June 10th, 2012. My one-day workshop at the Sedona Photo Fest will focus on creative skills, both in the field and in the digital studio. While you’re there, you can also partake in many other photo-related activities and presentations in one of the most beautiful settings in the Southwest. In addition to the workshop, my presentation “Photography and the Creative Life” is free on Friday, June 8th. Register here.

Oct 11-Oct 14, 2012. This is the second year that I’ll be joining forces with my good friend Jack Graham in the spectacular settings of California’s Eastern Sierra Nevada. Our itinerary will take us to some of the most rewarding and photogenic sites in the region. Jack and I will offer both technical assistance and discussions around creative topics, as well as image reviews and critique sessions. This will be Jack’s 17th year leading this workshop! Register here.

Nov 29-Dec 4, 2012. Visionary Death Valley is a unique workshop format delivered among the breathtaking desert scenery of Death Valley National Park. In collaboration with long time friend Michael Gordon we deliver an experience focused on creativity and personal expression through landscape photography. Among the topics covered are composition, effective use of visual elements, and creative processing techniques. The workshop includes two processing sessions. Participants are encouraged to bring their own laptops to follow along. Register here.

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“Human resources are like natural resources; they’re often buried deep. You have to go looking for them, they’re not just lying around on the surface. You have to create the circumstances where they show themselves.” –Sir Ken Robinson

In my earlier post I highlighted those qualities I find admirable in good teachers and that I strive to live up to when I myself am in front of an audience. I am privileged in that I get to teach those things that are truly meaningful and important to me, not about photography, but through photography.

I wish to instill an appreciation not so much for the medium, but for creativity and the ways in which it can enrich lives far beyond the mere making of images. When it comes to practicing photography as a creative pursuit and as a means of finding fulfillment, despite what you may have heard from Marshall McLuhan, the medium is only part of the message, and not even the most important part.

When workshop participants ask about improving their compositions and the response is limited to such things as leading lines or the rule of thirds, at best they’ll receive an expensive alternative to a Google search. And, when someone seeks insight into ways of taking their photography to the fabled “next level,” only to be provided with technical tips, they likely will end up producing somewhat better versions of the same concepts they already know how to express.

Anyone can parrot the usual “follow your bliss,” “the answer is within you,” “be yourself,” “listen to your inner voice,” and similar platitudes. Rest assured I am as jaded of such simplistic advice as anyone. I have yet to meet a student who had not heard those before in some form or another. They are all true. And yet, recite them to anyone and you will see the cynicism and puzzlement building up. The question each and every one of them really wants answered but may be embarrassed to ask is: How?

The fact that practically everyone knows about such high ideals yet still struggles with finding their way to actually applying them points to the true crux of the issue: it is not easy and it is not simple and it is not obvious. And precisely because it is not easy, teachers are needed who are more than just technically proficient, but who are invested in the answers to the same degree as their students, yet may be farther along their own journeys and able to offer concrete advice.

There are ways to help someone better tap into their creativity and imagination; there are means of expression through visual composition that go far beyond the rule of thirds, and that can be taught; and there are concrete and applicable methods to help someone better articulate their thoughts and feelings through images (or prose, or wood carvings, or dance, or any other creative pursuit).

It always helps to start by explicitly acknowledging that creativity involves the act of creation – bringing something new into existence; that self expression is about expressing things that are inherently subjective; and that anything requiring the degree of work and dedication needed to find lifelong fulfillment in such endeavors must be rooted in passion and yield meaningful experiences to make the efforts worthwhile. Such admissions clear the path to seeing the value of originality, honesty, humility and the reward for hard work, which may not be pleasant at any given time, yet which pay ample dividends when the work is done.

For those seeking to advance beyond tools and techniques, the answers are not as simple as “use a better tripod.” When obvious compositions are exhausted, advancement is not about seeking yet more obvious compositions in different places. And, when self expression is the goal, the approach to the next image can’t be with the mindset “I’ll see your Delicate Arch and raise you star trails.”

The next level is not about images or how to make them; it is about being more effective in conceiving and in telling stories through your art.

Train the Brain

Oftentimes, the best way to overcome a challenge is to adopt a new way of thinking about it. In the case of creative pursuits, it is worthwhile to consider not only the short-lived spike of satisfaction when accomplishing a successful image, but also the persistent and ongoing joy of merely engaging in the creative process. This is important not only in the sense that it creates a sustained positive thread through all that you do, independent of anecdotal achievements, but it also trains the mind to be constantly attentive and aware and to contemplate enjoyable things.

Happiness, as it turns out, is also the linchpin to a wide array of other desirable traits, from physical health to cognitive abilities. The shift in thinking is, therefore, to stop compartmentalizing and to make art not just a hobby but a lifestyle. Photography – or art in general – should not be something you practice only with your camera, only on weekends or holidays, or as a distraction from other things. Instead, make it part of who you are. Think creatively, whether you intend to make an image or not. Catch yourself at random times throughout the day and think about interesting visual elements in your surrounding, challenge yourself to compose them in the most favorable way, whether they make a “good” image or not, and regardless of whether you’ll ever actually point a camera at them. The goal is to increase awareness to the raw materials in your environment, no matter where you are.

Create lists – visual inventories – in your mind: “graceful curve in tree,” “distracting power lines,” “interesting pattern in the bark,” “wintry feeling,” etc. Think of entering a scene in search of a story as if you are entering a kitchen in search of food. There may be an obvious loaf of bread on the counter, or a bowl of fruit on the table, but you may never know what you’re missing if you don’t take the time to open the cabinets and drawers, peek at the spice rack, and see what’s in the refrigerator. Rather than going for the obvious, develop the habit of noticing and acknowledging the raw materials you have to work with before deciding what to do with them.

In time, intention becomes intuition. Rather than consciously thinking about what’s around you and what you may be able to do with it, with repeated practice your brain will know to instinctively scan the scene for potential ingredients. It’s a good habit to have, but habits are formed over time and require incessant repetition to become instinctive.

