Most photos don’t turn out as well as hoped for, and a rare few turn out better than expected. Some (like Colin’s hands and rock last Tuesday) can be turned to a new purpose. But the accompanying image seems to have turned on me altogether.
It was made in a mining ghost town last September, where I spent about 12 hours over two visits (once under hot sun, two weeks later in light snow). I was busy but unhurried, and the experience was entirely peaceful. I loved the light reaching into the rooms and hallways of the abandoned buildings, and I was thinking about that more than anything. It’s sometimes said that light is the only subject of photography, and it felt true then.
Developing the images later on my computer, I realized that beyond a feeling of nostalgia or mystery, many had something faintly (or not so faintly) sinister about them. I hadn’t been aiming for this effect, it just seemed to appear as I looked at the images ready for a first print. The image here, taken inside a shack built into a hill, elicited the term “violent” from a photographer friend, and I had to agree.
I’m really not sure how this came about. Am I inventing things that others don’t see? Is there inevitably a dark side to pictures about light? Was I so entranced by the light I just didn’t notice what was happening in the dark? Is it just poor preparation, led astray by my appreciation of darker tones — though the image shown is actually a bit lighter than my first version? Perhaps — an idea I rather relish — I have unsuspected psychological depths that are making themselves manifest…
I am interested in any thoughts you have on the image or the idea of light/dark in art or mind. Know of any similar pictures? If you’d like to consider a larger context, a dozen other photos from the same location are on my website. And if you want to adjust your monitor to show detail in both highlights and shadows, make sure all steps of gray are distinguishable on this test image.
I’m also wondering how often it happens to painters or other artists that one is surprised, looking back on a work, to discover something quite unintended. As a painting or quilt or whatever takes more time in the making than a typical photograph, and may entail more active decisions regarding content, is the chance of later surprise any less?
I will be checking comments intermittently, and will respond to remarks directed to me (or not!) when I can. I do work a day job…
I see a face coming out the wall with it’s mouth wide open, but that’s just my over-active imagination.
I think that series of photographs work so well because of contrast and mood. There’s things like light and dark, smooth and rough, peace and menace, all fighting against each other.
Theyre like little stories without words. I loved them all.
The thing I notice more than the ‘violence’ is that this image (like a lot of the Ghost Light series) is a photograph of a passage. I go through the series, and it’s doorways, hallways, stairways, windows. Sometimes there’s a contrast between this side of the passage and the other, sometimes it’s the same on both sides. I particularly like the one that’s a view through several doors, ending up with the bright outside. If I were going to plumb your work for psychological depths, that’s were I would start – with the themes that run through the larger body of work.
The light/dark relationship I like in this photograph is the contrast between the darker, solid tones of the interior and the bright, almost ethereal detail of the outside. It’s a fascinating juxtapositioning of two worlds.
Like you, when I go back over my past work I’m often surprised to find themes and ‘coincidences’ that I hadn’t noticed before. This has happened so often that I’ve altered my workflow to make it easier to go over past work, especially work that I declined to print in the first pass.
I’m very eager to have the non-photographers weigh in on that issue. Your observation about the differing gestational period for different media seems to me to be pretty insightful so I’m keen to read other comments on that.
S.
Are you familiar with David Ireland (“You can’t make art by making art”)?
Here is a link:
http://www.museumca.org/exhibit/exhi_ireland.html#.
D.
Dion
Well, your imagination did the same as mine. Thanks for your perceptive comments, it gives me a new way of thinking about these images. I like your suggestion of story, which I do think enters here more than in my previous work. To me it connects with the concept of compelling fictional worlds that Arthur introduced and Paul took up in this post.
Paul
Most perceptive about passages, that has always been important, and I think you’re right about needing the larger body of work to start seeing the person behind the camera.
D.
I didn’t know of David Ireland, but I followed the link. Surprised to see Jerry Brown as mayor of Oakland; when I lived in the Oakland, he was governor. I’m afraid I don’t understand the relation to my picture, unless it’s the idea that “nothing’s been designed.” In my image, I was surprised by what turned out to be there, but I actually did (as of course Ireland does) design the image in some sense. Can you amplify a bit for me?
By the way, I discovered some very nice images by Chantal Stone of a similar subject which may be interesting for comparison; her series starts here.
Sorry, my attempt to link to Chantal’s site seems to have failed. Here’s the full URL:
http://chantalstone.my-expressions.com/archives/6198_1110500388/188506
If that doesn’t work, just go to http://chantalstone.my-expressions.com and enjoy a few other images while paging back a couple weeks.
