The images below are classical chiaroscuro
  Raphael: The Grand Duke's Madonna  Chiaroscuro is an old fashion style of art, dating from the 1700s masters of portrait, still life, and genre painters like Caravaggio and Rembrandt. But it’s popularity has never gone away. Thomas Cole, Thomas Moran, and Albert Bierstadt, painters from the Hudson Valley School (1800s) extended the chiaroscuro style to landscapes.  There are many contemporary painters and photographers who continue to make images in the chiaroscuro style, including me.

Thomas Cole (1801-1848) Landscape Composition: Saint John in the Wilderness Oil on canvas 1827 Sado'nun Yeri: Peder Mork Monsted - Albert Bierstadt - Daniel Ridgeway Knight Solitude by Thomas Moran (1897), Hudson River School

The only reason I’m even talking about chiaroscuro is because I absolutely love this style of imagery, and I think you probably do too since you’re reading this newsletter. After all, the strong use of shadows and light is a consistent feature in my own photographs, as in “Foot of the Fall” above. 

In my implementation of chiaroscuro, I like to follow what I see in the old masters’ paintings. There’s always lots of delicate highlights, which are made more compelling by lots of delicate, revealing shadows. Note I didn’t say featureless whites and sooty, blank blacks. To me,  featuring huge paper white spaces or pure black spaces is the farthest thing from true chiaroscuro.

When done well in photography, chiaroscuro should almost seem like the highlights are dancing with the shadows. One moves into the space of the other without stepping on toes or losing the natural rhythm. Neither is dominant; they are in perfect balance. And very difficult to achieve, even when I find natural compositions that might lend themselves to this treatment. 

But I’ll keep looking for those that do. 

Do you like this style of imagery? Do your eyes lock to one end of the light range over the other (highlights or shadows)? Or do they flick back and forth in search of secrets? 

Until next time,

Jim

Picture of J. Riley StewartDid you enjoy this edition of Friday Foto? Feel free to share this article with someone you think might also enjoy it, and invite them to subscribe to “Under the Darkcloth.”  And please leave me a comment or ask a question by replying to this email. 

Copyright J. Riley Stewart, 2018, all rights reserved.

Artistic License and “photoshopping”

Mount Moran reflection in the Ox Bow Snake River, WY
“Purple Mountains Majesty”

“…is that Photoshopped?” : One of the most commonly asked questions to photographers


To some people, it seems to matter how much enhancement (i.e., “photoshopping”)  I do to my photographs. I thought I’d share my opinion on the topic of “photoshopping.”

The question itself is unique to photography. No one would ever consider asking a painter if their artwork reflected the true nature of the scene they painted, so why ask a photographer?  What’s different about photography (more about that in a future article)?

In truth, I really don’t think it matters to most people who ask this question, I really don’t.  I think most ask it out of interest only, or just to keep the conversation going. No matter how I answer this question, I believe the experience of seeing the image would be exactly the same: They either love it or they don’t.

Enhancement of photographs means different things to different people. Documentary publications like National Geographic set strict guidelines with which they expect their photographers to obey regarding photo-manipulation, or ‘photoshopping.’  On the other hand, images created solely for artistic purposes have no such limitations: Art photographers follow the ambiguous rule of ‘artistic license.’  

“You don’t take a great photograph, you make it”  Ansel Adams

I’m not a documentary photographer, and that’s the first thing I tell people who ask if I enhance my photographs. But I do believe the NatGeo guidelines are pretty sound. Going excessively beyond basic cropping or adjusting lighting and colors soon becomes ‘digital art’ and not photography.  But that’s just my opinion; others have no such qualms about compositing several images together, or using filters and overlays to create their ‘photographs.’ That’s okay. It’s artistic license.  But it’s not okay when we expect a photograph to be a documentation of something that happened, such as in photojournalism, when nothing could be further from the truth. You get my point, hopefully.

I personally believe my job as an artist is to create imagery that makes you want to engage in the scene, to feel something at an emotional level (e.g., nostalgia, introspection, fascination, awe, etc) and perhaps even step into the scene and do the types of things you like to do, such as explore, learn, or just chill out.  To create an emotion, at the very least, visual art must have heart. 

My camera, on the other hand, is entirely uncaring of your needs: it has no heart; no capacity to record emotion.

The hardest part of my job as an artist, then, is to translate what the camera records into a scene having the life and emotions that I felt at the time I took the picture. This nearly always means that I must enhance my images; or said another way, I must ‘fix’ them; I must put the heart back into them.

In my personal artwork, I try to limit enhancements to the point where I’ve corrected for my camera’s failings; to re-instill the emotions I felt at the time I took the picture. After all, if I dislike overly-enhanced photographs, I don’t think you will either, and I will have done a very poor job as an artist.

The truth is  there are plenty of fantastically interesting subjects in our world that, if we have our eyes and hearts open to the experience, and happen to be there at the right time, would make a great photograph (or painting) even without much enhancement. 

My featured photograph this month “Purple Mountains Majesty” is a good example.  I had been standing in this spot for about an hour waiting for this exact second, not really knowing what I was waiting for. When the moment arrived, I absolutely loved how the warmth of the setting sun cast a glow over the upper mountains and reflected into the dead-calm river below. The mountain shadows and their reflections were a deep beautiful purple invoking an intense sense of comfort and peace. But it was a color my camera and film seemed to dismiss as unimportant. My camera failed to recognize how beautiful the color transitions in the sky were, going from exciting warmth near the sun to that calming lavender farther away.

When I interpreted this particular scene, I found that I had to bring back (i.e., “enhance”) the color and emotion I felt at the time, and yes, I did that using photoshop.  As is usual for me, I removed nothing and I added nothing of a physical nature; I merely put the life back into the scene.  After all, that’s my job!

Try to not to get hung up by an art photographer’s use of ‘photoshopping.’  Remember that cameras never come with a heart, so the artist must make up for that failing. If you must ask an artist if they “photoshop.” that’s okay, too. You’re not alone!