Shutterfinger

Why It's Been Quiet

I'm posting this photo for no reason other than I like it and it captures the meditative mood I'm in at the moment. I shot this years ago with a Leica M6. I can't remember what lens I used, but one thing is for sure: it was amazingly low on flare and veiling glare.

You may have noticed that it's been quieter than usual at Shutterfinger of late. I normally post once a week. It's been more than a week since my last post. Assuming you've noticed at all, this is not necessarily cause for alarm. Assuming you have noticed, here's why it's been so quiet: I've been reflecting on why I started this blog in the first place and whether these reasons are sufficient for continuing.

The main reason I started writing Shutterfinger was to see what it was like. I wanted to see how many people were interested in my photographs and what I wanted to write about. I wanted to see how long I could do it; whether it would be fun or a burden; whether others found any value in what I was sharing.

I didn't do it for the money. Although it's certainly possible to earn a living as a photo blogger, those who are most successful at it approach it as a full-time job. They also have to cater to what most photography enthusiasts are most comfortable and familiar with, that being cameras, lenses, and other photo equipment. I know this from personal experience. The posts I've written that consistently receive the most readers and comments are equipment reviews. I've observed the same phenomenon on other photo blogs as well. Some consist of little else.

I say this not to denigrate photo equipment or reviews. Lord knows I can be just as fascinated with new gear as the next guy. (Gals are generally less gear-fixated than guys--or maybe it's just that they are fixated on different gear.) All I'm saying is that I'm not all that interested in writing about new equipment in and of itself, even if that would attract more readers.

I'm also not interested in attracting advertisers. You've got to write about lots of equipment and provide lots of links to associated products, services, and businesses to do that. Again, there's nothing wrong with it; I'm just not particularly interested in going down that path.

Finally, like most of you, I have an active life outside of blogging. I'm married, have three school-age kids, a full-time job, and prefer to spend my leisure time outdoors instead of sitting in front of a computer. Since I have yet to receive a single comment asking why I don't post more often, I assume you're generally happy with what you get, when you get it--especially since the price is right.

Still, nothing lasts forever. Should the day come when I decide to put Shutterfinger to rest, the thing I will value the most from this experience will be the acquaintances I've made, the people I've met, and the amazing work and insights you've shared. It's a big world out there, folks. Just knowing you're out there and that you care enough to visit from time to time makes it feel smaller and more friendly.

Knowledge vs. Skill

What does it take to get an interesting photo of neon lights at night through a rain-covered window while using a cellphone camera? Is it knowledge, skill, or luck? Do you care?

A friend of mine once asked if I wouldn't mind him watching me print. This was back when printing involved arcane devices such as enlargers, safelights, chemicals, and trays. When he saw me focus by placing my grain magnifier on the easel, he felt compelled to recommend that I insert a sheet of exposed enlarging paper first, so that I would be focusing on the actual image plane.

It seems my friend had read in a magazine article somewhere that this was the right way to do it and was quite surprised I didn't know. He offered this recommendation despite the fact that I was using a glass negative carrier to prevent the negative from "popping" due to heat from the enlarging lamp, and that my prints are almost infallibly sharp, which was one of the reasons he wanted to watch me print in the first place. In other words, my friend had confused knowledge and information with skill. He thought that knowing the right way to do something (or thinking he knew) was the same as being able to do it.

In this respect he was a lot like guys I would spar with at various martial arts schools. They "knew" their style was superior to mine and that my style had serious flaws because this was what their teacher and fellow students had told them. You can imagine their frustration and discomfort when they discovered that what seemed so true and obvious in theory didn't always work so well in practice. In this case, it's not that what they knew was wrong, it was that they lacked the skill to pull it off.

I chose this as the topic of today's post for two reasons: First, because I make my living as an instructional designer. I train people how to do things. My goal is to do more than simply share knowledge; it's to provide opportunities to practice; to unlearn old skills and habits and learn new ones. The second reason is that photography forums and blog comments (Shutterfinger comments excepted) are full of strong opinions from people who claim to have a lot knowledge yet offer little evidence of any actual skill. In my world, knowledge and skill are both wonderful things to have. Combine them and you become a force to be recconed with; someone who often appears to be amazingly lucky.

Non-Habitual Photography

 
Photographs don't always have to be perfectly sharp to be "good," do they?