Steve…
Thank you for the mention and the link.
I love your series and I feel attracted to your images in similar ways as I was to the images of my Renick house series. What I find most interesting is that my attraction to that place in the beginning was quite the opposite from what you wrote about.
I entered the Renick house expecting and looking for a dark, foreboding, even sinister quality. I was attracted to the idea of the creepy, abandoned house, and I sought out darker shadows to photograph. But once I spent more time in the house, and especially later, viewing the images, I noticed there was no sinister feel at all. It was the light that stood out most for me, and the feeling I perceived most was one of happiness and love lost. There was something positive in the uninhabited spaces that were crying to be revealed.
How interesting it is when our perceptions do not match our expectations. My thought, though, is that it has much more to do with us as individuals, than the places themselves.
My first impression is that the house has been ripped apart. Not sure if that’s how it felt in person, but in the photo it comes across strongly. It feels like the aftermath of some terrible event.
Chantal-
It’s very interesting to hear how someone else approached essentially the same subject–thanks for writing. As for “more to do with us as individuals, than the places themselves,” I would say they’re inseparable. It is in places and through places that we discover ourselves. At least that’s how it seems to work for me.
David-
In part it’s a lousy composition that doesn’t depict things very well. But the ravages are slow, appearing more dramatic because of the gaping layers of paper and cloth coverings of walls and roof.
Or you could say it’s an excellent composition, that takes mundane elements and uses them to create something that reminds us of the frailty of our existence.
If you were doing these for purely documentary purposes, then I’d say the point is to be as undramatic and matter-of-fact as possible, and just show us what’s there. But is that why you take photos? Somehow I doubt it.
Dion in the first comment already said something really similar to what I was going to say. I see that beast too.
It is wild, rampant nature penetrating architectonic order. There is, in this photo, the sense that the chaos of the universe will win out over the vanity of our little works.
You ask how these things come about?
Who knows?
I know old Tom Jefferson had an idea about that, “The harder I work, the luckier I get.”
It is really polished how you’ve handle the highlights in what must have been, what? A twelve stop range? You had a subject that was beyond technology’s capacity. You made the right choices to deal with that. There’s just enough there for my mind to fill it in, and the same is true of the darkest darks. You nailed this one.
I went to your website and had a look around. I much enjoyed the Anasazi Places in particular since I have such a fascination with those people. So thanks.
P.S. Your link has been added to the sidebar. Welcome aboard.
Steve,
Some photog talk…….I’m guessing that you were using a small format camera. Were you? The reason for the question is that I was wondering how much of the things that you saw later on your computer screen might have been visible at the time on a large ground glass screen – or even a medium format waist level finder.
I’m also wondering how often it happens to painters or other artists that one is surprised, looking back on a work, to discover something quite unintended. As a painting or quilt or whatever takes more time in the making than a typical photograph, and may entail more active decisions regarding content, is the chance of later surprise any less?
I’ve wondered about this too. The speed of decision making in photography doesn’t leave much room for contemplation before the event. I’ve been interested to see how my pictures change in a multi month project.
I’d be interested to hear from others who work in artforms that require days or longer to complete a given piece how the flow goes from concept to completion. How many surprises and re-considerations are there?
I am fascinated, as Paul says, ‘looking through the doorways, hallways, stairways and windows’ following the direction of the brilliant light. My favorite picture in the series is the forth picture from the top on the right hand side.
I do see the peace that you felt in all of your pictures except the one that you posted. Perhaps, the ‘monster lurking on the left’ was just an accidental outcome of poor lighting?
David,
You doubt rightly: I have little interest in documentation per se (and I never make snapshots). But in most work, I do very much want the picture rooted in a particular place with a particular something I care about and want to bring out. By “particular” I don’t mean something that would seem specific if put into words, but rather something definitely associated with that place.
Between you and Chantal, you’ve stimulated me to think and articulate in a new way the importance of place to my photography. Thank you!
Colin,
You’re right, I have only a small format camera (Canon 20D). I’ve always thought I would love having a big ground glass, but I don’t think I could give up the lower cost and workflow advantages of an all-digital approach. But I do almost always use a tripod and try to think carefully about composition and what I’m including in the picture. Not that most compositions are successful… Here my surprise was not because I hadn’t noticed what was in the picture, it was because my perception of it emotionally was totally different. That definitely depends on later processing as well, but with this one I can’t seem to make the “rampant chaos” go away with what I would consider reasonable processing.
