Photographs that choose me

[John Kasaian]

I've come to the conclusion that my best photographs are the ones that "choose" me to take them, rather than the ones I "choose" to take.

Maybe its a serendipitous (hey, is that a word?) thing, the way the clouds rest on an unammed peak I spy while driving to a popular location where I(and several hundred others) have sought to "create" art.

Maybe its just a part of a rundown nieghborhood where I grew up thats calling me back to record it's passing from history.

These photographs are nearly always more alive and exciting than the contrived pictures of my imagination where I've worked out every detail: "chosen" the time of day and angle of the sun, "selected" the field of view and contrast of my lens, "determined" in advance what atmospheric conditions I want for "my" vision, etc... which now strikes me as being the harbinger of what will be sterile, lifeless and oh soooo boring.

When a photograph, a really good photograph, presents itself I find that the ol' dorff seems to unfold itself. Whatever lens is on hand works good enough and if I've got 400 Tmax loaded rather than FP4+, when it comes down to the final results it really dosen't matter. Being there and responding to the moment is what matters---and it always shows up in the print.

There is an ancient snag that I've wanted to shoot on a starry night. The gnarled branches would seem to be grabbing at the stars while puffly clouds float by like angels. I've studied this image in my imagination for well over a year. I know what phase of the moon I need and where to set up and which lens /film combination will be fast enough to reduce the effect of star trails. As neat as this idea sounds, a family of mushrooms growing on a rotten log that has an undeniable comical element, or a road cut into a mountainside which provides astonishing glimpse of what looks to be chambers in a subterreanean hell composed of the exposed roots of trees---I mean you get the tree trunks, carpet of pine needles, top soil, subsoil, and then the roots and caverns all for the eyes to see at once---and its all unexpected, unplanned, un-everything---wow!

Anyone else here ever feel that way?

[Mark Sawyer]

"I've come to the conclusion that my best photographs are the ones that "choose" me to take them, rather than the ones I "choose" to take. "

Kinda like a pretty woman in a bar. You may think she chose you, but you had to make eye contact, you had to go along with it, even put some effort into it...

Maybe its just learning to trust your instincts and intuition. Maybe it's learning that they can have more power than your intellect, which can be smart but dry.

But to answer your question, yes, "serendipitous" is a word.

[Kirk Gittings]

John,

Thank you for bringing this up. It is important. Maybe the most important topic I have seen here in awhile. I vaguely remember Caponigro saying something about this also many years ago also.

At the risk of sounding foolish, I feel sometimes that the spirit of a place grabs me and directs my efforts. These images are almost effortless and oftentimes have a mysterious quality to them that transcends the obvious visual facts as if I am in touch with another level of meaning. I find that I cannot make these images happen. All that I can do is be aware and prepared technically and mentally so that I don't blow the opportunity when it arises (and I have blown a few and they still haunt me). I feel them physically more than I understand them consciously. I feel them as a tingling in my spine as they almost seem to arrange themselves on the ground glass. If I receive one of these a year, I consider it a very successful year. In all honesty though I think it has happened less than 10 times in the last 25 years, but it is these handful of images that drive me. V.B. Price in the introduction of the new book "Shelter from the Storm" (about my architectural photography) sensed this same phenomena in some of my images and wrote about it. Indulge my ego for a moment here.

"I’ve always marveled at how Kirk’s photographs of human structures –
be they archaeological ruins, old New Mexico churches, remnants of a
lost industrial landscape, or the most contemporary architecture –
convey with such rational clarity his emotionally enthusiastic and
loving respect for the world. The exacting detail he brings to his
photographs of buildings, combined with his intuitive openness to the
“patina” of meaning hidden in their forms, allow viewers to partake of
this mysterious and intimate exchange between photographer and subject
for themselves. From his perspective, it seems, human structures are a
part of nature, and they, like the humans who create them, share in
the majesty of the world’s fathomless beauty.
The portfolios in his book reveal Kirk’s unifying devotion to seeing
through the illusions of inattentiveness to find the heart and soul in
the truth of experience – that everything has an irreplaceable
presence, a unique essence, however fleeting or without interest it
might seem."

