"Reflection in television, July 28th 2009" by Katie West

Greg Turner: Where are you from and what lead you to photography? How did you get your start, so to speak?
Katie West: I’m not sure if you mean where am I from geographically, or artistically, so I suppose I’ll answer both. I’m from a small farming village called Holland Landing. That description makes it sound much more interesting than it is; it’s about 45 minutes outside of Toronto. In Canada. I never took any art classes in high school because for some strange reason I thought I was supposed to take business courses and computer courses. I managed to sneak into the second part of a photography course in grade 11, even though I didn’t have any of the prerequisites. I did that because my friends were in it, and they were always using me as a model, so I thought maybe I’d like to take the pictures too. Also my school had a darkroom and I used to hang out with them in there, always wondering what exactly they were doing. Unfortunately, what they were doing was taught in the first part of the photography course, so I just sort of had to learn by experimenting and making mistakes.

GT: And why writing? It seems photography would be a thankless enough slog, but to add words on top of that?
KW: I always wanted to be a writer, for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately I’m not very good at it, but I really like it, so I keep at it. And I don’t find either photography or writing thankless – quite the opposite. The amount of email I get thanking me for my pictures or my words is often incredible to me. Now, saying that it pays off monetarily? No, not exactly. And I don’t think I’d want to depend on my photography as my sole source of income. I worry that would stress me out and force me to do things I’m not interested in which would make me like it less. I’m not interested in taking pictures of weddings, or babies, and so I don’t want to have to so that I can eat that month. Now, if I could make a living doing what I already do? Amazing. Perfect. And who knows? Maybe one day? Maybe…

GT: You and others have described your work as being “honest” (I happen to agree). What do you suppose this means? What about your process or aesthetic contributes to your work’s honesty?
KW: I think the honesty is my work comes across through my willingness to share many vulnerable moments in my life. I rarely plan a shoot (talking self-portraits here) in advance. The vast majority of my pictures are born of moments when I feel I just have to take a picture. It’s like I get this feeling from inside me that is like a small voice pestering me and then it gets louder and louder and the only way to make it go away is to take a picture. Whoa, that makes me sound crazy, but it’s also true. So the process – of never planning, mostly going on a whim – results in very real and honest portraits I believe. I mean, on the internet, we’re always in control of how much of ourselves we share with an audience; I just tend to share a lot. The honesty also comes through in that though: I share a lot. I have no problems with being who I am online. And I mean, I’m really nerdy and awkward, but that doesn’t bother me and I don’t mind if people know that sort of thing. Aesthetically, the honesty comes across in the use of natural light, the locations of most of my photos (which are usually in my house, or in the places I work, or places I frequent), the lack of elaborate set-up, or costumes or make-up. I’m not saying I never use those things, but those aren’t my more honest photos, you know?

GT: What draws you to self portraits?
KW: I sort of addressed this already, but I can say more. I think mostly two things draw me to self-portraits. The first is what I already mentioned, this compulsion I have to take photos. And this compulsion is usually born out of intense emotions I’m feeling. Often taking pictures, the entire process appeases me in some way, and that can be useful when you’re prone to The Crazy. Even the clean-up after I shoot – moving furniture back, putting lights ad camera away – feels very satisfying in my gut for some reason. And the second thing that draws me to self-portraits is having this immense photographic and written diary of my life. I really like history – visiting cities with me is horrible if you don’t like history because all I want to do is museums! and historical places! and oh! That’s the chair George Washington sat in! – and also really like the idea of the personal history. I love going to my grandparents and looking through all their old photos and newspaper clippings and just…old stuff. In addition to the historical aspect that I’d like to have someday to look back on, I also like getting glimpses into other people’s minds. I like reading other people’s diaries, I like going through their rooms, I like figuring people out. I like seeing the things that people usually hide. So I guess I like to offer that closeness to people, that look inside my mind, that open diary for people to find. I think that sort of thing is interesting, and I’d like to do something interesting, right? So yeah, basically craziness and creepiness draws me to self-portraits. Ha!