It's all well and good for me advise you Shutterfinger readers to be "free" in your approach to photography; it's quite another for me to show evidence that I'm willing to follow my own advice. I know as well as anyone that there's a certain comfort and familiarity with doing things the way you've always done them, using the same camera and lens you always use, revisting the places and subjects you like to phograph most, and so on.

The benefit of comfort and familiarity is that it can make you a better photographer--one who knows what he wants and how to get it. The drawback is that if you aren't careful your tastes can become too narrow, your style too predictable. You play it safe. You seldom screw up, yet you seldom surprise yourself either. And trust me, when I say "you," I mean me too.

I don't normally shoot images like this one either. In this case I'm glad I made an exception.

So this morning I decided to shake things up a bit. Instead of waiting for a brilliant sunlight morning to venture into the city for a couple of hours of street photography, I chose an overcast day. Instead of having my camera set up to focus when I pressed the rear AF/AE lock button, I linked AF to the shutter button, the way most people do. Instead of using single-shot AF I used continuous AF. Instead of waiting for human subjects to enter my precisely framed compositions, I shot from the hip or raised the camera to my eye the instant I sensed an interesting gesture.

As minor as these changes might sound, they definitely took me out of my comfort zone. I had to re-think my approach, re-tune my reflexes, look at scenes in a different way. Not only couldn't I get the shots I would normally get, it was hard to capture new ones I liked. The delete button became my friend.

You can't plan how things line up in a shot like this. You simply have to press the shutter when the little voice inside your head says "Now!"

After an hour or so I began to notice that the new (for me) AF setup was actually a lot faster than the old one. I could focus on a moving subject in an instant and still have the image be reasonably sharp. I discovered that there was a certain spontaneity and energy to my off-the-hip compositions. I discovered that my images didn't have to be perfectly sharp or perfectly exposed to be interesting or successful.

(By the way, I also discovered that a large percentage of the people walking around these days are either holding a cellphone to their ear or are holding one in front of their face. These folks are so distracted that even a nervous novice street shooter could photograph them without being noticed--not that being noticed is the end of the world.)

Here's an example of what I mean about folks on cellphones. I was no more than an arm's length away from the gentleman in the foreground. He even glanced around and saw me with my camera, but just turned and kept on talking.

As for whether these changes were worth the effort or not, well, I'll let you be the judge of that. And if anything I've written should inspire you to alter a few of your photographic habits, then my job for this post is done.

 

 

Learn to Pay Attention

A photo like this may look like a quick grabshot at first glance, but if you take some time to give it a closer look you may notice that little was left to chance. I hope you enjoy it.

One of my mantras here on Shutterfinger has been the need for photographers to pay attention. In this post I'm going to expand a bit on what I mean by this and how you might go about, assuming you don't already know how.

What I mean by paying attention is not intense concentration. Intense concentration can often be like staring hard at a dusty mirror and trying to make the reflection you see look clear and sharp. You can try as hard and as long as you like and all you'll get for your effort is eye-strain. You'd be much better off if you simply cleaned the mirror, or better yet, turned around and looked directly at what it was reflecting. This takes not concentration but rather an alert awareness. That's what I mean by paying attention.

For anglers it means knowing what bait to use, where to drop the line, and when you've got a bite. For martial artists it's the ability to block and counterpunch by reflex alone. For musicians it's the ability to flow with the music; to know when to lay back and when to step forward.

There's more to it than just timing. It's also about having a sense for when you've got the shot and that shot is as good as it's ever going to be. Sculptors rely on much the same instinct to ensure that they don't remove too much, yet not so little that the piece looks unfinished and ill-formed.

The trick to all of this is that no one can really teach you how to do it. You have to teach yourself. The best I can do for you is to give good directions. It's up to you to look, and only you will know when you've found the right address. As for the directions, here's what worked for me:

1. Study the masters, especially those whose work interests you most. Let them open your eyes to the possibilities for location, lighting, color, tonality, framing, timing, and printing. If someone's work bothers you, don't dismiss it too quickly. As yourself why it bothers you. You may discover that the artist wanted you to be uncomfortable--and was successful.
2. Learn to meditate, to play a musical instrument, to play chess, or to play a sport. Any practice that requires you to focus your mind and use it differently than you do in everyday life triggers a new awareness and a sense of new possibilities. You become aware of how much your everyday awareness (or lack of it) is a distraction and illusion in and of itself.
3. Set a creative goal and standard of quality, then reach or exceed them. Unless you have some idea of where you're going and what you're trying to achieve then you're basically just wandering in the wilderness hoping to find a hot meal and a dry place to sleep.