When you train yourself to be aware of the raw ingredients, move on to developing and fine-tuning your recipes. Start with a cookbook to gain a sense for processes and methods, then move on to create your own.

Embrace the Concept, Visualize Constantly

In my books and classes, I describe the concept as the starting point to a creative expression. In a previous post I describe it as nebulous and amorphous. It’s the thing that catches your attention and makes you feel like there’s an image to be made or a story to be told, before you even know what it is or how to realize it. The concept is always a great start, but the challenge is in successfully transforming it into a tangible expression that can be shared with your audience.

When experiencing a concept, the first thing to do is this: Stop and think about it. Make it the primary focus of your attention. Distraction, while a fine state of mind for conceiving ideas and revelations, is also the bane of productivity. Once a concept – an idea, a thought or a feeling – materializes and whispers in your ear, “there’s something here,” it’s time to shift gears and focus on the work. Give it the attention it deserves.

As artists, we tell stories in our work and when we realize there’s a story to be told, it becomes incumbent upon us to learn enough about it so we can be effective in telling it to others. Begin by articulating the story – reflect on how you feel and try to derive what makes you feel this way. Not everything is inherent in visual elements alone, so be conscious of the experience in all its dimensions, from the temperature and scents in the air to your own mood. These are the things you will need to translate for your viewers in images, by using the visual language.

The process of transforming an abstract concept into a tangible representation is called visualization – a mental process aimed at imagining the different ways in which the concept can be realized and picking the most effective one. It is in the process of visualization that we consider things such as composition, technicalities of equipment, exposure, and possible processing methods. It is not a momentary decision point but an ongoing process of mental experimentation and refinement that carries from the moment of inspiration and until the final product – be it a print or a digital image, a single frame or a portfolio, or anything else – takes shape.

Learn the Language

Not everything about art is intuitive and insightful. Some amount of book learning can save you a lot of trial and error and provide you with wisdom accumulated since the dawn of art. We are fortunate to live in a time when science can offer us glimpses into the mysteries of the brain, from the way creativity works to the way visual signals are interpreted by the brain and transformed into meaningful interpretations reaching far beyond aesthetics. Take the time to research, study and practice the visual language.

Artists of the past relied on the experience of their predecessors. Many studied and apprenticed with accomplished peers and mentors, sometimes for years or decades. Revelations about visual perception discovered by artists of Ancient Greece, for example, were handed down to the artists of the Renaissance and beyond, through lore and theory and study and word of mouth. Though things like the Golden Ratio and other compositional tools were known, they were not always rooted in understanding and sometimes were attributed to divine origins. Today, we have more answers than ever, but the tradition of apprenticeship is largely lost. Still, the knowledge is there, in books and in teachers and on the Internet. Find it. Learn It. Use it.

Learning a visual language is no different from learning any other and one must enter the process with the blank slate of an infant. No matter how old you are or how many years of self-taught experience you have, have the humility to start at the beginning. Learn the emotional effect of framing, the secrets inherent in the direction of lines, the power of placement, the significance of tone and hue. Learn about such concepts as visual weight, directionality, and visual forces. The more you practice, the more fluent you will become and the more effective your stories will be.

Sadly, the absence of visual fluency is rampant. Many venture no further than the expressive skills of a toddler: relying on a limited vocabulary of simple nouns (tree, arch, sunset) and adjectives (pretty, colorful, extreme) and commanding attention by turning up the volume rather than telling a compelling story. So often missing are nuance, subtlety, metaphor, insight and mystery.

Create Tension and Meaning

Intrigue is the spice of any good story, whether written or visual. In a visual work, you will often hear about the value of tension. For all its importance, though, it is not an easy quality to define. It is what prompts the brain to spend time resolving an image and deciding how to feel about it, rather than dismissing it outright.

When an image is too obvious or static (i.e., its visual elements all appear at rest) the brain will instantly make up its (actually, your) mind about it and move on to other things. This can happen with overly-simple images or ones that are just plain uninteresting. Like a good spice, though, using tension in just the right amount is critical. Too much of it, and the viewer may decide it’s not worth their while to spend the time figuring it out.

Obtaining optimal tension requires an understanding of the visual forces at work within your frame. An object placed in one spot may appear at rest, while the same object in another spot will appear to be in motion. When the brain is not certain where something is going or why it is where it is, tension is created, additional processing is required to unfold the story, and interest ensues.

And, in order for the story to be of interest, it must evoke a response. It should have meaning, whether obvious or implied, real or manufactured, decisive or left open to viewer interpretation. By virtue of art being subjective, the more interesting stories we tell are not the ones already inherent in our subjects, but the ones of our own making and imagination.

Strive to use the visual language to tell effective stories. Don’t stop at simplistic utterances. Weave plots, suggest interpretations, hide clues to guide and challenge the minds of viewers. And remember, being a good storyteller will not get you far without also having an interesting story to tell.

The Next Level

The much sought-after “next level” for a complete beginner may be better command of their tools, but those already proficient in the technical aspects of their craft will remain stuck unless they manage to re-prioritize their goals. When a budding author achieves sufficient command of language and masters the use of a writing instrument, the next level is not in learning more menu functions in their word processor, or memorizing the word of the day; it is in becoming an effective story teller. Composition is the language of the visual arts, and the camera is the word processor of the photographer. Telling your stories more effectively in images is the next level, and the one beyond it, and all the ones beyond that.

Creative endeavors, if they are to truly enhance your life experience, must be an integral part of those life experiences. There are always new stories to be told and new ways to tell them. The lifelong pursuit of conceiving new stories and becoming a better storyteller will amount to greater personal reward – for you and for your audience – than any trophy image you may ever make.

Live a Creative Life

The practice of art is a symbiotic relationship between the artist and their audience. Both the production and the consumption of creative work are among the more satisfying of life experiences; and the value for both the artist and the audience increases through the ongoing exchange of insight, gratitude, beauty and, yes, livelihood. It is why artists are invested in the growth and success of other artists, and in raising appreciation for their art.

