classic photography 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, nostalgic photography

The Nostalgia of Still Life Images

Water from the Well

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.

You can find more of my still life images 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 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, Expressive photography, nostalgic photography

Small Town Virginia Project

My Small Town Virginia project is an ongoing attempt to depict the charm of villages and towns near where I live, before it disappears completely. I’m just beginning, and I will continue to visit and photograph in these towns and create these images for as long as my interest in the project continues.

Some months back, I revisited a series of photographs that I took while living in Europe back in the 1980s. From a personal point of view, I found myself reliving those moments, and the nostalgia was a very pleasant experience. However, I also noticed how different the places were then compared to more recent photographs (by others) of those same places. Time moves on, and it doesn’t always make things around us better, does it?

Where I live in Virginia, we have many small towns that began as crossroads during the 18th and19th centuries and went through cycles of growth and decay during the 20th Century. My small town of Leesburg, Virginia has mostly kept its early 20th Century small town charm. But I don’t have to drive far to see towns that have completely lost their charm to the advances of ‘progress.’

Even in Leesburg, progress is inevitable. Parking garages now sit where old mom and pop business used to be. Nostalgic old neon signs replaced with the typical glitz and glitter of modern times. Old incandescent street lamps torn out and replaced with 50 foot halogens. The list goes on and on.

How’s your small town doing? Have you seen such changes where you live? I bet you have.

Lately, I’ve been on a crusade, and I wanted to share it with you.

Small Town Virginia isn’t about doing a travelogue. I’m not interested in documenting historical artifacts and architecture. Nor am I trying to criticize the effects of modernization and progress. Instead, I’m trying to create images that recall the time when things were simpler in our small towns; quieter times, community times.

I’ll be changing the images in the portfolio over time. Some of those here now will disappear and others will appear. The best way to see where I am in the project is to follow along. Leave me a comment on the Small Town Virginia page and let me know if you have favorites or to just make your mark of interest.

An enduring value of photography is that it freezes moments that our brains want to dismiss in mere fractions of a second. Through photographs, we can relive those moments, enjoy the nostalgia of the experience, and then repeat whenever we want.

And that’s what I love about photography!

Until next time,
J.

Did you enjoy this article? Feel free to share 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 commenting below. Clicking the image of “Early Morning at the Tally Ho” will take you to its place in the gallery, where you can explore the details and see how it might give you just the right place to go when you need a bit of nostalgia and make a quieter time for yourself.

Art, Expressive photography

Looking for the positives in the aftermath- beauty in devastation

Aftermath by J. Riley Stewart an example of beauty in devastation — “Aftermath” by J. Riley Stewart

Aftermath is an interesting word. When we think of aftermath, we normally think about the immediate bad consequences of something terrible that happens to us. But we can, instead, think farther down the road and consider something more positive, more hopeful. There can be beauty in devastation, given enough time.

As I write you this week, Hurricane Florence sits less than 24 hours off the Carolina coast. By the time you get this, you’ll know how serious it could be for you and your family.

Our weather forecasters have thoroughly warned everyone from Virginia to Georgia about the potential catastrophe that could hit us: high winds, torrential and persistent rainfalls, and widespread loss of power for days. We’re all on edge, understandably.

Of course, the hurricane is on my mind this week. Sometimes, the only way I can get through the angst and worry, and the threats at times like this, is to focus on the aftermath.

“Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air, but only for one second without hope.” Charles Darwin

When I happened upon the scene depicted in “Aftermath,” all I saw was the profound beauty in the devastation. There was only peace in the downed trees resting in the quiet surf. I knew the story of how this scene came to be, of course. Moments that had wreaked havoc to the coastal forest right behind me. But I also knew that without the past devastation, I would not have experienced the peace and beauty I saw before me. I was on the positive side of the aftermath.

Stay safe and stay hopeful, friends. Whether you are in the midst of the hurricane, or the forest fires, or drought, or bitter heat (or cold). Remember it’s all temporary.

I hope you never have to suffer.
I hope in your suffering, you never lose hope.
I hope you can clearly foresee the positive side of the aftermath no matter how hidden it might be right now.

PS. Clicking the image of “Aftermath” will take you to its place in the gallery. There you can explore the details and see how it might give you just the right place to go when you need a bit of wonder amid the devastation.

Did you enjoy this edition of Friday Foto? Feel free to share this email 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.

Art, behavior, Expressive photography, Nature photography, philosophy

Why do we love pictures of iconic subjects?

picture of Old Rag during a passing rain storm — Passing Storm, Old Rag Mountain

I’ve been thinking this week about my recent trip to Shenandoah National Park, when I couldn’t resist taking a picture of one of most recognizable icons of the Park, Old Rag Mountain. I wondered why it is that we can’t resist taking and making pictures of iconic subjects.

Old Rag Mountain is certainly iconic to anyone from northern Virginia who has visited the Park. It appears from several turnouts along Skyline Drive, and it also appears prominently from the roads down in the valley in Madison County, Virginia. Unlike many of the peaks that sit in this part of the Blue Ridge, Old Rag is a solitary old thing, making it easy to identify. Kinda like the big dipper. For many of us northern Virginians, the profile of Old Rag symbolizes all that is beautiful about Shenandoah NP.

The 3300 foot summit of Old Rag is known as a great hiking destination. If you live in northern Virginia, you may have made this hike at some point; millions of people have. For many Virginians, the hike up Old Rag is an annual pilgrimage. It’s a popular hike for young couples who, apparently, are testing the mettle of each other. Those who make it to the top together, I guess, get to take their relationship to the next level. Apparently. And people have even asked to be buried on Old Rag, according to a good friend of mine.

Because of our feelings for Old Rag Mountain, you’ll find lots of pictures of her on the internet.

Natural icons like Old Rag rarely excite me as a landscape photographer. I have only a few iconic subjects in my portfolio, like Purple Mountains Majesty (Grand Teton NP) and Yellowstone Drama(Yellowstone NP).

By definition, taking a picture of an iconic subject means that you’re not the first to do so. In fact, the more iconic the subject is, the more it’s had its picture taken. Who hasn’t seen the hundreds of variations of Ansel Adams’s picture of the Snake River? It’s an iconic scene. But today any picture from the same vantage point is also common, cliche, and even boring at this point. But still, if you’ve ever been to this vista over the Snake River valley and didn’t take a picture of it, well, you’re the exception to the rule 🙂

Driving up and down Skyline Drive on my many trips to Shenandoah NP, I’ve probably passed Old Rag Mountain hundreds of times. Until my most recent trip, never have I stopped to take her picture. I didn’t feel I had anything new to say about her. I don’t want to be boring.

On my most recent trip, I witnessed a rare face to iconic Old Rag, and I knew I had to share it with you. I found this moment to be quietly dramatic, with heavy foreboding clouds and rain storm, and with the forest all wet and dark, but through it all, Old Rag catching the proverbial silver lining.

Pictures of icons like Old Rag Mountain are important to us. They remind us of important experiences and make us nostalgic about those moments. And the fact that a mere image can do that for us is nothing short of amazing. And that’s what I love about photography!

Before leaving, I wanted to ask if you’ve seen the trailer to my new book “At Water’s Edge?” If you’re interested in helping me support the children under the care of the Marland Children’s Home in Ponca City, OK, you can order the book directly from Blurb. Thank you in advance!

Until next time,
J.

PS. Clicking the image of “Passing Storm, Old Rag Mountain” will take you to its place in the gallery, where you can explore the details and see how it might give you just the right place to go when you need a bit of quiet drama.

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