A while ago I got “fan mail” from someone regarding my portfolio of “stick pictures,” a body of work that I make in dense, brushy environments. She wanted some insight into my process, and I thought it would be illustrative to share the exchange here.
“Often I find that pictures of this nature look cluttered and pinched, but yours I find to be exceptionally emotive and contemplative. I was wondering about your mental and emotional approach to shooting these images. Do you focus more on the mental, with respect to composition, or is it something that you feel more so than see?”
My response:
“Thanks for the note. The “stick pictures” is where I do my deep work as a photographer. It is internal, it is visceral, and the question of why that sort of landscape is so compelling to me is not the interesting one. I’m grateful that there is such a rich vein for me to mine and that it has stayed so compelling for so many years.
“Though I’m sure it would be hugely valuable, I don’t meditate, I don’t do yoga, and I don’t have a regular practice to center myself or otherwise quiet the inner voice in my head so that I can pay attention to the moment. I’m actually an anxious fidgeter much of the time, and I’m forgetful and absent minded. Working with the camera, in the landscape, is the closest I get to a meditation practice of any kind, and it probably occupies that role in my life. I do know that, in those complex brushy environments, I am able to let go of the conscious attention to composition and framing and the sense that “now I’m taking a picture.” The pictures find themselves, and I follow. That part of the brain that is a lot smarter than the part that consciously knows what is going on is taking the lead.
“I have, though, been working this way for a couple of decades. The technical part is fluid and unconscious. I also take a lot of bad pictures when I’m out there. A lot of the work is attending to the results of a given shoot, and ferreting out the one shot that exemplifies the coherence of the moment. My method is to post proof prints in a place where I will see them in my peripheral vision for awhile, like my kitchen. Over time I take down the ones that bore me, and I see what survives. It is the spawning salmon method of photography. Most of the roe get eaten. Only a select few grow to adulthood and see the world.”
The link to the portfolio is here. I’ve fixed the code that seemed to keep non-IE users from viewing the page.
I have been flipping many times through your portfolio. The grass looks so soft in American Camp, San Juan Island, 1998
Doug, I find it fascinating that, though your stick pictures bear some resemblance to mine and others, as discussed last week, our approaches on the ground are very different. It sounds like you shoot hand-held and more quickly, intuitively, while I almost always use a tripod and slowly select and compose. That’s after finding a subject I’m interested in through a contemplative walking and looking around, also quite slowly, trying to immerse myself in the place and the time. It’s still an intuitive process in the sense that I may not be able to say at all clearly why I want to make a particular image, but it’s also quite deliberate. Sometimes I will look at a potential subject through the camera and decide not to photograph it, but perhaps half the time I capture an image once I’ve decided to attempt one.
You’ve been doing this for a while now, I wonder if you notice any identifiable changes in your photos over time. Do you think you could tell when one was taken if you didn’t remember the specific shot? Do you like the newer ones any better? Also, do you ever go back and find you like an image that you didn’t even try to print?
I’m actually an anxious fidgeter much of the time, and I’m forgetful and absent minded. Working with the camera, in the landscape, is the closest I get to a meditation practice of any kind, and it probably occupies that role in my life.
Doug,
It’s hard for me to decide which I like better, your photos or your writing. I suppose I don’t really need to choose, do I?
I respond to your description of photography as meditation. I never used that word myself, but I think it is an interesting description. Photography always takes me into a different world. I find that I need to be taking pictures for at least half an hour, and then my entire visual perception changes. It is almost like taking a mind altering substance (although I have never done that, of course…)
At the beginning of this year I set myself the challenge of doing a number of art forms every day, including photography. I have found it impossible to follow this program, if I take each art form seriously. When I work with photography, it has a powerful effect on me; on other days I feel an intense aversion to leaving this world and entering that of the camera. I find it better to do the different art forms on different days. Steve told me earlier that athletes training for multiple sports don’t train for more than one on a given day. I see the wisdom of that now. Maybe if I were not a parent and a blogger I could do everything in one day. As it is, it is more or less impossible for me.