And yet, the greatest reward for a creative life is not in what you create, but in how you live. It is in how you train yourself to view and respond to the world and internalize the many experiences and meanings and mysteries that come your way. It is about finding peace and satisfaction in a world rife with cynicism, violence, competition and greed.

Life is bigger than any of us. So, allow yourself to be humble. You will never see it all or do it all or fix it all, and if you don’t take the time to live, you will have wasted the greatest gift you will ever be given.

It doesn’t matter how rich you are or how talented you are or what you do for a living. We all come into this world the same way, and we all leave it the same way. The only thing that matters is right now, and the only thing to fear is that last moment of clarity when you look back upon your life and count your blessings and regrets and wonder if you had truly lived.

For good or bad, life is a journey. You never know where the next turn will take you. From all your experiences you will most vividly retain the best and the worst of times, and this is where you have to make the choice – you can embrace the worst of it and become bitter and cynical and morose; or you can choose to be grateful for the gift of life and the immense beauty you are fortunate to have available to you, and choose happiness.

In the end, finding happiness as a photographer or an artist or a human being is not about the camera you use or even the images you create. It’s about living a life that is meaningful and rewarding. It’s about experiencing things that elevate your soul and telling your stories in your work.

So, never take for granted what others say or think about how you should live and work and practice your art. Trust your instincts, and listen to that inner voice and don’t let fear be the reason for giving up on life’s greatest rewards. Be humble and grateful for the things available to you, for the things you know and feel, and for the secrets and mysteries still waiting for you in the most unexpected places.

Find your creative life. Find your needle. Find your happiness.

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“… even if a person is lucky enough to experience a useful epiphany, that new idea is rarely the end of the creative process. The sobering reality is that the grandest revelations often still need work. The new idea … has to be refined, the rough draft of the right hemisphere transformed into a finished piece of work. Such labor is rarely fun, but it’s essential. A good poem is never easy. It must be pulled out of us, like a splinter.” –Jonah Lehrer

The process of learning has fascinated me for a couple of decades now, both from the student’s perspective and from the teacher’s. I didn’t quite grasp the value of a good teacher until my first semester as a university student when I entered, with great trepidation, my first calculus class. Up to that point, math had been a necessary and unpleasant evil presence in my studies, requiring monumental effort just to get by with a passing grade. I always saw it as a dry, formulaic pursuit, devoid of creativity and insight. It did not fit with the way my brain worked, which tended to thrive on finding correlations and commonalities among seemingly unrelated things. Math seemed to stand alone, having little to do with the beauty of the natural world, the mystery of a good book or the sense of awe and wonder that characterized my time outdoors. And then came a good teacher.

This teacher didn’t necessarily know the material better than any other, but he did know me. More broadly, he understood what it took to make math interesting and meaningful for someone like me. He did not teach material out of a book in a linear fashion but kept introducing small anecdotes and links to other disciplines. A formula was no longer just something requiring analytical thinking to solve; it was something derived from a desire to understand greater truths about the workings of the world. Each subject tied into life sciences, social trends, mysterious workings of nature, and a myriad other stories that made it not only interesting but meaningful and important. I scored a perfect 100 in that class – the only one that semester. My second perfect score came the next semester … in Linear Algebra. Two perfect scores. In math.

That was more than twenty years ago. I have since taught many classes of my own and have been a student in many more. With experience, patterns began to emerge about what makes for a good learning experience. In particular, I noticed two areas that differentiate good teachers from lesser ones. The first is a desire to teach – deriving pleasure from seeing students engaged and interested. The second is the ability to recognize that different people learn and are inspired in different ways.

In my workshops I seek to teach more than just the technicalities of operating a camera – things students are not likely to learn from books or the abundant “get rich quick” type of advice so prevalent in our industry (be especially suspicious of anything claiming to teach you “the secret to” or “10 tips for”). In fact, conveying such nebulous concepts as creativity, inspiration and personal expression is a double-edged sword. Not only is it impossible to offer formulas for such things, but ultimately they are different for every one of us. The solution is not, and cannot be, an X-step recipe.

Two of the more common questions I hear from workshop participants are: “How do I find a good composition?” and “How do I take my photography to the next level?” Though seemingly abstract and unrelated, they are actually two dimensions of the same theme and, in reality, are not directly related to photography at all. Finding good compositions is about effectively communicating something you like to your audience; reaching the “next level” is about increasing your understanding of how to better communicate the things you like in images. Both point right back at the person behind the camera wanting to become a more effective, interesting and inspired communicator. And, by extension, a more effective, interesting and inspired person.

In essence, we are looking for the same proverbial needle in the haystack: the revelation that will make you a better photographer today than you were yesterday. And, like all great truths, there are many paths that can lead you there. The more analytically-minded may spend their time researching the best metal detector to help pinpoint the location of the needle; others may find a comfortable shaded spot and begin pulling strands of hay out of the pile. Any such approach will give you at least a chance of finding your needle. The one strategy guaranteed to fail, though, is to search anywhere other than the haystack. And the haystack is not something outside yourself – it’s your own imagination.

There are two ways to obtain a trophy. One is to perform a notable act worthy of reward; and the other is to go to the trophy store. The increased popularity of photography, and especially photography of natural subjects, has indeed given rise to a thriving industry of “trophy stores;” that is, products and services specializing in making sure you go home with a great image, guaranteed to impress, requiring some investment of time, money and effort, but not necessarily imagination or emotion or originality.

Though much is said about objective qualities of images (being “good,” “bad,” “stunning,” or any other adjective) experienced by its viewers, precious little is written about the things that make an image rewarding to the photographer, beyond merely impressing others – the things that elevate the very act of making images into something that has the power to transform and enhance one’s outlook, satisfaction and life experience.

In Part II of this small train of thoughts, I share some of the approaches, suggestions and methods I use to find meaning in my own work, and that I teach on my classes.