GT: You currently live in Toronto, correct?  How do you think where you’re from and where you live now affects your work? Is there a particular aesthetic found in Toronto not found other places?
KW: I do not like Toronto. Of all the cities I’ve ever lived, or visited, it’s my least favourite. And I lived in Windsor! It’s not a friendly city. It’s a city obsessed with trying to be New York, and liking to think it is the Canadian New York, but there can’t be another New York, there can’t even be anything that comes close. Toronto is a city that just seems confused about who it is, where it’s going, where it came from even. One of my favourite cities is Philadelphia, and compared to Philly, Toronto is just, I don’t know, it lacks character. I’m not saying there’s no redeeming qualities about the city; the diversity of Toronto is unlike anything I’ve experience before. Forty-nine percent of the people who live in Toronto were not born in Canada, this results in a very rich multiculturalism that doesn’t exist anywhere else because in Toronto, you don’t need to learn to speak English. Toronto is still a Canadian city despite its wanting so badly to escape it. So if you don’t speak English, the Torontonian you’re attempting to communicate with will feel bad and apologetic that they don’t speak your language, albeit in their best impression of an unfriendly American. (It’s bizarre I know, because Americans are not unfriendly, but Canadians think they are. But! The rest of Canada outside Toronto is too polite and too apologetic; no wonder we never actually separated ourselves from Britain and the Queen’s head is on our coins.) But this amazing tapestry of people in Toronto means really great, diverse food options, easily accessible exploration of other cultures and some sort of cultural festival almost every weekend, especially in the summer. Often I wonder if I would move to the States if I could (which I can’t). But I love Canada. As much as Toronto is not the city for me, and as much as I believe there isn’t a city in Canada for me, I love being Canadian. I love being polite and apologetic and kind. I like my accent and how I say eh. I love the expansiveness of Canada, the extremities of our climate and terrain. I love our healthcare and our gun laws.

Wait.

What was the question? Oh yeah. So, where I am certainly affects my work, which is why I don’t mind moving, and why I like to visit new places. I’m very moved by locations, as I quite dislike studio shoots. I like to go places and take photos. The first thing I notice when I walk into an interesting space is where the security cameras are. Know what I mean?

GT: Finally, if you were going to show a single episode of STNG to someone to win them to the show, which episode would it be?
KW: Once, a bunch of people I know got together and formed the Council of Trek, in which we had very intense discussions about what would be the 10 episodes we would say were the best; that highlighted the shows strengths as well as demonstrated its range. (Though the list also kept in mind things such as “Riker’s beard”, “android banging” and “Wesley”.) The best episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation is, arguably of course, “Chain of Command.” But a good starting point, though still maintaining the quality of “Chain of Command,” would be “Encounter at Farpoint.” And then “The Inner Light.” And I could go on, but you said a single episode and I’ve already mentioned three.

"Untitled (53 and counting)" by Katie West

I can’t remember when I first stumbled on Katie West’s work. I’m sure it was via Flickr, but now I’m not sure how I would have found it. Glad I did? You bet.  I didn’t know what to expect when I asked Katie to be interviewed. Maybe I expected the artist to be as tough as her work. She is, in a way, but she’s also generous and kind and clearly passionate about what she does.

“The Inner Light” happens to be my favorite.

To Get What I Want by Lauren Peralta

Greg Turner: How did you get into photography?
Lauren Peralta: Throughout high school I was seriously into oil painting and never thought of photography as an art form I’d be into. I started playing with photoshop and a 1.3 megapixel digital camera that my stepfather had laying around the house just for kicks. When I turned 16, my grandmother saw some of my  pictures and took me out to buy me my first DSLR, just to play around with. It ended up turning into a love affair  with photography, and I couldn’t put the damn thing down for 3 months straight. I started neglecting my painting, and  eventually no longer cared for it. Without taking any photography classes, I applied to art school to major in  photography. I am now a BFA Photography major at SUNY New Paltz. It’s history from there.

GT: What keeps you going?
LP: Everything. The stress, my happiness, love, anger, hatred, numbness, my family, my friends, beautiful things,  ugly things, autumn, loneliness, heartbreak, disgust, relief, release…There is nothing in my life that doesn’t  inspire me to keep taking photos. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. Even my worst photographs – they don’t deter me  from doing this. They spur me on to create something to better convey what I want you to see. I want you to see what  I see. I think it’s completely remarkable that photography allows the viewer to catch a glimpse into what my eyes have
seen, and how I saw it.

GT: How do you think where you’re from, where you grew up, and
where you are affect your art?
LP: I came from a pretty weird family situation. The split between my family acted as a catalyst for some pretty heavy  artwork in the early stages of my camera work. There are a lot of demons in my head, and a lot of it comes from being 16 and incredibly vulnerable and unstable, not having something permanent and loving to come home to. On top of
that, the second phase of my photography comes from the loss of my first love, as is the case with many young  photographers. When your heart is stolen from you and smashed on the floor, you don’t have much left to give… and I gave it all.

The one thing I did have was my camera, and it saved me from falling to pieces. As for where I am  now… I’m in a good place. My photos have consequently taken on a message of feminine strength and pride. There is  always a sense of vulnerability mixed in with it, because there always IS that small part of me that could possibly be broken, as is the case with anyone. But I’ve learned too much to falter, and I believe that shows in my recent work  as of this past winter.

