anthropomorphizing nature Archives - Thoughts on the Art of Fine Art Photography

What makes a photograph good?

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/

Art, philosophy

What’s in a Name?

picture of old trees shrouded in for along Skyline Drive — Standing in Obscurity

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!

Interested in another take on why/when/how of naming your artwork: See Creating Titles for your Artwork by Jason Horejs.

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.

Until next time,

Art, Expressive photography

Photographs deceive, but in a good way

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?

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.

J. Riley Stewart

April, 2019

art appreciation, Expressive photography, philosophy, techniques

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” -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.

Art, behavior

We take pictures of what we see….and what sees us.

picture of an old apple tree in the Allegheny NF of NY State — “Recital” — An example of a photographic subject that saw me as much as I saw it.

Chances are, you take pictures. And before you take a picture, you have to make a mental decision of what to take a picture of? Often, a photographic subject sees us as much as we see it.

There’s a quote that’s always stuck with me, and I wish I could remember who said it first, but it goes something like this:

“I don’t take pictures of what I see, I take pictures of what sees me.”

That statement really resonates with me. My favorite photographs often contain some subject that caught my attention and held me captive for several moments. Subjects sometime seem to see me as intently as I see them.

A good example of this is the old wild apple tree in “Recital,” which I found in a clearing in the Allegheny Mountains of New York.

I first noticed it while driving on a small road last Autumn. And just like when you first see a person at an event who looks interesting and find them looking back at you, this simple gesture invites further conversation, doesn’t it?

It doesn’t always happen this way. There are some people at that same event who are oblivious to my presence: So they become oblivious to me. It’s a natural behavior; it’s no fun talking with someone who turns their back on you.

It works the same way when I’m out taking pictures.

The truth is, this tree wasn’t that pretty when I first saw her. The sun was high in the sky and washed out everything in the clearing where she lived. But her character was hard to miss even in such harsh light, and she was definitely staring at me. I promised her I’d come back when she was feeling better, and we could have a longer conversation. (She agreed, of course).

To make a long story short, over the course of 3 days I drove by her clearing several times at different parts of the day, trying to find a time when she was better suited to have her picture taken. It finally happened on the final evening of my trip, when the setting sun made her shine as if she were the only important being in the clearing, and I enjoyed what appeared to be her unique way of dancing in the spotlight!

Has this happened to you? Do you sometimes get the feeling that a photographic subject seems to be as interested in you as you are in them?

That’s what it means by “…taking pictures of things that see me.” Even if it’s a tree. And there’s no better way to remember the encounter than by taking a picture!

That’s what I love about photography!

Until next time,
J.

Art, art appreciation, philosophy

Do you have fun with images?

My only point this week is that it’s not mandatory to accept images as being serious. When we see images, how we see them is entirely up to us. And sometimes, seeing them as humorous just makes them better.

In my role as an artist, I spend a lot of time looking at images and reading what artists and art promoters say about them. Maybe you do too. In fact, I hope you do.

So much of what I read from visual artists and art pundits suggests the seriousness of art. Descriptions like “sublime,” “contemplative,” “evocative,” “thoughtful,” and “emotional” frequent the narratives about art. And I agree, art is often all these things.

Maybe it’s just me, but these descriptions are just way too serious. Excepting obviously comedic and whimsical images, it’s rare that some expert characterizes art as “fun” or “funny.”

I like to have fun when I’m out photographing nature. I don’t mean having a beer with my camera or dancing in the woods with my tripod. I mean I like finding subjects that are funny to me.

Yes, sometimes even nature’s characters can be funny. But it usually requires me to impose on those subjects some strange, quirky human behavior; to personify the subject.

Back in October I wrote you about a completely different topic, but its featured image also was a natural personification. That time the subject was an old apple tree performing a dance recital in a clearing. This week’s featured image “Groupies” is another example.

I’ve always found the concept of celebrity-hysteria to be seriously quirky. I remember as a young kid when the Beatles took the US by storm. “Why are those kids bawling / screaming / jumping /fainting during the song?” Do you remember that? I found the whole thing well…..hysterical.

That memory hit me as I stood in front of this unusual arrangement of tree, boulders, and woodlands. The afternoon lighting seemed to bring all the important elements together in a single story: “Groupies, every celebrity has them.” I laughed to myself, and took its picture.

The whole process of personification in my art-making is fun. I often see humanly behaviors when in nature, and it’s so strong that it actually compels me to take a photograph.

Interacting with art, both making it and seeing it, can be fun. Art needn’t always be so serious and steeped in deep philosophical significance. In fact, if a piece of art makes you smile every time you walk by it because it strikes you as funny, that may be the most important outcome there is in life. At least during those brief moments!

Until next time,
J.

PS. Clicking the image of “Groupies” will take you to its place in the gallery, where you can explore the details and see if it amuses you too.

Picture of J. Riley Stewart

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