I have to say that though I am honored and affirmed by such writing about my work,
I am also not used to it and a little embarrassed by it. HoweverI think it also speaks to John's topic here and I offer it in that spirit.

[Jon Wilson]

John, as for my photography, I definitely agree with you.

It has always been my experience, from my early years with 35mm through today in LF, that my best photos have always been the result of something "catching my eye"...intuitive creative juices flowing....as opposed to an assignment for given type of photo. It may be just as simple as taking a drive or walking in my backyard, when I visualize what I "see" as being an attractive photo. I have recently found it also to be true of photos of my grown children or others who I am interested in either having their portrait taken or perhaps I am excited about trying out that new lens and am able to find a willing subject.

I personally believe it is a culmination of my desire to present a quality photograph...but have found that it is the "image" which first "catches my eye" that gets my creative juices flowing, which is then followed by the "get down to business" mode of mechanically setting up the photo I have pictured through a previsualization, and finally the "follow through"....actually take that picture.

I also believe my photography is best when not forced. Not being a photographer by profession, I am not constrained to "force" a photograph due to a deadline or an assignment and I believe the result is my personal satisfaction of capturing a moment which can be shared with and hopefully admired by others.

Maybe we just click with those Zen Moments! Good Light!

[Capocheny]

John,

Interesting post... I understand exactly where you're coming from. There are some scenes that tend to "speak to you" and these are the ones that compel you to take the camera out and "take the shot!" I, like you, find these images to be the most exciting...

It's these kinds of occasions that tend to really "excite" because they incite a deep, inner response and that gets the adrenalin flowing. For me... it's also the times where I tend to make the most mistakes (and, therefore, I have to force myself back into control!) But, in general, the hands move as if on their own volition, respiration increases, and not only does the heart beat faster and faster, but it also grows in intensity... it's quite the thrill! :)

And... yes, "serendipitous" is a valid word. :) It's the adjective form of serendipity (a noun), which means "the lucky tendency to find interesting or valuable things by chance."

On this point... I agree with Mark. Of course, part of it is by chance but I think most of the process arises through your own instincts and intuition... this is the "sense" of listening to the scene and "hearing/sensing/feeling" what it "says" to you when you happen onto the particular scene!

[Gads... good thing I had a couple of glasses of wine this evening! :).... I only hope my reply makes good sense. :)]

Cheers

[Eric Leppanen]

I have very little formal training in art or painting, so I guess I have never placed much stock in previsualizing too much (I certainly have not been very good at it). Photography for me is reactive; I see something that intrigues me and I strive to capture it. But I have experienced very distinct workflows between pre-scouted photographs (where a given composition was identified either through prior visits or through tips from friends, locals, other photographers) and serendipitous ones (spontaneous, unexpected and often highly transitory encounters with the sublime).

For my pre-scouted compositions, I already have a rough sketch in my mind of how the finished photograph should look. However, most of the time this "previsiualization" amounts only to a starting point; what usually then transpires is a gradual process of the photograph revealing itself. Over several visits (rarely do I nail a photograph the first time around) I refine my understanding of how the lighting, proportion, and framing should work, and only after this is all empirically worked out do I usually achieve my final photograph. It's hard work but the results are highly gratifying. But my final result is always a considerable evolution over whatever previsualization I may have initially had.

Serendipitous encounters, on the other hand, for me usually involve an unusual, transitory pattern of light or atmospheric conditions, which is so visually compelling that a reasonable interpretation reveals itself quickly. The main challenge is unlimbering the 8x10 quickly enough to capture the shot before conditions change. My response is largely reactive, while hopefully keeping a steady enough head to keep track of my craft. Spontaneously identify the key relationships in the photograph, work out the main proportions, and take the shot. I never thought I would ever take a photograph of Tunnel View at Yosemite (too much a cliché), but late one afternoon this spring I came out of the tunnel and there was this clearing storm, and a shot for the taking. Exposed only one negative, in fact (no time for bracketing or alternative compositions). The result is a framed 24x36" print on my wall. Whoda thunk it?