Birgit,
Yes, it was an accident of how the torn wallpaper hung from the wall and how the light struck it. I chose this as a discussion example because it surprised me most when I looked at it later. But while I was there, in addition to a sense of quiet and peace, I also noticed slightly ominous things like the figure pursuing you up the stairs (top right picture) and the shape and darkness of the looming stain on the ceiling (second from top, right). I have others not on the website, in which following a path into the picture leads you not to light, but to a dark closet or past dark doorways you can’t see into. I could almost make two portfolios of this work, one light and one dark in mood.
To me, the figure going up the steps looks like an upright mama bear holding something smaller against her chest that has a more human face.
If anything would be ominous, it could be the dark bannister. But then, the dark bannister leads the mama bear to the light.
Steve, I think this is a very strong series of images. And I agree with Paul. The concept of passages and passageways is very strong here, as well as the contrast between light and dark.
One of the best feeling about being an artist is to be surprised when looking at earlier work! Sometimes I am so immersed in preparing for a show that I actually don’t specifically recall painting some of the images. It is always interesting to look at the work later and see what I did and what worked. Um, and what didn’t:-)
S.
I have always been a bit obtuse. Can’t help it.
I remember as a kid on family vacations in Maine rushing through dinner to hop in the car and join the Many on the trek up Cadillac Mountain to witness (and photograph) the sunset. It was always tense. Cars driving too slowly. The kids being too loud or in the way. And meanwhile the moment was approaching: the Sun was about to disappear. The storm of human activity would settle. And then, the moment. Everything would be right. Click. One time, while persuing my own adolescent interests of rock climbing a photographer went ballistic at me for wandering into his Frame.
When I learned of Ireland’s work, back in the 90s, I deeply appreciated his romantic everyday approach to his subject(s) (did you find and his work with his House?) In particular I liked his thinking about how he lived in his home and how his actions, his movements were artful (like you, Steve, he has an interest in Zen thinking). His work always reflects those movements (of body and mind).
The tricky part for me, looking at your work, is my desire to not appreciate them for their formal qualities, but as representations of your/our passage. Underlying is my temptation to be closer. Maybe even close enough to touch: the chair, the wallpaper, etc.
The possiblities seem endless.
Here is another link to an artist that works beyond his intent and with a terrific sense of humor.
http://www.leewalton.com/
D.
D.,
Thanks for extending your comment, you’ve given me a lot to think about. I missed Ireland’s work on House, and I haven’t had a chance yet to follow up on Walton, but will.
Zen thinking indeed appeals to me, but it’s not what I think of as a simple representation of my passage, to use your nice phrase. It is inevitably that also, but it’s not just representative moments, but rather special ones I try to capture. Like a Japanese Zen garden that you just glimpse going up a staircase and then it’s past. Like the designer of such a garden, I do care about formal aspects such as composition — though you could say a goal is to make them so good they are unnoticed.
My work involves photographs as a starting place and although I’m not a great photographer, I pick and choose elements from photographs or old family albums. Occasionally I will take a posed photograph for a piece.
(I do figurative work now leaning toward more abstract in fiber and stitching. Some of my earlier pieces were based on the photographs of Julia Margaret Cameron)
But I think the choice of photographs (for me, anyway) comes from some place deep inside—and I think the angle you choose, the image you choose–are all appealing to you because of a similar place inside.
Several years ago, I did a portrait of my father from an old black and white Brownie camera shot. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was saying good-by to the dad I knew as a healthy vibrant man—I was checking him into a nursing home at the time. Other people see it and see sadness in that work–it crept in and I didn’t see it until much later.
Sorry, I can’t post a photo of the image–I’m still working on my website.
I agree with Dion…it looks like the “Tin Man of Oz” is hanging on the upper right wall. Seriously, I love the mystery, sort of a “Twilight Zone” feel. Sure makes me think of what happened in those old rooms. The value contrasts between the “outside” vs. “inside” is interesting to the eye; offering a two world effect.
Steve – I love these photos.
I looked at these last night and I saw darkness, violence, loneliness.
Now that I have time to comment I go back and look at them and see light and possibilities.
I am drawn to the last image of the doorways leading to a partially open door. The mystery of what might be behind there is fascinating. And the photo itself is gorgeous – great lines and proportions.
The other day on my blog I posted about a friend of mine, Deidre Adams. She loves to go into abandoned spaces to photograph them as inspiration for her artwork (this could have gone in the other post also).