This isn't meant to be an all-inclusive list; in fact, if you have anything of value to add, please feel free. Trust me, I'll be paying attention to whatever you have to say.

A Cure for the Photographic Doldrums

This was shot during a quick trip to a Target department store to buy toothpaste of all things. You can tell from the angle of the light that it was late in the day. Despite the saturated reds and dramatic shadows, I wasn't moved to take a picture until I noticed the mother and son in blue approaching from the parking lot. By luck I happened to have a Ricoh GRD IV in my pocket. Here is the result.

I have a confession to make: In spite of all my upbeat talk about making do with what you have, photographing your everyday life, and taking pictures instead of making excuses, I too sometimes fall prey to photographic doldrums. You know what I mean: feeling low in spirit and energy, wondering why you waste your time taking pictures that hardly anyone will ever see, lacking any interest in learning new techniques or exploring new subjects.

It happens to the best of us. It can be particularly prevalent this time of year, as the weather grows cold, the days are shorter, the sun rests low in the sky, and everyone's attention turns to holiday activities, shopping for gifts, and silently lamenting all the things we'd like to have but can't afford. It's a time when some of us dread having to spend time with family, while others desparately wish we had family to visit. In such times photography can fall low on our list of interests.

And that's okay. Just as there are annual seasons and various phases of our lives, there are periods we need to rest, reflect, and edit. There are also times when we can't wait to photograph the world with all the gusto we've got. During and in-between, I still keep a habit of having a camera on hand, with no real intention or expectation of using it. You see, I've learned that there will be moments when the mood lifts, the clouds part, every element is in exactly the right alignment, and you are there to capture it. That's when you remember why you spend so much time taking pictures: It reminds you what a wonder it is to be fully alive and in the moment.

 

The Virtue of Necessity

Believe it or not, I shot this with a Nikon point-and-shoot film camera and I didn't use the viewfinder. Instead, I simply aimed the camera in the same way you would a pocket-sized digicam. You could say I was just lucky. On the other hand, I find that the more I practice, the luckier I get.

There was a time not too long ago when most experienced photographers--myself included--could do things that by today's standards might seem magical. We could pick up an all-manual, meterless camera and, just by knowing the film speed and judging the level of ambient light, set the correct exposure within a half-stop of perfection, even indoors.

We could estimate the camera-to-subject distance and set that manually too, without looking through the viewfinder, and no less accurately than one of today's multi-point AF systems. Some sports photographers could manually follow focus on running athletes and racing sports cars--although I grant you they had to use the viewfinder to do it.

We could use a waist-level viewfinder and, even though the image was reversed left-to-right, track a moving subject. And let's not forget the view camera users who thought it was normal to look at the world upside-down.

We could load and process film in complete darkness. We could burn and dodge a print using nothing more than our hands and pieces of posterboard taped to lengths of wire--then make ten more prints just like it.

I'm not saying that any of this came easy; in fact, it often took a ridiculous amount of practice. The point is that, as my mother always used to tell me, "It's amazing what you can do when you don't have any choice." It's also amazing how much fun you can have doing it.

These days we suffer from an overabundance of choices. You may find you have a lot more fun and a lot better results if you limit your options. Fewer options result in more freedom and ability to focus your attention, to improvise, and yes, to do whatever you have to do to get the job done.

Thank Your For Your Support

Why does one painter need four ladders? Because he has three partners seated just outside the frame. Either way you look at it, he's got plenty of support.

A few days ago one of my favorite photo bloggers, Kirk Tuck, decided to stop posting to his blog, The Visual Science Lab. This was despite the fact that VSL was easily one of the top ten most visited photo blogs out there.

According to Kirk, he stopped for two reasons: first, because blogging was taking too much time from his professional photography business; and second, because an anonymous commenter had gotten under his skin. A callous remark about one of his posts had made Kirk feel unappreciated. It had made him question the whole endeavor. The answer he came up with was (my words, not his) "To hell with it."