[Mark Sawyer]

"Perhaps more than in any other creative work, the greatest photographers must be 'intuitives.' How fatal it is in photography to be uncertain, to have to stop and study over an arrangement or lighting..." Edward Weston, 1922, reprinted in Newhall's "Photography: Essays and Images"

It seems almost a dichotomy, working "intuitively" in an art or craft so ploddingly technical and time-consuming as view camera photography, especially in the field. But it does seem intuitive, as we've all gone through the little ritual of making the photograph so many times that it becomes instinctive, and maybe gives us the time and frame of mind to allow intuition to come into play.

It does seem to play a role in my work. I try to let it happen. Don't know whether it's counter-productive to analyze it or not...

[Steve J Murray]

To "allow photographs to choose me" I realize I have to be in a receptive state of mind, not unlike meditation or trance. Its both an intense focus on the visual so that other things don't distract, and at the same time intense openness and receptiveness to the visual landscape, whatever it is at that moment. It is a timeless mode of being. The technical processes of taking a photograph become automatic after years of practice, like the jazz musician who has "learned his chops" well enough so that the music will flow spontaneously.

[e]

I think at a certain point in our development we enevitably search for something tangible to speak to and for our eternal being. When this finally happens in photography- as well as the other arts -and as if by magic (the photographer's-ego better get out of the way fast....) then...suddenly all is at one and correct in the universe and creation. The camera can be so much more than just an image making machine....it may be used as a tool for spiritual growth linking to much higher meditational and creative states not unlike what many mystics have spoken of. Many have described photography as the closet they have ever come to an actual religion.

[chris jordan]

"Spirit always stands still long enough for the photographer it has chosen."

--Minor White

[Ken Lee]

IMHO our educational system and largely middle-eastern-inspired religions incline us towards a dualistic emphasis: me versus it, subject versus object. In other traditions, greater emphasis is given to connectedness and interdependancy, where it is nothing special for the subject to attract the object, or vice versa.



Both perspectives are valid, however, and sometimes one of them appears more wonderous to us than the other but they are just two sides of the same coin.



http://www.kenleegallery.com/images/personal/lake.jpg

[Bill_1856]

"Photos choose me." That is pure psycho-blab!

[Jim Galli]

Funny the idea of what finds who. It has very much to do with getting to that point where your mechanical function is so secondary that you can almost dis-connect your brain from it. About the 9000th time I set the Deardorff up....the picture found me. Happily I just noticed the same phenomenon a week ago with the F&S 7X17. That's a good thing. 6 sheets of a 36 GMC 1 1/2 ton truck in forgotten Mina, Nevada took themselves so fast I was stunned. 8X20 and 12X20 still to conquer.

[Jonathan Brewer]

How come lousy photographs always pick on the same folks?

[John Kasaian]

Thank you for all the responses.

Bill, I'm not sure if you're getting The Point. Actually I'm not sure of The Point myself, but I'll try again---sorry for the psycho-blab:

Sometimes I'll come across a landscape subject that I hadn't gone out of my way shoot...in fact it most likely is something I never before even knew existed. Perhaps it is a creek with the sun shining on it's ripples or a wooded draw within a pocket of morning mist. Maybe the sun is casting an interesting abstractly shaped shadow upon a brick facade in an alleyway. Something like that. The scene won't last very long, yet it is so interesting or beautiful (and I happen upon it with a big honkin' camera) that the scene---the subject---is looking like it wants It's picture taken---almost like a child holding up some special treasure. It not only wants It's picture taken, but It wants Me to take it by virtue that there isn't anyone else there to see or appreciate how the light/mist/shadows/whatever have endowed the scene with whatever magic is happening.

Now I'm certainly not an expert, but I've got enough miles on my gear to know how to use it and I can set it up pretty fast and expose a sheet of film or two. Now heres the interesting part: Such photos as I've described are far more satisfying for me (or probably anyone else) to look at than a subject that I've set out to illustrate and have determined before hand what IT should look like in order to suit MY expectations. Even though I'm a bit of a geek in that I love to solve problems regarding lighting and logistic etc... I have to admit it is the un-sought after photos that give me more pleasure to look at. While my quest for the defining "snag and stars" photo will be a trophy if I ever get to shoot it "my way" all it really does is prove that I can solve (I hope) some technical considerations in order to make something natural look ever so more "natural" according to my tastes.