Each of us, it seems, is endowed with a certain baseline of happiness. By default, some are happier than others. Still, we all possess the same capacity for happiness, whether we ever achieve it or not. For millennia, philosophers and scientists studying the nature of happiness and what makes some happier than others repeatedly come to the same conclusion: happiness is not a by-product of circumstances; it is a choice, and it requires practiced skill to achieve and sustain.

If my own experience is an indication, the greatest barrier to happiness may be the ability to reconcile all the forces in one’s life into a coherent, positive framework. And the most challenging of all are those forces that, through no choice of your own, make you different from those around you. Conformity is highly valued in our society, and tolerance, though celebrated, is in reality woefully scarce. Few things will hold one from being happy as being shunned, criticized, or even hated for being different. And yet, we can’t help who we are and can’t be happy living a life that does not reconcile with the unique amalgam that defines each of us as individuals.

We are raised not to be happy, but to fit into the proverbial house we grow up in. Be it faith, custom, sensibility, political leaning or even sexual orientation; if the things that make you who you are are in conflict with the “values” of your home, your community, your social circle, your country, or any other framework you are born into, you have a nearly impossible choice to make: pretend and conform, or embrace your differences in the face of prejudice. Nobody wants a life of fighting against prejudice and ire. Also, nobody wants a life of perpetual inner conflict. And yet, a choice will be made either by doing or by not doing. In such situations, happiness is the tie-breaker. Only one path has the potential to lead to happiness, and it is by far the harder of the two. Yet a chance at happiness is always preferred to guaranteed misery.

Certainly it’s easy to apply such arguments to faith, political leaning, and any number of other existential topics. When placed in the context of possible persecution, excommunication, or imprisonment, it seem almost trivial to speak of such things as finding happiness in one’s art, but it is an easy one to start with. For anyone practicing some permutation of “nature photography,” having grown up in the proverbial house of Ansel Adams or Galen Rowell, it may seem sacrilege to admit when one’s sensibilities draw them in directions other than idyllic glorified pristine natural beauty or the confines of “straight” photography. The easiest path is the one well-trodden by the masters and the masses; guaranteeing acceptance and praise. But, when such a path fails to yield personal satisfaction and happiness in one’s work, praise and acceptance often ring hollow; and a choice must be made.

Similarly, when one fails to find fulfillment in pursuing established models, business practices, styles, or any other aspect of their art, the only path to happiness is to break with the pack, even at the risk of personal or financial penalty from the often-opinionated and sometimes-intolerant majority.

Lest I trivialize far more important life choices and the strife endured by so many others who found the courage to make them, I will mention that this post was inspired not only by my own life choices, as a person and as an artist, but also by those of people who inspired me along my journey – people who found happiness and contentment in their lives at risks and costs that may be unimaginable to some.

We are brought up to believe we should be driven by accomplishment and success; hanging our happiness on things quantifiable and measurable, and pushing ourselves ever harder. Never slow down, never invest precious resources in things that don’t have a material return, always worry about tomorrow, look  up to those who accomplished riches and celebrity rather than wisdom and contentment. And yet, as individuals, most of us are unhappy most of the time. Many don’t even know they are unhappy, having never experienced the intoxicating euphoria of true happiness.

And then, if one is so fortunate, comes that defining moment – the first taste – the instant when you realize with stunning clarity and surprise: “Right here, right now, independent of anything else, I am truly and wholly happy with who I am and where I am and what I am doing.” And everything changes. The house of cards built upon the foundation of careers and cars and titles and critical acclaim and pro-level cameras begins to rattle and shake and a terrifying realization presents itself: I am different, and I have a choice to make.

To be clear, such moments are indeed moments, and may be separated by stretches of frustration, anxiety and hard work. Still, a life with them is so much more rewarding than a life without. Put in context, such things as social acceptance and financial reward never stand on their own; they each have what economists call an “opportunity cost” – the alternatives one chooses (explicitly or implicitly) to give up in exchange. And things such as happiness and freedom are costly alternatives indeed.

I experienced such moments when I realized I could not be happy in the country I grew up in and was taught to love; when my political views failed to live up to my morals; when I placed a high paying job in the context of lost freedom. And I chose to be happy. It was hard and scary and not anything like the shallow and inconsequential pleasantness I always thought happiness was. The moment of choice felt good and uplifting and painful and terrifying and astoundingly difficult and miserable; all at the same time. And, yet, it fills me with pride every single day. And when I am fortunate to experience a moment of true bliss, I forget about tomorrow and about other things and other places and other possibilities; “living in the moment” is no longer a trite platitude, it’s all that matters.

“I’m not interested in any outcome. I’m not interested in any achievement. I’m not trying to get somewhere. I’m not trying to succeed in my life. My life is not about success. My life is about self-realization and fulfillment. And if we seek fulfillment, then we have no stress. If we seek success, we will have stress.” –Satish Kumar

In this post I’d like not only to articulate my thoughts on this touchy topic, but also to solicit opinions from readers on the practice.

Motivation

When asked about the reasons for limiting editions, the responses invariably have to do with marketing — the notion that scarcity increases value, that gallery curators insist on it, and that doing so appeals to collectors. All true, but I have to wonder why so many artists who hold themselves ethical in every other respect never question the morality of what is essentially a marketing ploy having little to do with quality, creativity, beauty, or so many other reasons many of us do what we do.

My views on the practice of marketing are no big secret. I engage in it reluctantly and only to the extent I have to as a professional artist who needs to generate income from my work. I could never understand why so many proudly self-apply terms such as “marketing consultant,” “social media advisor,” “SEO expert,” etc., in addition to just being artists, photographers, or other professionals. After all, marketing is really the practice of exploiting some of the least flattering traits of the human psyche.

There’s no argument that limiting editions works to inflate the value of a print. The topic many may be embarrassed to acknowledge is why it works. If two prints are identical in every respect other than edition limits, what accounts for the difference in value?