As saddened as I was by his decision, it came as no surprise. Kirk had poured a lot of energy and enthusiasm into VSL. Many of his posts were as long as magazine articles and copiously illustrated with his photographs. I wondered how he found the time, especially since he was also running a professional photography business and writing a series of how-to books on lighting. It wasn't as if he was making any money from blogging. VSL has very few banner ads and click-through links, yet even blogs plastered with ads from top to bottom seldom bring in any more than a few bucks a month.

With no strong financial incentive to blog, it's likely that Kirk  wrote for more emotional reasons. Unfortunately, one of the realities of blogging is that it doesn't necessarily generate a lot of external emotional support. Hundreds of people will read a post that a blogger worked on for hours and not one will comment. Readers will visit for months without buying from a single affiliate or dropping a nickel into the tip jar. Some of the comments readers do make can be downright insulting. My philosophy is that there's no point complaining about it. After all, we bloggers weren't drafted into this, we volunteered.

At this point you might be wondering if perhaps the title of this post was meant to be sarcastic; if I feel unappreciated; if I too have come to the end of the road. The answer is no. In fact, I truly appreciate the support I've received. I appreciate your adding me to your RSS feed. I appreciate the tips you've sent me, verbal and financial. I appreciate the temperate tone of your comments. Most of all, I appreciate the chance to share my love of photography with you. I suspect you love it as much as I do.

The day may come when Shutterfinger comes to an end, but until then I welcome your continued support. Spread the word. Leave a comment if you're so moved. And if you feel the urge to drop $5.00 in my tip box from time to time, just to make sure I'm feeling the love, I won't complain.

 

How to See

    This isn't the sort of photograph you can plan. You just have be able to raise your camera and snap the shutter when you see it.

One of the most common questions photographers get, especially when we're out and about, doing what it is we do, is "Why are you taking a picture of that?" Implicit in this question is the opinion that whatever "that" is is unworthy of being photographed and that your time would be better spent on something else. They could be right.

Then again, it could be that they suffer from a common form of blindness in our society: The inability to appreciate the subtle wonders of the world around them. Don't judge them too harshly. Many photographers suffer from it too; but at least as photographers we're trying to get better. And the good news is that by truly opening our eyes and taking in the world, we can record our revelations and  share them with others who are trying to improve their vision as well.

So, how do you learn to see? There's no one method that's guaranteed to work for everybody. I can only tell you what worked for me. Here are a few suggestions in no particular order: 

1. Discover what looks good. It's possible that you can become a skilled visual artist without being familiar with what visual artists before you have achieved--it's just not likely. Simply browsing through collections of works by great artists--any great artists--will inspire you with a sense of possibility.

2. Pay attention to light, shade, form, texture, contrast, depth, and color. These are  all basic elements of imagery. In particular, notice which elements move you the most. Some people love bold contrasts. Others prefer subtle modulations. Some see in angles, while others see in curves. What catches your eye?

3. Stop and stare. Sometimes I stop dead in my tracks and stare at an object, a scene, or a potential composition. It might be a doorway, a mini-drama playing out in front of me, or it might be a simple shaft of light. If I look long enough it's almost as if I hear a voice in my head that says, "Good. Now that I've got your attention, keep looking. I might show you something really fascinating."

4. Don't think, react. This doesn't contradict #3 above, it complements it. Sometimes it's better to maintain an attitude of relaxed alertness, ready to react the instant you see an image coming together before your eyes.

5. Look and listen inside. There's no law that says you have to search and wait for images. They may already exist inside your imagination, in which case they are waiting for you to make copies that everyone else can see. When this happens your challenge is to make sure the real image meets or exceeds what you've envisioned in your mind's eye. Listen to the quiet voice that tells you how to position your subject, lights, and camera. It's almost never wrong.

If some of this seems too mystical for your tastes, keep in mind that art is not a purely rational endeavor and that no one can give you an exact roadmap. I'm just trying to point you in the right direction in the hope that you will notice and enjoy what you see along the way. If I've missed any important landmarks, feel free to mention them for the benefit of our fellow travelers.