Hey, wait a minute!

That strikes me as kind of like the technical considerations envolved with marrying Paris Hilton (which of course I haven't) as opposed to going shopping for a frigidaire and end up marrying a great girl who I found selling major appliances at Montgomery Wards (which is what I did do!)

The photographic skills I learn (and still am) by 'dues paying' ---thanks in no small part to cheap film and feuled by the fires of the likes of Sella, Adams, Brassai, and some of you as well---gave me the confidence I needed to start playing with big cameras in the first place. I'm not trying to downplay the importance of such experience whether formal or self -inflicted but if the ultimate goal is to take interesting and meaningful photographs, especially of nature ---then I think it helps not to be so caught up in trying to define, construct, stereotype, or "pose" what is natural than to quietly listen and respond when nature (or Jim Galli's old 1-1/2 ton truck in Mina) calls out: "Here I am, take my picture!"

Cheers!

[Ken Lee]

Many atheletes and performers have described a state of mind that they enter, which they call "the Zone", where ordinary discursive thinking is suspended, and things just seem to take care of themselves. This is the desired state in martial arts. Actually, it's the required state to not get your ass kicked.



For an example, see the movie "The Legend of Bagger Vance" (which deals with Golf), or read the classic "Zen in the Art of Archery" by Eugen Herrigel. Or just listen to really good jazz improvization. The recent film "The Last Samurai" portrays Tom Cruise as a US Civil War soldier, learning this lesson from his Art of Sword mentors: "Too many minds !", they tell him.



Some times, finding nothing inspiring to shoot, we find something to shoot. The result is OK, but nothing great. (Most of my work is like that. I like to think of it as practice, or training, for the real moments).



After many attempts to contrive a photo, some times we encounter a situation where all we can do is jump out of the car, set up, and go. I am reminded of Ansel Adam's "Moonrise over Hernandez". According to the story, he had just enough time to bag one shot. With all of his training behind him, he was ready for the situation to take care of itself.

[paulr]

From Szarkowki, "Looking at Photographs":

There are times when the process of photography seems invested with magic. At these time it is as though the camera points the photographer and leads him to the place where the camera will work its revelation. Paul Caponigro has expressed in words the nature of such occasions:

"Of all my photographs, the ones that have the most meaning for me are those I was moved to take from a certain vantage point, at a certain moment and no other, and for which i did not draw on my abilities to fabricate a picture, composition-wise or other-wise. You might say that I was taken in."

To be "taken in" is a richly ambiguous phrase, invoking both the good Samaritan and the used car dealer, but both of its meanings touch the idea of trust. It is in the spirit of trust that a photographer pursue the ephemera of appearances, believing that the appearance of things is not only often interesting but sometimes true, in a sense inaccesible to syllogisms.

What it is that makes a photograph truly work is in the end a mystery, as success doubtless is in any art. Finely hewn critical standards may help us explain the admirable, but between the admirable and the wonderful is a gulf that we can see accross, but not chart. Photography, being only precariously under the control of the photographer's hand and mind, is a tool well-fitted for the exploration of those areas of our experience where we recognize but do not understand meaning ....

[Mark Sawyer]

"Photography, being only precariously under the control of the photographer's hand and mind, is a tool well-fitted for the exploration of those areas of our experience where we recognize but do not understand meaning ..."

That seems so often the key to a great image. If we could quickly grasp its meaning, there might be a moment of appreciation. But in recognizing something seems to be something more there, just beyond our grasp, we can keep coming back to it, searching for meaning. The thought process of the search becomes the reward. Epiphanies may rarely occur, if we're lucky, but full revelation is, I suspect, non-existant. Intriguing that we may never fully understand our own work...

I think this is a phenomenon that distinguishes the art from the craft, though the craft still carries the art.

Sorry for the psycho-babble, Bill...

[paulr]

"If we could quickly grasp its meaning, there might be a moment of appreciation ..."

and we would basically be using the medium to affirm what we already know. how boring!

the pictures that really matter are the ones you didn't think you knew how to make; the ones that didn't make sense to you until much later. this is the work you can learn and grow from. the rest amounts to technical and esthetic exercises.