The Medium and the Message

Marshall McLuhan famously said that “the medium is the message,” indicating a binding relationship between content and the media used to deliver it. Photographers are usually quite emphatic about the unique characteristics of their medium: speed, accuracy, realism, etc. If one indeed takes pride in their chosen medium, why ignore one of its most distinctive (and, in my opinion, advantageous) qualities: the ability to produce multiple prints of identical quality?

And, if the medium is the message, what do such mixed messages say about the medium and about the artist? When your message is “yes, I can make enough for everyone, but I choose not to so only a small elite can afford to possess them,” how can I then claim that my goal is to inspire, to share, to make accessible, to celebrate, and other noble causes often associated with photography of natural things?

Real vs. Manufactured Scarcity

On a recent discussion about this topic, I mentioned that photographers such as Edward Weston and Ansel Adams did not limit their print editions, yet their prints sell well and are much sought after. In response, a friend quoted a gallery owner who said “well, there is only one Ansel Adams.” To me, that is perhaps the best argument against edition limits. Of course there is only one Ansel Adams, just like there is only one of each of us. The reason an Adams or Weston print sells well is not the arbitrary and artificial limits deliberately placed on their editions; rather, it is the fact that their availability is limited because they are no longer around to make more of it. There are few of them, not because the artist chose to impose a limit, but because they really are rare.

From an ethical perspective, should artificial scarcity be considered the same as real scarcity? This doesn’t hold in many other situations, and for very logical reasons. When a manufacturer chooses to limit supplies in order to boost profits, we complain about price gouging and other derogatory terms. Can we then turn around and apply the same practice in our own work just because “everyone does it”?

What’s in a Number?

A quick perusal of photographers’ web offerings reveals edition limits ranging up to the hundreds, and sometimes more. In my admittedly unscientific estimate, only a fraction of a percent of such “limited” editions ever even come close to selling their editions. When a photographer offers a “limited edition of 500,” it almost always means the same as saying “limited to the number I can sell.” Some buyers may be vain, but they are not stupid. They know good art and they know good investments.

If you are honest about wanting to limit your print editions, why not set a true limit?

Accessibility vs. Exclusivity

As many of you know, I do not believe in the greater social value of limiting editions. To me, such practices are incompatible with the social value of art. The history of art recounts many stories of artists rebelling against the co-opting of art by the wealthy and powerful. And for good reason. In an enlightened and equitable society, art should never be the exclusive privilege of the few.

Perhaps another way to look at it is that all prints made by me and signed by me are of a limited edition, by virtue of my own mortality. The only difference is that I can’t tell you the edition size in advance.

Art should be accessible and available to anyone who may benefit from it. Choosing the life of an artist is a noble path, not a guaranteed path to riches. Artists survive by what is good and honorable about humanity: generosity, sharing, gratitude. We rely on our patrons to pay us not because we are cutthroat businesspeople, but because our work serves to enrich and elevate their lives, bring solace in difficult times, open hearts and minds to those things in life that are beautiful, hopeful, and meaningful, beyond the cynicism and violence and unfairness that characterize so much else.

Let our work be accessible. Let us not use the same tactics in our business as those who perpetrate price bubbles and economic collapses. We are better than that; our work is better than that; our reasons for making art are more honorable than that. How can we ethically justify limiting it?

Transformations

(part of The Good Badlands portfolio)

Though I am fortunate to live in what to many would be wild country, there is still the palpable shift between time spent living – as a physical, emotional, being – and the astoundingly bizarre artificial reality of modern society, business, politics, the Internet, and other contrivances of the human mind. It is a sad and painful disconnect at times, made worse by the fact that such experiences can only be truly shared with those already familiar with them. Words fall frustratingly short of describing what it means and why it is important to someone who doesn’t already know.

I left home early in the afternoon and drove in the general direction of the canyon I planned to visit. The choice of time and place were not random. The date is an important anniversary, though not one relevant to this narrative. The place, beyond being one of the most beautiful places on Earth, was the setting for memorable times in my life. I wanted it all to converge. I wanted to think about it all and put it all in perspective and tie it all together in a place I love more than any other.

The road here was recently “improved,” though is still unpaved. Still, what once required a long, bumpy ride in a high-clearance vehicle, is now possible in any passenger car. Justification for such projects almost always touts increased visitation, a boost to the local economy, and all other derivations of the ultimate in human endeavors: growth. You may note that terms such as “economic growth” are never placed in the context of a counterbalance. It’s always good, and the more of it the better. Conspicuously absent from such decision frameworks are terms such as spirit, silence, solitude, inspiration, and wildness. The closest you will find is “recreation,” which is far from the same.

I set up camp among the red rocks. Local cowboys left a folding chair and bullet-riddled barrel here, which I made use of. On this first evening I could camp by my vehicle, which usually means a nice fire and a good dinner. As the sun set, I read favorite excerpts from the Daybooks of Edward Weston. What a fascinating man. Among the pages a life unfolded: a passion for photography, great love for women, for places, for family, and for art. In his work, Weston celebrated life and its expression through his unique brand of imagery. Still, photography is far from being the only theme in the narrative. Every few pages, glimpses into the life of an artist told the story of struggling to pay the rent, pandering to the poor tastes of patrons, not being able to afford a measly $75 for medical treatment for an injured son. Weston was not Ansel Adams. He never became rich off his work, and never lived as if he wanted to. In that sense, to me, he was more of an artist (though he disliked the term) than so many of his peers. His life was his work, and beyond it he preferred to be left alone to his beloved places, negatives, and contact prints. More income meant less time pursuing his photography, and the balance he struck between the two was closer to what I chose for my own than to that of Adams or Stieglitz or others.

Weston passed away with just a couple of hundred dollars in his bank account, never selling a print for more than $250. Some years later, two of his prints sold at auction for more than a million each. Just recently, a limited edition book of his work went on sale at a whopping $250 a copy. Weston himself never limited his print editions and would likely never have been able to afford this book. With such ironies, the gap grows ever wider, deeper, and darker.

