The Power of Mystery in Images

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.

graph of the interest novelty profile

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?”

photo of mt moran and jackson lake at sunset
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.

Abstract autumn tree along Blue Ridge Parkway
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.

Here’s a few examples of how I use dominant, elegant shadows in my work, from my Romantic Landscapes collection.


Intriguing Subjects

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.


Novel situations or moments

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.


Shock and Awe

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.

J Riley Stewart, 2020

D.V.M, Ph.D., Photographer

Taking, then Making a Photograph

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:

  1. the result will be something that doesn’t already exist, and
  2. 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
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. 

Read more about artistic expression in photography.

 

Also see:

Are there limits to artistic freedom in photography? 

The Down Side to the Digital Photography Revolution

 

 

 

 

 

 

Art Requires a Bit of “Stewing”

Chapel of Ease by J. Riley Stewart example of making photographs
“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.

 

What makes a photograph good?

an example of what makes a good photograph and what makes a photograph good
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/

 

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, 

J.

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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. 

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.

Explore similar images and subjects that seem to see me while walking around:

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Seeing things that aren’t there…until you look

Example of photographic seeing
Assimilation by J Riley Stewart

To appreciate today’s featured image, you have to STOP AND LOOK at it for a moment. You want to engage a bit in photographic seeing. Once again quietly: stop. and look.

I don’t mean to be yelling at you. Really.  But I did want to get your attention, because the story I want to tell you today demands some creative thought on your part. 

At this time of year, with the holidays fast approaching, we’re all going 100 miles per hour. And we need to just stop for brief periods to catch our breath. Or we risk missing something important.

The picture isn’t important. The things our kids say and do everyday: those are important. The holiday wishes we get from friends: again, important. The quiet planning by those busily preparing holiday meals: Important. Important. Important!

And my contribution to your busy-ness right before the holidays is merely this: an opportunity to stop for a moment and think about something …..else. A pleasant diversion, if you will.

Photographs are merely diversions, are they not?

But they can be very powerful diversions. In fact, photographs can permanently change the way you think and feel about things, if you let them. But to give them that chance, we need to stop and look at them for a few moments.  To buck the tendency to scroll rapidly past countless images in our Facebook and Instagram feeds.

The famous 20th Century American photographer Minor White said:

One should not only photograph things for what they are, but for what else they are.”

I try to do that, in my own way, when creating images. Admittedly, I often/usually fail. It’s not easy to communicate what else something is.

In “Assimilation,”  we see a quaint white church in the forest. That’s what it is, isn’t it? It’s got a steeple with a spire on top and a bell in the belltower. It must be a church.

But what else is it?

It’s up to each of us to answer that, assuming we want to.. And it’s okay that we all have different answers. Some of us will say “..it’s a place of worship (enter all the souls who have made it so over the years),”  Some will say it’s a relic of our history, representing the culture and the times from whence it sprang.  And still others may say, “…it’s just a drafty old building.”

To me, and what caught my attention when walking about the Mission Baptist Church site in Cades Cove, TN, was the way the church became a part of the forest surrounding it, if only for a few moments. During those moments, the setting sun was casting shadows of the trees across the church’s facade, and It became inseparable from the forest.  In those moments, the trees became the church and the church became the trees.

I thought “assimilation” an apt description for “what else” this little church had become, and this moment became something I wanted to remember. “Click.”

What else is this little church to you? I’d love to hear about it!

Until next week,

J.

J. Riley Stewart in the field

Clicking the image of “Assimilation” will take you to its place in the gallery, where you can explore the details and, I hope, give you a moment to escape all the holiday busy-ness in your life, even if only for a brief, quiet few moments.

Artful Images and the Question of context

abstract photograph of a stone fence as example of context matters
“Stones of Any Shape”

The first question we ask of an image is about context.

Have you ever wondered why you are drawn to certain images? I mean images you can’t take your eyes off of. Images that literally drag you in and stimulate you to recall precious stories from your own memory. The short answer is context, because in imagery, context matters. 

The use of context in artful imagery is a huge factor in whether you may actually appreciate a given image (or not). Understanding this one aspect of imagery could lead you to collect art that you will love forever. It may also keep you from buying something that winds up in the attic after a few short years (…&*#@% !…). 

The best way to explain why context is so important is to know that context is tightly linked to our own personal memories. Without a memory (or recognition) of a certain subject, your brain decides that it’s abstract and immediately switches to a more complex analytical pathway to make any sense of it.

The more difficult the recognition, the more the brain has to analyze and conceptualize. It can be quite intimidating while the brain interprets the puzzle.  And an image with no context is a puzzle, for sure.

 

For example, if you’ve never seen a fishing fly, you have no way to describe this “thing.”  That tuft of feathers on a curvy thingy may be quite confusing to you. But show you that same fly in the mouth of a fish, and it becomes more clear what it is and what it’s supposed to do. 

 

You now have the context necessary to discern the purpose of the fly, and your brain doesn’t have to analyze it as much. (You now know what my favorite hobby is!)

Even though confused by abstractions, our brains are extremely capable of conceptualizing and letting us imagine what that abstraction could be. In fact, some of us love puzzles. We prefer abstract art forms and shapes precisely because it stimulates our brains to conceptualize. It can be exciting to imagine something in a highly abstract painting or photograph that isn’t really there. 

I recently had an amusing discussion with a gallery visitor about what she saw in a highly abstract painting hanging on the wall. She swore she saw a horse; pointing out its nose, and mane, and back.  Of course, I didn’t see her horse, no matter how hard I tried. Her brain was working hard to make something appear out of an abstraction that she could recognize, and that was great fun for her!

Personally, I like some context in the images I make, such as a log cabin in the woods, or a beautiful sunrise over a quiet river, or even a landscape vista during the peak of Autumn.  These are subjects that push the brain to recall peaceful, nostalgic feelings and conjure stories from my own memory (and yours). I think realistic, context-rich art pulls on the heart while abstract art pulls on the brain. And I’d rather have my images pull on the heart.

The featured image “Stones of Any Shape” is a slight departure from my normal style because of its abstraction. I’m using it here as an example of how context matters. There’s not much context here, is there? Just stones arranged in an interesting pattern. The image says nothing about how, where, or why the stones are arranged this way. Is it a road or walkway? A fence? A wall? How large are the stones? What color are they?

Don’t worry, though. Your brain  will conceptualize whatever you want to see. And that’s completely okay.

Is it necessary to know those things to enjoy the image? Usually not. You can love a picture without context, it just means your brain has to pre-process it somehow before getting to the “love” part.  The other side of this pre-processing situation can also lead to rejection if the context can’t be imagined readily. I have another article you may be interested in that explains the role of mystery in images to either compel a sense of “boring,” “interesting,” or “bizarre”… check it out here.

And when context doesn’t provide the answers we want, we can always let our brains conceptualize the answers that makes the most sense to us, and just have fun with it.

As you look at images online or in a gallery, ask yourself about their context. Is the context obvious or elusive? Starting with that one simple question can often lead to many more questions, and in the process you may learn something about yourself and strengthen your appreciation of art. 

If you’d like to read more about how our brains interpret visual abstractions, I’d recommend this article from Salon. 

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I first published this article in my newsletter “Under the Darkcloth” on May 26, 2017. To get these articles sent to you personally, just subscribe HERE

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Until next week, please share this email with others who you think might enjoy it.
J.

Picture of J. Riley Stewart in the field