Street scene in Siena. At dusk. I've spent some time thinking about what it is that's making photography less interesting. To me, at any rate. There is a line of thought that says we were just "technicians" back in the film days but now people have been freed from the "drudgery" of taking photographs and can now just concentrate on "seeing" the photos they want to capture; unfettered by having to learn how to photograph.
One can look at the photo above and think about it in two ways. First, I don't think we actually walked around in the streets and thought to ourselves; "Here is a unique opportunity to hone my craft and show off my skills." Instead, speaking for myself, I was too busy experiencing the differences in my culture versus Italian culture and trying to find ways to show what I was thinking and how I was experiencing the "newness" of it all. Not trying to show how sharp the corners of a lens were when used wide open. In fact in most of my favorite images from that time I was printing with an intention to blur the corners of the frames more, not less.
When I look at this image I think either: "Wow, we really knew what we were doing back then. I remember that it was dusk and the light was low. I had ISO 400 speed film loaded in the camera. In fact, that was the fastest speed film I took with me that month. I was focusing a slow lens (f3.5) with a long focus throw, using a dim ground glass screen in a waist level finder with the image reversed. I set the manual exposure with the aperture and shutter speed controls solely based on experience and a paper "cheat sheet" from an old Kodak film box. I was photographing with a 100mm lens at its widest aperture and, of course, there was no such thing as in camera image stabilization in 6x6cm cameras at that time.
Then, after carrying the exposed film around for the next several weeks, carefully shepherding it through airport security with the dreaded X-ray machines I got it home and in total darkness rolled it onto a metal reel and put it in a developing tank. I prepared film developing chemicals and carefully adjusted the temperature by putting the metal tank in a cooling bath until I zero'd in on the exact temperature for development. I used decades of previous experience to perform an exacting agitation regimen after which I drained the developer and added stop bath (at the same temperature) to the tank, after which I replaced the stop bath with fixer. All timed by a big timer with mechanical hands and glowing numbers.
Once the film was fixed I could remove it from the developing tank and, while still on its reel, perform an archival washing. The final step was to soak the film for a minute in a solution of distilled water and a product called "Photo Flo" which prevented water spots from forming on the drying film.
Once the film was dried I cut it into strips of three and placed the strips into a plastic page so I could make contact sheets. Once the contact sheets were made and dried I could sit down with a cup of coffee and carefully review each frame with a magnifying loupe and decide if any of them were worth making larger prints from.
And that was a whole other process. Is it any wonder that we loved the images that turned out, through all the processes and time, well enough to be proud of? We had so much invested into the experience by the time the image was fully realized on a piece of printing paper. And the print got shared with maybe ten or twenty friends and family members before either being framed for a wall or stuck in a box with some future goal yet to be crystalized."
But in essence what I was really thinking when I took the photo was: "How stylish these people are! How gloriously fit they look. How fresh and happy they look strolling through a lovely urban space; maybe on the way to a nice dinner or a party at a friend's house. How much better dressed they are than people back home! How comfortable they look in their own skins."
Is it any wonder that we have a nostalgic idea of the value of a photograph?
Or I could now think this instead: "How lovely to be freed up from the drudgery of making photographs in the old fashion way. To be able to walk down a street in any kind of light, see something, whip a digital camera up to my eye, have the camera focus instantly on the closest eye of the subject in front of it, instantly compute the correct exposure and white balance, stabilize the camera's movement caused by my very human hands and capture the image with a profoundly greater dynamic range than we could ever have dreamed of in the film days.
If I'm in a hurry I can punch up the colors and sharpness in the camera and then send the image to my phone and upload it to my website, to Instagram, to a blog and to a forum in just minutes where it will then be seen by hundreds or thousands of people all over the world, and all without breaking a sweat, learning any skills beyond recognizing a scene of interest and having the motivation to push a few buttons --- from the start to the finish of the project.
It's so wonderful to live in an age when making photographs has been "democratized" to such an incredible extent. And look! My investment in time, skill, and patience is minimal to non-existent. Why do those old guys make such a big deal about the sanctity of the process?"