As darkness set, flames from my small fire offered a hypnotic spectacle of dancing light on the red rocks. The moon climbed slowly in the night sky and, one by one, more celestial friends appeared. Venus was first, and, not too far, aldebaran – the follower – kept watch of the seven sisters of the Pleiades. The belt of Orion stayed visible for just a few minutes before venturing beyond the edge of the cliff. Ancient worlds whose light kept me company on countless such nights for so many years.

I spent the next morning slowly arranging my large backpack, thinking with some amusement of people I know who pride themselves on being “ultralight” backpackers – people who will stop just short of removing essential body parts in order to save a few ounces. Not me. I’m quite fine with moving a bit more slowly and carrying a couple of extra pounds for such small pleasures as a good hot dinner, small treats that I knew will taste better on the trail than anywhere else, a good book, notepad, fresh ground coffee and a French press, fresh baked bread, and even a small flask of fine tequila. Ultralight hiking is for masochists.

I started my walk around mid-morning on a gorgeous early spring day. Some early bloomers – milkvetch, paintbrush, gilia, and others – were already in flower, adding dots of vibrant color to the desert brush. Many of the trees were adorned in vibrant fluorescent green buds. Everything felt and smelled and sounded joyous, blissfully free of the sounds of engines and electronic gadgets and human banter. I knew I could count on having this remote canyon to myself and took great joy in every step carrying me further from the road.

It didn’t take long to realize that the canyon was also used by cattle ranchers. Cow excrement was everywhere, as were eroded paths through the delicate ecosystem. Who in their right mind would consider such a paradise appropriate for grazing? Not the cows, I bet.

About a mile into the canyon I was in for a very pleasant surprise. A delicate sweet scent filled the narrow passage – one I had not smelled in months. I recognized it instantly – a member of the barberry family known as Fremont’s Mahonia. Many of these bushes grow here and the delicate aroma stayed with me for much of the trip, conjuring wonderful memories of other canyon spring hikes.

This canyon is unique in more than one way. Other than the steep red cliffs so iconic of this region, this particular place also has a rich Native American legacy. Many of the alcoves above its channel had not been fully explored, and on occasion a rare find will present itself, stop me in my tracks and send my imagination soaring. Today I took some time to explore a small side canyon and was rewarded with an exquisite discovery indeed: a metate (mortar) with mano (grinding stone) still in it, just as they were left by those who once lived here hundreds of years ago. The area was thick with scrub oak, suggesting that the metate may have been used to make acorn flour. I placed my hand on it, wondering what other human hand touched it before mine. I stood there for a while, surveying the area, trying to imagine what life was like for those whose home it once was. Other than the cows, chances are it looks very much the same to my eyes as it did to them.

My wife once asked me if I thought “they” found these places beautiful, or if it was just a common life to them. I think they did find it beautiful. Much of the meager evidence they left celebrates natural phenomena, far beyond mere utility. And, after all, they were as human as I am, having the same brain and the same ingrained appreciation and awe for such places. I was not born here, but I found these canyons exquisitely beautiful since the first day I saw them.

Farther down the canyon, a large wall juts up into the sky, hundreds of feet tall. Along its base are some of the most fantastic petroglyphs I have seen anywhere, some as high as fifty feet off the ground, carved into the blue/purple desert varnish. This was a place of power, of spirit, of ritual. It is evident in the rock art but also in the feeling one gets from standing in the sandy clearing at the base of the commanding cliff. I can understand why the natives chose it. People, bighorn sheep, owls, snakes, and large anthropomorphs told stories whose meaning is now long forgotten.

A couple of miles further started the riparian portion of the canyon. A small crystalline stream flowed at my feet and will accompany me for the rest of the hike in. Another mile or so brought me to a huge alcove – my home for the next couple of days. I set up my tent and arranged my camp in the shadow of an old cottonwood, below the towering slickrock wall. A curious collared lizard watched me as I arranged my belongings and hung my food bag from a high branch to keep it away from rodents. I put together a small backpack and left camp for the afternoon to explore the lower regions of the canyon – some of the most spectacular stretches of slotted narrows on the Colorado Plateau.

For the next few hours I was in a state of waking dream, walking and wading through twisted passages, bathed in golden light reflecting off the steep walls. The budding cottonwoods and willows combined with the wet earth to fill the air with a rich scent that defies description. I stopped occasionally to study patterns and shapes, a young gopher snake, and countless lizards. When I wasn’t walking, the only sound was the trickle of water rushing along the smooth slickrock. I thought of the things I came here to remember and to honor – people and animals and experiences and events. It’s been so long, and the weight of the years is undeniable. In so many ways, our lives are but a blink of an eye, yet our capacity to bear the weight of emotions and memories has a limit measured in pain. To live longer, we must either learn to feel more or forget more; and I can’t forget.

I photograph, not to create art, but to hold tangible what little I can of the experience. There will come a day when I can no longer make this journey in body, but I know I will want to do so many times over in mind and spirit.

My first memory of life was several decades and thousands of miles away. It’s easy to dismiss my being here as a coincidence but, being the lay scientist that I am, I cannot discount the overwhelming odds against it, now, by myself, in this remote and strikingly beautiful vestige of remaining wilderness on Earth. My rational self refuses to accept it, but somewhere in me a little voice keeps saying that it has to mean something, and it will not be silenced.

I was reminded of a recent conversation with a friend. When I told him of my then planned trip, he said he always wanted to see this place, but “life got in the way.” Beware of life getting in the way of living.

I slowly made my way back to camp, arriving late in the afternoon, shortly before sunset. I set about cooking my dinner in the last light of the day. Indian bean curry, French bread, avocado slices, and a couple of shots of Corralejo reposado. Tired from walking, the food tasted wonderful and prepared me for a restful night as my mind continued to wander.