 

Time and the Art of Photography

  This is one of my oldest photographs, taken while I was a freshman in high school. It's of the family dog, Prince, who appears to be smiling and ready to romp. It's special to me--and only to me--because it reminds me of my youth.

Photography is, by definition, the art of painting with light. What often gets overlooked is the degree to which it's also the art of recording impressions of time. At the most basic level, every image is affected by your choice of shutter speed--the period of time your film or digital sensor is exposed to light. A short shutter speed freezes motion, assuming there was motion to freeze, of course. A long shutter speed does the reverse: Objects in motion blur. Static objects look...static; that is, unless the camera is moving too, in which case the entire image can be blurred; sometimes artfully, sometimes not.

Whatever you capture is a photographic representation of how that particular subject or scene looked during that one brief instant of time. With street, candid, or sports photos there's the reality that you captured a unique moment in time that will never happen again in exactly the same way, with the same light, subjects, and composition. With photojournalistic photography the unique moment in time may also be historic. Think of the classic photograph of Jack Ruby caught in the act of shooting Lee Harvey Oswald.

Here's a photo of Texas bluesman Sam "Lightnin'" Hopkins, performing at the Ash Grove in Los Angeles. It has some historic value in that the Ash Grove burned to the ground in 1973 and Hopkins died in 1982. His style and music, however, live on.

Then again, even an obscure photograph can be historic by providing a look back in time. That's why most people take photographs: to record a time, place, person or event that's special to them. When such photos transcend their appeal to a small group of individuals and begin to appeal to the world at large they rise to the level of art. That's an important distinction for those of us who are actually trying for art. We have to do better than anonymous photos that could have been taken any time, anywhere, by anyone. That means creating photos that suggest a special moment combined with an individual point of view.

Take still life photography for example. A common way to suggest life (which, after all, is a time-sensitive state of being) when photographing motionless objects is to show evidence of something the passage of time. Rust and wear suggest age and constant use. A fallen leaf suggests something that just happened. Steam rising off the surface of a hot liquid suggests something happening now. You can also evoke a sense of time through your lighting. Low light and long shadows suggest morning or evening light. Soft overhead light suggests the hazy midday sun or open shade. Add deep shadows and suddenly you're in a small room with a small skylight overhead. What applies to still lifes applies just as well to other genres of photography. Combine the right light with the right time and the right timing and your odds of a memorable photograph are greatly increased. The trick, of course, is knowing when the moment is right.

It takes time for steel to get this rusted, for a brush's bristles to get this worn, and for the handle to get this encrusted with grime.

These are my observations. You're sure to have some of your own. If not, I'd suggest that before you raise camera to eye you give some thought to the moment in time you're trying to capture. What's special about it? What are you trying to remember? What do you want others to see? If you can convey what's special about a moment in time then you're well on your way to producing memorable photographs.

 

What Makes a "Good" Photograph?

My wife wishes I had waited for my son Clay to stop scowling and shivering before I took this photo of him. To her it's a "bad" picture. The fact that it's sharp and well-exposed is irrelevant. I think it's funny, and because it defies expectations of what this sort of picture should look like, it's more interesting to people outside my family than it would be if he was grinning. What do you think?

How do you know when you've taken a "good" picture? All that some photographers require is that the image be in focus and correctly exposed. This used to be more of a challenge in the days of manual focus lenses and manual exposure. Now that auto-focus and auto-exposure are the norm, even a complete neophyte can take a good picture by this definition.

That's a good thing. But let's say you aspire to something more than technical competence alone. In that case you might define "good" as above-average. You might look for an image that was well-composed, that had an unusually attractive subject, or that was well-lit. Professional photographers might refine this definition to include photographs that meet or exceed client expectations or that serve the designated purpose. Professional or not, the intent is usually to please the viewer.

Then again, you might belong to the coterie of photographers (and photography critics) that evaluate a photograph based not on whether someone likes it or not, but rather by how well it qualifies as "art." The word art in and of itself puts us on a slippery slope, so let's just say they're looking for photographs that challenge assumptions, that force or invite us to see things in new ways, and that leave us amazed and fascinated by what others can imagine and create.

So I will conclude with where I began: How do you know when you've take a good picture?

While you're pondering the answer, here's a hint: It's a trick question--yet it's still worth answering, if only because it might help you clarify how you judge the quality of a photograph, whether it's yours or someone else's.