GT: What do you think separates your self-portraits from your
other photographs?
LP: Well, to be quite honest… in most cases a model simply can’t convey exactly what is in my head. I don’t tend to do  fashion work, or photos for the hell of it. My photos are very emotionally driven. I can tell a model all I want to  pose how I want her/him, but only I know what’s in my head. Generally I am just able to convey what I feel better in a  self portrait because it’s ME. That’s how I feel. That comment, however, was a remark based on flickr popularity.

It bothers me when photos I’m really proud of don’t get as much attention as some of my “not as good” self portraits.  While my self shots tend to convey more emotion, they AREN’T always technically well done, and I’m not always happy with  the way they come out. I post them anyway, and they get an overwhelming response because just because I’m the model. That leaves me with less faith in people to be honest with me about whether or not my work was successful. But hey,  people like what they like, right?

2:15 am by Lauren Peralta

And so she strives. She strives to put the things in her mind out into the world. And she strives to be known and recognized and to do good work. And her fans will cheer her on and folks will steal her images and people will comment on the tattoo, not the photograph.

It’s why I’m not showing it.

sleeping stranger with tie by Tanya Dakin

Greg Turner: The basics: How did you get into modeling? Photography?
Tanya Dakin: I have been doing self portraits since about 12 years old,
and my mother has always made me pose for fashion shots at home. I did not start to actively model for others until I was about 32, 2002.  I started shooting my own images around 1984 and have become ultimately committed to it since 2001.

G: Of your photography work, your “sleeping strangers” series is probably my favorite. How did you start this project and what about it appeals to you?
T: I started the Sleeping Strangers project by accident. 2007 to be exact. I saw a man half asleep at Madison Square Gardens at the News stand. The excitement of shooting the image before the subject opens their eyes was a rush that i have never felt. Almost like shoplifting with less consequences

Since I had been traveling often for modeling, it gave me the opportunity to see a lot of people in transit that are tired enough to slip into a public nap. I will eventually have a book after I collect enough to edit from.

G: What makes for a good relationship between model and photographer? What are some of the things you try to do as a model to make for a good photography session?
T: Be courteous, friendly and professional; don’t let your ego extend past your talents. Give back images in a timely fashion. Be willing to collaborate, and exchange ideas.

I usually do my own styling and my own concepts, and give ideas of lighting and angles that I envision. This usually makes it super easy on the photographer, and very rarely does it not produce great images.

G: How do you think modeling has influenced your photography?
T: Actually I think Photography is a bigger influence on my modeling. I know what makes for a great image, and this helps me at the concept and styling process, the rest is just role playing. Becoming the character, or bringing a
mood to the frame, always find the light, know your angles and be aware of your body parts, and having grace and confidence, is my main components for modeling.

G: I did want to ask one more question of you, and it has to do with equipment. I know from your Flickr stream that shoot most of your own material with a Fuji FinePix F30. How do you think equipment affects your ability to take compelling photos and what might you say to those people who feel they can’t be photographers until they have their first Hasselblad or Canon Mark III?
T: I have seen people with exact same camera as me shoot not so great pictures. It’s defiantly not the equipment that gives one the capabilities of a great image. It’s the user. Having knowledge of how to get a great photo helps with any camera. but i have had photographers shoot 35 MM plastic camera point and shoot with no controls and have gotten glorious images.

Lately I am shooting with photographers that are shooting with very low end equipment and getting very satisfying results.

The Fuji Finepix’s opticals are fantastic, and aside from it not shooting in RAW, It does a lovely job. I recently spoke at a photo class and gave a presentation on self ports, and I made a point of letting the students know that my equipment is very minimal. It’s important in this economy to know you can get a satisfying image with out breaking the bank. And that all you really need is a good eye and understanding or love for photography.

"LA Lolita - self portrait" by Tanya Dakin

Tanya continues to be one of my favorite Flickr contacts.  The few times we’ve emailed (mostly about food), I’ve been surprised by her honesty and comforted by how well she seems to know herself.  Because of this candor, this confidence, I imagine she would be a nothing but a joy to work with, on either side of the camera.

White Sands National Monument, New Mexico. (Or the moon?) by ck/ck

Greg: So first, what’s your name, and what are some places you’ve lived?
Claes: My name is Claes, and I’m from Sweden. I grew up in a town called Sundsvall (pop. 90,000), and lived there most of my life so far before moving to Karlskrona, which is at the very south of Sweden. There I attended school, which sent me on an internship to New York City last summer through this spring, where I lived for nine months until this road trip started at the end of April. Currently I’m living out of a suitcase and a car.

G: How did you get involved in photography?
C: I only got into photography in December  2006 when I had to replace a broken digital camera (a tiny, fully automatic Sony), and for reasons I really don’t know or remember, I made a conscious decision to buy a compact camera that offered more than auto modes. I got a Canon Powershot A710 IS that had manual modes, quite a zoom, macro, etc. Flash forward four months, I was completely in love with photography. Like truly and madly. I had used this compact camera to do every type of photography imaginable, and I felt I was ready for a DSLR. So I went from not interested at all to obsessed within just a few months. The rest is history.