I never understood the expression “not a soul” to describe places where humans are absent. Here, it seems, there were more souls than living beings. From ancient crustaceans whose shells and skeletons became the limestone pebbles in the creek beds, through many forms of life no longer in existence, early humans on the heels of the last Ice Age, followed by thousands of years of various desert-dwelling cultures and all the way to an immigrant photographer marveling at bits of light launched towards the Earth hundreds of years ago only to paint a little bright dot on my retina at this point in time. More souls than I could ever hope to count, each with a life story greater than any novel.

The next day was spent in further explorations of the canyon and its tributaries. By this time I was no longer even thinking of life outside the glowing walls. This was my world and in it was more mystery and beauty than I could hope to experience. Little else was needed to feel happy and grateful. Wrens were chattering and singing in the cliffs; butterflies – admirals and mourning cloaks – fluttered around the placid pools; large beetles buzzed around the cottonwood canopies and new foliage; lizards darted around, making a racket in the dry fallen leaves; ravens floated above sometimes so close that I could hear their wing beats. The limestone pebbles revealed the occasional fossilized shell. Farther down the canyon, fresh trees felled by beavers diverted the flow into a large pool. Everything was full of wonder and beauty and innocence. This is a place of no pretending. You are either part of it all, or a complete stranger.

Another evening, another night, more discoveries and revelations, sadness and joy, breakdowns and affirmations.

The following morning I took my time breaking camp, pumping water and working up the will power to hoist a 50lbs. pack for the long trek back, now even more tired and sore. That’s OK. I’m not in a hurry. It will take as long as it takes. On the way back I paid more visits to the ancient dwellings, the metate, and the fragrant Mahonias, and scrambled out of the canyon.

My trusty pickup waited among the tamarisks, now a bit dusty. I grabbed a cold drink from the ice chest in the back, sat on the tailgate and savored the last of the experience. A couple of miles down the road I stopped to chat with a couple of young kids carrying large packs. Their clothes were filthy, they were tanned and unshaven and smiling (as I’m sure I was). They had just come out of their first canyon hike and I could see the glimmer in their eyes as they talked about it. I remember my first time, almost twenty years ago. It changes you. In a good way.

Have you ever felt true and profound gratitude? Not just being thankful for a small favor; I’m talking about an overwhelming sense that at this exact moment in time you are, without a doubt, the happiest, luckiest form of consciousness in the entire universe.

Here I was again, driving down a long dusty empty dirt road, kicking up a small plume of dust that floated into the sagebrush plains; watching a hawk hover silently above; and the majestic ancient cliffs beyond; seeing clearly to the high plateau that is now my home… and feeling truly and profoundly grateful.

I spent the last few days exploring farther and deeper into an arid stretch of desert adorned in spectacularly colorful clay hills. It’s a fragile place, where a misplaced footprint may remain visible for years. I have not seen any, and was careful about placing my own. As I set up my camera for one view, a large fox appeared nearby and ran off hastily. Other than it, my only company was a curious raven perched at the top of a steep eroded formation. The place was as quiet as could be; glowing in the golden afternoon light. When I was not moving, the only sounds were the slight whisper of the wind and the occasional click and buzz of the camera’s shutter, which I almost felt guilty for.

I made a handful of images in several hours. For the most part, I felt content to lean against a large sandstone boulder, snack on a coconut bar, and let my thoughts wander. These paragraphs are but a brief recollection of a peaceful afternoon, like so many I have had since making my home here – not especially remarkable, but not to be taken for granted, either.

I recalled with some amusement statements I read in the last few days starting with the words “it’s all about.” I’m sure you’ve all seen them: it’s all about the light; it’s all about composition; it’s all about being at the right place at the right time; it’s all about being ready; it’s all about resolution; it’s all about timing; it’s all about marketing… it’s all about what it’s all about. Or is it?

Maybe a better place to start would be to ask what “it” we are talking about. We are each a small clump of cosmic dust endowed with the magic of consciousness (what it is, we still don’t know and may never know.) Our perceptions of space and time and light are but random observations – by-products of being held by the gravity of a larger clump of dust and moving quite a bit slower than light. Our planet is part of a solar system formed a few billions of years ago from the remnants of giant stars, which exploded some billions of years prior. Earth is in fact one of the smaller planets in the family. The star we circle – our sun – by itself makes up 99% of the mass in this solar system, which we are just barely beginning to explore now. The sun is but one of hundreds of billions of stars in the Milky Way galaxy, which itself is one of hundreds of billions of galaxies we know of. All these trillions of celestial bodies are made of ordinary matter, which makes up only 4% of our universe. This much is fact, and some scientists suspect our universe may itself be just one of a great many.

So, no matter what “it” you look at, it’s all about… absolutely nothing. No matter who you are, what you do, where you live, what you love, what you are passionate about, what you photograph, or what you think “it” is all about – it’s not. Except, that is, to you and to those you touch, right here, right now. Take a few steps back and any “it” is not even a ripple in the great ocean of time and space

If “it” is about anything at all, it’s about not wasting the gift of this blissful blip of an existence as a conscious, feeling being. “It” is about putting things in perspective, finding peace and fulfillment and, having found it, helping others find their own.

As you go about what you do, for joy or for work or for any other purpose, remind yourself some time that there is nothing more fleeting to a living being than time. It’s really all about using it wisely.

“Is life not a thousand times too short for us to bore ourselves?” –Friedrich Nietzsche

Painting with oils or pastels is just as much “painting with light” as photography. The materials are chosen because of their ability to absorb and reflect portions of the visible spectrum. Similarly, chemistry, software, dyes, pigments, and any number of other “non light” ingredients play a role in photography that is every bit as essential as photons.

I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way – things I had no words for. –Georgia O’Keeffe

As one who enjoys both writing and creating visual art, I often think of myself as communicating in different languages. It’s no surprise that the term “a picture is worth a thousand words” was coined by a marketing person; it is very catchy, assigns an arbitrary value to a product that may or may not live up to it, and when considered more carefully turns out to be quite nonsensical. There is no correlation between how clearly and effectively a concept is conveyed and any quantifiable measure of words or visual elements.