[Paul Cocklin]

Which gets you more excited, the money you make as salary from your job, or finding a hundred dollar bill lying on the ground?

I think it's a question of expectations. When you go out intentionally looking to shoot and get a 'good' shot; well, that's not really exciting, it's expected (or at leasted desired and planned for). When you're driving down the road thinking about how much your shoes hurt, and you see and capture a 'good' shot, that good shot is great in your eyes because it was unlooked for. I think it can be as simple as being in the right place at the right time, and being the right sort of person who cares about all that.

Alright, I'm heading back under my hole, now.

Paul

[John Kasaian]

Ahhh, Paul---theres more to it than that. If you find a hundred dollar bill thats exciting, but you know darn well that isn't the way you're supposed to earn your money---its a windfall. OTOH the feeling I get when I trip the shutter on an unplanned on landscape is more like "Wow! This is the way its supposed to be!"

A photograph thats been planned and fretted over for hours(or days or months even) is more likely than not kind of "flat" to my eyes. It speaks with all the creativity of one of those business cards real estate agents have made with photographs that make them look more like movie stars or rockers than who they really are. OTOH, a scene that whispers "Hey Pal, take a picture of ME" is always sincere and the print always exhibits something genuine and satisfying.

Cheers!

[paulr]

"When you go out intentionally looking to shoot and get a 'good' shot; well, that's not really exciting ... "

I think it goes beyond getting an unexpected good shot. It's more about the kind of good shot. Anyone can learn to make certain kinds of pictures that are "good" by a given set of standards--technical, formal, or whatever. But after doing this for a while, things are going to get stale. There's only so much to be gained from making the pictures you know how to make, however competent they may be.

One of the warning signs if all of your pictures are good. It means you're coasting, playing it safe. The best artists tend to fail, and to fail often. How can you discover anything new if you're unwilling to get lost? When I lived in providence 10 years ago, I reached a point when I felt like all my pictures were good ones. At first it felt as if I'd "arrived" somehow, but then I realized a couple of things that were disturbing. One, among all these good pictures there were no great ones, And two, I was getting bored. I quickly realized it was a crisis, and I resolved it by some means that may have been unecessarily drastic ... I moved to new york, and shortly after gave up photography and became a bass player for a while.

It all eventually got me out of my rut. Now i'm back to photography, with an ever greater commitment to staying away from what's obvious and safe. I'm failing a lot, and expect to continue to do so. The next few projects i have planned are geared toward keeping me in uncharted (for me) areas. One is night pictures, which are forcing me to give up a certain amount of control. the next couple are color, which i have no experience with. They may all end up sucking, but i'm guaranteed to learn at least something from all of them.

[Mark Sawyer]

"One of the warning signs if all of your pictures are good. It means you're coasting, playing it safe. The best artists tend to fail, and to fail often. How can you discover anything new if you're unwilling to get lost?"

This has been one of the main tenets of creative photography for the last thirty years; to grow you must change and "take risks." I don't really go along with it.

Historically, the photographers who have made great contributions to the artform (at least in my mind) often went through radical changes early on, but when they found their venue, their "way of seeing," they tended to stay true to it for the rest of their careers. Adams, Weston, Cunningham, Caponigro, Cartier-Bresson, W. Gene Smith, Arbus, Mapplethorpe... all evolved and grew, but in subtle steps within their very recognizable style. Even their "great masterpieces/grand revelations" fit well within the established scope of their work.

Today, I see established artists like Uelsmann, Caponigro, Sexton, etc. continuing in the visual mode they've been in for decades. Even a radical like Witkin returns to his chosen style again and again, until his work, while unique and individual to him, becomes stylisticly predictable. And maybe that's not a bad thing; it allows one to build up a body of work which bears more weight and allows more analysis and exploration than portfolios of a dozen of this, a dozen of that...

I think we go through our big changes until we find or stumble upon our own way of seeing, and then stay with it, because, well, that's how we see things. It becomes how we work, part of who we are...