[TECHNICAL NOTE]
Doug,
I think your photo is wider than the 450 pixel standard we use for A&P. On some browsers (e.g., Internet Explorer) this can send the sidebar to the bottom of the page. This happens on my version of Internet Explorer, although if I simply expand the window size, the sidebar returns to the normal position. [I use I.E. only for the purpose of finding problems with websites; that’s what is most useful for…]
The above raises an important issue: do we feel that 450 pixels are too few for displaying our work? Of course it would be possible to modify the site to accept larger images for all web browsers, if there were interest in this. Changes like this are not difficult, but they require attentive feedback from readers and contributors to make sure that they are implemented correctly for all software/hardware combinations.
Steve,
What I have noticed over time is a change toward a layering in the work, adding an element of depth to the images. I find myself looking through stuff, having big gobs of out of focus areas now. I sometimes work on a tripod and sometimes not, it depends on which camera I have on me.
On the technical note, I think 450 pixels wide is a good limit for the main post; if you want a larger picture, it should be available by clicking using the procedure under “Pages” in the sidebar. Too large a picture is a usability problem for people on dial-up connections (like me at home) or with smaller screens.
One thing I like about the picture you’ve chosen it its ambiguity. It’s hard to tell at first glance (or on the web) whether we’re looking out over the edge of a lake or up at the sky. And those leaves in the middle could be a flock of birds in flight. Can you tell us what’s special to you about this picture that you chose it to represent your project?
I just realized (prompted while looking at June’s textile art blog) that your procedure is akin to the “automatic writing” of the surrealists. Attempting to turn off the more conscious part of the brain.
Doug,
I am about to buy a digital SLR and I cannot decide what lens to buy first. It seems to be the most practical to buy a kit with a zoom lens. But the zoom lens is so slow f/3.5. Another lens that I am considering is a 55 mm f/1.4.
In an earlier post, a while ago, you mentioned that you had a lens that you used most often. What kind of lens is that?
Steve,
any comments on that?
The kit zoom is almost always a good deal, even if you get another lens also, like the 55mm you’re considering for those times you need speed or want shallow depth of field. I shoot almost always with the kit zoom, but I use a tripod.
Doug,
wonderful writing and portfolio. I love the experience of scrolling through the images of different locations – it’s kind of meditative in itself. THe connection you have to these images is palpable. I don’t know if that is because I read your writing or I could just feel it. Thanks for showing us these!
Steve,
interesting connection to the surrealists. Of course they engaged in a lot of sleep deprivation and god knows what else to get at some of that imagery too!
Wow, what a lot of comments! I should post here more often.
I am a confirmed digital addict at this point, mostly for professional reasons (on assignment I typically shoot about a thousand images a day), but a big benefit is that short feedback loop about what is happening with my seeing, and the quality is so good now. My choice of lens for 90% of my shooting is a 24-105mm f/4 IS. Yes, it’s slow. With the image stabilization, it doesn’t matter. It’s also very expensive, and wouldn’t be my first choice if I’m just getting into digital.
The picture in the post is an old one, from 1985, but it still holds interest for me. Some of my strongest work from this series dates from the 80’s, which is daunting to confront, but I try not to think about it too much. If I think about it too much I think about all those artists whose early work I like the most, and who I think lost their edge as they aged. I am intent to not be one of those.
on assignment I typically shoot about a thousand images a day
Doug,
I can relate to that. Not on assignment I can shoot 500 photos in a day. What I cannot do, however, is look at 500 photos and make a sensible selection of them. Each set of 500 only makes the task more difficult. How in the world do you manage all your pictures?
Doug,
I was fascinated by the different regions that you took the photos in, always searching for the screen across our eyes, the brush that we have to peer through — and that sometimes only gives us blank fog behind.
Of course, sometimes,the brush is coming at us, almost confronting the viewer. At other times, it seems like a fairly tidy set of frames, just beyond the camera’s reach. Once in a while, you add a path or road, which gives us a way out, but the photos which are most compelling to me are the ones in which there is nothing but the brush.
You comment about the organization of the space is, of course, the point. Or one of them.
Thanks for sending us to your collection.