The visual language, like any other, has its own unique terms, constructs, and euphemisms, some of which can express meaning not quite possible in any other language. Like spoken words, nuanced variation in tone, timbre, or pitch may communicate different messages, even using the same words. Like writing, whole sentences, paragraphs, and considered use of grammar can unfold a compelling story beyond the mere mention of a given subject. And, like poetry, the arrangement of words and the use of symbols and rhyme may evoke emotion and enhance the reader’s experience beyond making simple statements.

We all learn to communicate in the languages prevalent in our environment. We start by picking up words, aphorisms, and other figures of speech in our daily interactions. We learn to form lingual constructs like sentences and paragraphs so that our communications are more productive, more contextual, more interesting, and less ambiguous. We later learn to read and write and expand our language through stories and complex narratives. Similarly, we pick up visual signals, symbols, shapes, and colors, and learn to associate them with concepts not always translatable into words. Yet, in the absence of a need, most visual vocabularies stop at simple utterances and concise statements, turning to the spoken or written word for more formal expression.

Still, there are things that can be communicated through images that simply cannot be expressed as well – or at all – in words; not a thousand, not even a million. Such communication requires both the artist and their audience to possess greater command of the visual language. A language unused to its full potential is one doomed to languish and perish, taking with it the things only expressible in its unique vocabulary. As visual artists, we should strive to speak our language with eloquence, and to educate others in it so they may share in the joy of exploring those things that cannot be articulated in prose or speech.

It is worth reminding ourselves that the visual language is capable of so much more than the uttering of simple nouns; and that, as with words, always yelling at the top of our voice is not necessarily the most effective way to get our message across.

Scream if you need to, but also be conscious of those times when a soft whisper is more appropriate. Venture beyond merely stating the obvious. Tell stories, weave poems, imply tension, and employ nuance so that others may learn to use the visual language with the same fluency, and share in those things that cannot be verbalized, vocalized, or articulated in any other way. Beyond just making visually pleasing images, make your work interesting; create narratives and mystery and riddles, challenge your viewers to think and feel and seek clues to a deeper understanding.

In a word, what defines an individual is uniqueness – the thing or combination of things that make them unlike anyone else. By extension, artists must measure themselves not only by the aesthetics or popularity of their work, but also by the degree to which it represents them as unique individuals, setting it apart from the commonplace and the mainstream.

The need for individuality further compounds the challenges of photography as a form of expressive art. Relying to a great degree on objective qualities inherent in our subject matter places limitations on the degree to which we are able to express our own sensibilities in our work. It stands to reason, then, that technical proficiency and fortuitous circumstances, by themselves, may not be sufficient ingredients for personal expression.

The inevitable question is: how can a photographic artist express their unique temperament, not just using, but also in spite of their subjects? Certainly, there is no limit to what may be added or altered when processing a photographic image; though such techniques are often self-defeating in that the artist may achieve their expressive goal, but lose their audience in the process. For better or worse, a choice of medium comes with both benefits and constraints. The most severe constraint facing photography is the degree to which it is expected to remain faithful to the objective representation of real elements.

What remains at the discretion of the photographic artist can be defined as awareness (the ability to intuitively perceive – or see – things that others do not,) and composition (the ability to uniquely arrange visual elements – founded in an understanding of visual perception – to create a unique order that suggests ulterior meaning beyond the literal visual elements).

Indeed, I believe that when a budding photographer had mastered the trivial technicalities of operating their equipment, and the tools to process and present their work; they should dedicate themselves wholly to the lifelong study and refinement of their awareness and composition skills.

Not to gloss over another obvious question, some may wonder why individuality is important, and why unique and original works should be considered in higher regard than those that merely satisfy common notions of beauty. Is it not enough that a work is beautiful and evokes a favorable response in the viewer?

Albert Einstein’s greatest mission, and greatest failure, was the pursuit of an elegant theory – an orderly and predictable framework – that explains everything we know about the nature of the universe. What we know today is that such order does not exist to the elimination of randomness and chaos, but rather that order is the result of chaos and unpredictability. If it were not for flaws in the uniformity of the universe, we would not have stars, galaxies, and planets. We ourselves would not exist were it not for random mutations and aberrations that allowed for natural selection and evolution. It is the elements of chaos in any order that give rise to the next order. The same is true in the evolution of art. Chaos and uniqueness are needed for growth and to propel new, more complex, and ever-grander orders.

Individualists are those who live outside the order, making the deliberate choice to be different and, in doing so, contributing to the betterment and advancement of those who are part of the order.

Ask a nuclear physicist and they will confirm that some particles bind together to make more complex structures, while others maintain an independent existence. Ask a biologist and they will confirm that some cells come together to form complex organisms, while others prefer to strike out on their own. Ask a sociologist and they will confirm that some people come together to form societies and organizations, while others choose to chart an independent course, challenging social convention and planting the seeds of change.

While any of us may choose the comfort of conformity and going with the flow, and the benefits that come with it in acceptance, safety, and recognition; there will always be those who are never satisfied leaving well enough alone. It’s a matter of temperament, more than anything. Happiness to some is in being part of something; to others – the desire (indeed, the duty) to affect change, to bring about the next order, to promote new knowledge and enlightenment by defying and disrupting the collective. It would be naive to think of it merely as a choice. Those who become individualists often do so at risk and loss. To them it is a calling – a moral imperative – and by attempting to be anything else, they may suffer even more profoundly.

If you are bound to be different – be different. If it were not for the different, the unique, the individual; we would never have the ordinary, the collaborative, the social. All that we know and accept as real is, ultimately, the result of a small difference perpetrated by a unique event that made the previous order obsolete.

In the end, it’s not the things you contribute to the order that define who you are, but the things you contribute to the chaos.

You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.

–Friedrich Nietzsche

Glimmer