Words like "risk" and "safety" never seemed that meaningful in art, at least in my mind. Jumping quickly from one thing to another, you risk a little time, some film, some effort, and if you don't like it, you can shove it in a drawer or dumpster. A bigger risk would be to spend years or decades in one way of seeing. We might feel an adventurous departure in shooting a few sheets of film in a radically different style once in a while, and there's surely nothing wrong, and perhaps something valuable, in doing so. But as far as risk goes, we're really only playing with penny-ante stakes.

[paulr]

as an observer, you see the visual product, but not the whole process that went into it.

it's a mistake to equate ideas like taking risks with jumping quickly from one thing to another. it can be subtle. it just means being comfortable with pushing yourself outside the idea of certainty. any examination of weston's daybooks shows that he was always pushing himself, always discovering. his evolution may have been esthetically subtle, but the process for him seemed to be one of risks and uncertainties and revelations.

for a closer look at weston, look at some of the evolution that went on within his career. he went from pictorialist to formal modernist to late modernist, and then to a precursor of late 20th century landscapists. The tenor of his work went from cool and contemplative to celebratory and mystical to elegiac. He experimented throughout his career; a process that led to series like the cat pictures and the gas mask pictures that most people consider flat out failures.

Weston is actually a perfect example of what I'm talking about. I'm willing to bet you would find a similar trajectory in most of the other artists you mentioned, if you looked closer.

"But as far as risk goes, we're really only playing with penny-ante stakes."

if your connection to your art is deeper than just a hobby, the stakes never feel trivial. art is deeply personal when it's practiced rigorously. if you can say you have no fears about baring yourself through your art, then either you have evolved farther than most artists evolve in a lifetime, or you are kidding yourself.

[paulr]

i should ammend what i said ... you'll probably find a similar trajectory in the other artists you mentioned, but only over the portions of their careers during which they produced compelling work.

Adams got to a point where he let his dealers be his guide, so by the 60s he was mostly doing the same old thing. the thing that sold prints. it's this huge body of very homogenous "ain't nature grand" work that is largely responsible for him being taken much less seriously as an artist than others like Weston and Strand.

Sexton's career i don't know as well, but it strikes me that after earning a reputation as one of the first serious practitioners of color, he did nothing beyond the same old calendar photography. Which is why color pioneers like Eggleston and Harry Calahan and Stephen Shore quckly surpassed him in significance.

Caponigro I sense, like a lot of artists, ran out of steam and stopped evolving. The more recent work of his that I've seen seems to lack a lot of the life of his work from 40 years ago or so ... the work where he was actively discovering the world.

Arbus, well, she checked out after that one body of work, so we'll never know.

[Mark Sawyer]

One of the wonderful things about art is that different people can look at the same bodies of work and quite justifiably see different things...

"Caponigro I sense, like a lot of artists, ran out of steam and stopped evolving. The more recent work of his that I've seen seems to lack a lot of the life of his work from 40 years ago or so ... the work where he was actively discovering the world. "

I find Caponigro's recent work among his most exciting, in a very quiet way. Here is an artist who has achieved recognition, and in his twilight years is still working because that is what he does. He has nothing to prove, but the little still-lifes made in his small New England home studio and yard seem to quietly simplify some of the essence of the grand large works he travelled the world for in his younger days. Yes, he's running out of steam, lost some vitality, but gained something contemplative somewhere else.

Weston did much the same in his later years at Carmel. His last work there seemed a dark and quiet summary, almost a counterpoint to the reprinting of his old negatives with his sons, but a counterpoint closely related. In my eyes, Weston's vision grew and progressed but held a consistency from his return from Mexico onward. The gas mask photograph (Civil Defense) was very true to the consistancy of his vision; it's almost a formulaic Weston nude, but for a prop and title which set it apart. Even when he had something very social/political to say, he did it in a familiar way of working. Wish we could meet in a big retrospective of his work and argue it. I'm sure he'd disagree with both of us...

Adams went commercial more in the 70's, I thought, and was remarkably consistant in his visual growth through the 40's, 50's, and 60's. With his omnipresence today, it's easy to forget it was new at the time, a grand vision he worked hard to refine, and others later beat into unconsciousness, if not to death.