I'm torn between both ways of thinking. I've done photography both ways. And, as I've winnowed down the thought process to an easy to digest core I've decided that enjoyment of photography.boils down to two things which don't depend on each other for our satisfaction.
One is that old saw which says: "It's not the destination that is ...... (fun, rewarding, valuable, rewarding, etc.) it's the journey." The value is in the joy of walking, seeing, crafting, birthing an image. One gravitates to subject matter that interests them or immerses them into the process. But it's the mastery of the whole thing that brings a smile to some faces. A quick analogy is that of music. Sure, you can sit on your butt and listen to your audio system playback the work of a musician that everyone agrees they like or..... you can learn to play an instrument for yourself. You can enjoy the process of actually making music. Of interpreting other people's music. But it's the ability to make the music that brings the joy. Not knowing how to build a violin. Learning how to play it. Not knowing how a stereo amplifier is constructed. Not parsing which pick-up is the ultimate one for your turntable. No, the real joy is (or should be) the music itself. And the reward of mastering your own ability to create music is triumphant and brimming with satisfaction. The journey. The learning. Those are great. In the end it's the song that brings the feeling of creativity. It's the creative immersion that brings satisfaction.
It's the same, I think, in photography. It's not the gear or the film or the CMOS versus CCD knowledge that makes photographers happiest, it's being able to translate a scene into a photograph. How to make something sharable. Valuable to you as a piece of art. A conduit for communicating a vision worth sharing.
The other thing that drives satisfaction with photography is its use to record an object or event or person that you find so compelling that you want to record your idea of that person or thing for eternity. It's not even the process that attracts you but rather the subject itself. The photography you do exists to work in the service of translating, glorifying or sharing a vision or interpretation that's significant to you. And one that you would feel strongly about photographing no matter what camera or lens you have with which to film it. Subject driven photography?
I love the process of making photographs but I love more the result of photographing what I love to look at. The gestures I see mean more. The expressions are the immediate reward. The freezing in time of something I find infinitely beautiful. And being able to come back to the image again and again.
So, back to my original assertion that photography seems less enjoyable to me as we have more immediate and facile cameras at our disposal. I think it boils down to two things. First, we lack a real investment in our process. A deeper investment. Without the labors of creation we miss feeling attached to the process and to the outcome. When something becomes too easy and too automatic it also gets homogenized and represents less value to us, culturally. But secondly, as a result of things like the pandemic, the economy, the transition away from lively downtowns filled with interesting people to everyone working remotely, and more, we see fewer and fewer interesting things. Fewer targets of visual joy to immerse ourselves in. As we become more guarded we are availed of fewer things of wonder.
Perhaps finding value in an image is like raising a child. There is no "mastery" for child reading but the deepest bonds come from just spending lots and lots of time with them.
And part of the decline in value we're feeling (or at least I am) is our own personal experiences of having stepped back from closer kinships with people in public. Being more isolated. Less available.
I just looked up from my computer monitor, taking a break from thinking and typing, and I'm looking at the wall behind the desk. It's filled with prints. Two of B. with her strong and warm smile. One of Ben when he was about five years old, sitting at our favorite hamburger joint which is now long gone. One of Anne B. who was a brilliant and thoughtful assistant and still a close friend. Renae in her exuberant youth sitting with a Yashica Mat 124 camera in her hands staring right into my camera. Ben holding Christmas lights. Jennifer with swim goggles, her face having been spritzed with warm water for the photograph. Ben at three working on his blueberry colored iBook. A black and white print of a Russian model staring into the lens of my camera while standing on the Spanish Steps in Rome.
None of these were exercises in just operating a camera. None are visual poems dedicated to acutance. All were exercises in bonding, at least temporarily, with the energy and the spirit of the subjects. All young and beautiful. All filled with such potential and promise.
I guess what I'm really saying; or coming to grips with, is that we grow old. The things around us change. No camera can make up for the sadness that comes, inevitably, with the passage of time. And no great camera will make it better. We constructed ideas of beauty in our youth. Things of beauty can be so ephemeral.