This is a quote from her website:
Our western states are rich with the remnants of long-gone inhabitants who left their homes and belongings behind. Making a life in a remote area of an unforgiving landscape with sandy soil and very little water was a daunting proposition, and the vacant homesteads still standing are a reminder of a way of living that holds an appeal for only a dwindling few. Abandoned structures sit eloquently silent, giving no answer to the questions, “Who lived here? What made them leave?” These ruins are compelling subjects for the camera.
Her photos are here (hover on the thumbnails): http://deidreadams.com/inspirations.html
And see her completed works here:
http://deidreadams.com/gallery.html
Lisa,
Thanks so much for your observations. I also see them as having both strong dark and strong light aspects to them, and I am drawn to both. Because, as Colin once posted, photography has a later “performance” phase after the initial “score,” there is always the possibility that I can re-interpret any of the images. In that sense they are never fully finished. I have learned many things from everyone’s comments that will help me with this in future.
I already saw Deidre’s work earlier, following the link from your blog, and I think it is gorgeous. Quite humbling, really. Thanks for adding the link here.
I think it’s interesting that other photographers echoed my interest in whether surprises in interpretation happen as often to other artists, but nobody except Tracy has touched on that topic. Any other reactions out there?
I was going to comment on that Steve and I forgot.
You asked: I’m also wondering how often it happens to painters or other artists that one is surprised, looking back on a work, to discover something quite unintended. As a painting or quilt or whatever takes more time in the making than a typical photograph, and may entail more active decisions regarding content, is the chance of later surprise any less?
I work very intuitively. I generally don’t have a plan or sketch and I try not to bring any preconceived notions into my studio as to what my art should or could or might be or not be. I don’t plan the "content" ahead of time.
I just work.
It is only later – sometimes years later – that I come to an understanding about the work. Some work never reveals much to me, some I can pin to exact events or feelings or experiences. Most is somewhere in between.
It’s interesting to hear what others see in my work as I usually learn something about myself in those discussions.
So am I surprised? Sometimes. But sometimes not. But it is always an act of discovery.
The quilt I showed in this post – I just made it – I had no thoughts about what it was to be. But several years later it became very clear to me that the piece was clearly my divorce quilt.
I designed it just a month after my ex moved out of the house but it took me almost 2 years to actually finish – working on it from time to time. Never really thinking about what it meant just glad that I was working. I didn’t do much artwork through those years as it was often a struggle to get to my studio – I had just gone back to work fulltime after 10 years of denying I knew anything about computers, the single mom routine, it was all new and pretty draining.
But when I stepped back and thought about it that quilt captured my feelings about marriage and relationships. And that is why it’s not really for sale. It is too important to me personally.
Okay that kind sort of went on and on and I just came upstairs to get my camera. Computers are evil.
I too wanted to respond to this question from Steve: “I’d be interested to hear from others who work in artforms that require days or longer to complete a given piece how the flow goes from concept to completion. How many surprises and re-considerations are there?”
Tons of surprises and re-considerations, especially when it all comes together in a show. The whole joy of having an exhibit for me is the surprising reactions, both from viewers and myself.
I have this problem when looking at my work in an exhibit, it’s like I can’t even see it for a long time. I have to go back and back and back and look repeatedly until it sinks in. Partly because I am new enough to exhibiting the initial “shock” still gets me. Amazing what looking at your work outside the studio does to how you see it.
I also do not pretend to have much control over the painting process – it is still mysterious, magical and really unexpected things happen. Anyone who has ever painted a self portrait and is shocked by what they see knows what I mean. Parts of yourself that you thought were out of sight, pop forward without your permission!
Partly because I am new enough to exhibiting the initial “shock” still gets me. Amazing what looking at your work outside the studio does to how you see it.
Leslie, I’ve been exhibiting for years, and I have the same experience. The work looks totally different when it’s exhibited. It can finally be seen well-lit and without the distractions of studio clutter. The pieces, which may have been created over the course of several years, talk to each other, and it’s possible to see the connections between them. And also, having other people looking at the work changes the context. Even without their reactions and feedback, which of course have their own impact, just knowing that the work is being seen together in public somehow changes it.
I have another chance to gain an overview of the work when I photograph it and look at the slides or digital images of a body of work together. And yet again, with a longer term perspective, when putting together and giving slide talks that cover the evolution of the work over many years. It’s like zooming out and looking at your life from far enough away to see a larger view.
Lisa, Leslie, David,
Thanks for responding to this. I guess surprises and discoveries are inevitable with any form of art, which is probably one of the great things about it.