Sexton is much more b/w-oriented than color. He's actually a good social-experiment in photography, pursuing an avenue that most "artistic" photographers acknowledge only as a dead craft; "Oh, God, not another zone-system Yosemite landscape from a former AA assistant..." He has quite a task, perhaps impossible, finding his own voice and value in such a "pre-explored" field. He's either trying to do so in spite of it all, or just riding the commercial bandwagon. Don't know which, but there are quite a few consider him one of today's foremost photographers.

"Arbus, well, she checked out after that one body of work, so we'll never know."

And this brings it to the point. It was quite a sizeable body of work, and obviously very powerful. Had she done a dozen or two dozen and moved on to explore something new, much of that archive would not have existed, and its power as a whole would not have been there. But she maintained a remarkably consistant vision which was hers alone.

If Ansel Adams were alive and healthy and working today, and if he never fell into the traps of fame and being an icon, should he have spent the past thirty years refining it further, tyring to see what it could yet grow into? Or should he have said, well, that's enough of that, I'm doing something completely different..."

Well, it should be his decision. And our decisions about our work are ours. It's good we argue about it, so we make the decision thoughtfully. I'll still get it wrong...

[paulr]

We're arguing about something intrisic to other photographers' experience, so there's a limit to what we can know for sure. One thing we probably agree on: Weston's photographs look like Weston's, and like nothing that came before him. Same for Arbus. Same for everyone great. What these artists had to do in the beginning was show work to the world that did not look like anything previously seen as "good." Consider on top of this that they were deeply, personally connected to the work. It mattered to them. It represented how they saw the world and their place in it, and what they cared about most deeply. Their going public, with something so personal and at the same time so different, constitutes a great risk.

I see huge contrasts between these artists and some of the ones I have heard argue against risk being innate to the creative process. The latter group often produces work with the following characteristics: 1) technically impressive. 2) esthetically pleasing. 3) indistinguishable in many ways from work that preceded it by fifty to seventy years. and 4) a much better indicator of what other artists the artist admires than of how the artist sees his own place in the world, what he cares about most, what he loves, struggles with, fears, etc.

The last point is the only one that really matters. Dealing with these issues, with depth and honesty, in the forum of a publicly exhibited art, takes courage. It's also where the rewards are, and where the deepest well of greatness can be found. The risk isn't in the pursuit of novelty (although many seem to think it is). It's in exploring the unknowns of your personal experience, and being willing share your discoveries with the world.

You seem to see a summary, or a recapitulation, in Weston's latest work in Carmel. I see him looking forward, exploring the possible shapes of his own death--the ultimate exploration of the ultimate unknown. I see great courage in these images, as they themselves are powerful and fearless, and as we have reason to think they were made by a man who was increasingly weak and afraid.

[Mark Sawyer]

"The last point is the only one that really matters. Dealing with these issues, with depth and honesty, in the forum of a publicly exhibited art, takes courage. It's also where the rewards are, and where the deepest well of greatness can be found. The risk isn't in the pursuit of novelty (although many seem to think it is). It's in exploring the unknowns of your personal experience, and being willing share your discoveries with the world."

For some with more delicate egos or a need to be accepted and approved of, I can see where it is a matter of courage. But for a lot of personalities, I don't think it matters a great deal. Weston chortled over good reviews he thought didn't get his work, and others that slammed him. He had courage, but I think he was secure in his work enough that it wasn't often challenged. I think he gave himself (and us) other challenges.

"You seem to see a summary, or a recapitulation, in Weston's latest work in Carmel. I see him looking forward, exploring the possible shapes of his own death--the ultimate exploration of the ultimate unknown. I see great courage in these images, as they themselves are powerful and fearless, and as we have reason to think they were made by a man who was increasingly weak and afraid."

I see a summary, as he brought a lifetime's visual skills and insights to this work, but not a recapitulation. I'm looking through "The Last Years at Carmel" as I write this, and it strikes me that this is among his strongest, certainly most visually complex work. He seems moore at ease with his work than ever before, even having some fun of sorts, ("Good Neighbor Policy," or "Exposition of Dynamic Symmetry.") And yes, it still has that "Weston" look.

I'm still working on a unique "Sawyer" look. Maybe more dust in the film-holders...