G: What made you wish to travel across America and photograph it?
C: I’ve always wanted to go on a road trip across America for as long as I can remember. I think the seed of going on a road trip comes from traveling across Europe with my family and our caravan as a kid; that travel-by-car bug got me early. It really is the only way to really see the world. Fast forward to the present, I’m living in New York and I have my final project for my school coming up post-internship, and it just seemed like the perfect timing (and maybe the last chance), not only to go on the road trip that I always wanted to go on, but do it with my camera in hand and be able to do it as a school project. So it’s been a trip that has fulfilled many things.

G: I think it’s interesting you traveled when you were young.  I don’t think people normally associate the road trip with Europe. I think of it as something very American.
C: Europeans travel a lot within the continent, but maybe not always as a road trip where you keep moving throughout the whole journey. The road trips I was on when I were young was basically a week of driving down to Italy, where we would stay put for a month, then a week’s drive back.

G: In your photographs on this trip, you have taken such perfect shots of America.  One of my favorites is the picnic table at White Sands. How does being from another culture affect your ability to capture a place?  How do you see things and capture things in America that you might not elsewhere? Do you think you would be able to make the same kinds of photographs of Sweden?  I ask because I’m becoming more interested in photography and place.
C: Actually, I feel that I hadn’t found my photographic “voice” until I moved to New York City, so I actually have no idea how I’ll fare back in Sweden. I think I’ll do just fine, I think the things that interest me as a photographer can be found in any country or culture, but I do also agree that coming from a different background helps you look at things a little differently than someone who grew up there would. It’s just looking at things with a fresh pair of eyes. If you’ve been looking at it all your life, you stopped really looking a long time ago.

For example, when I think of Sweden, while it’s beautiful and is a very good country to live in, to me it’s sort of bland and familiar, whereas someone from another country might see the same things and be amazed. It wasn’t until I got really interested in photography that I actually walked around my hometown and really looked at what’s there. It was quite a revelation.

Astoria, Oregon. by ck/ck

Take a wander through his website and pay particular attention to the “Disposable Coney” section in Series (one of my personal favorites). Then wander over to Hypostyle.net and saunter back and back through some amazing landscapes. Then go ahead and bookmark both. You’ll want to return.

Greg Turner: How did you get into photography?
Kris Payne: Just like everybody else: my Dad gave me a 35mm SLR. I took a bunch of pictures with it and then enrolled in some photo classes in college before dropping out and going to an all photo school. No sappy bullshit story about my grandfather’s lenses or some heavenly apparition.

G: Why do you think you’ve become so attracted to landscapes?
K: Have you seen the planet we live on? How can you not be attracted to them? The natural landforms we get to see on a daily basis are the most beautiful things on this planet, because they /are/ this planet. We’re naturally geared to be drawn to the forms: seas, mountains, deserts, forests, rivers, fjords, etc. There is so much beauty in what you can’t control. What’s interesting is that we are finding out that we do have control over our landscape, and we’re also finding this out much too late.

G: You seem to travel a lot, and I wonder how you think this might affect your work–this idea of being out in the world, away from home (if there even is a home for you).
K: The travel is the work. My goal isn’t to seek out landscapes that haven’t been shown, or some new and interesting angle. It’s quite the opposite, actually: by going in and showing the same thing that anyone can see, you begin to see more of the simple beauty. It’s very accessible. You don’t have to have an art degree to understand my work.

I would consider Brooklyn my home, for the time being. I’m not as transient as it would seem, even though I get itchy and need to be somewhere new (or even somewhere old). It’s also very healthy to get perspective every now and then and see your self and your place from another point of view.

G: What do you think are the benefits of going to an all-photo school? And do you think would be in a similar space if you hadn’t attended?
K: School is such a touchy subject. I’m technically a college dropout and am doing very well for myself, but that’s not to say I don’t value education. Knowledge is very key, but real world experience is such a better way to learn than most schools can (or ever will) offer, and that’s just reality. Benefits of going to an all photo school mean you’re surrounded by like-minded people who can encourage and challenge you, and your instructors aren’t also diverting attention to other aspects of education that they really don’t need to.

If I hadn’t had gone to the all photo school I did, I don’t think I’d be in New York right now, but I’d probably be in the same place, does that make sense? I don’t really think it was the school that put me anywhere, it was my own ambition, I just happened to go to school near New York. I got a really strong foundation at my school and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

G: Also, you mentioned our too-late realization of control over our environment. Does this put extra responsibility on your work?
K: What’s contradictory about my work is that fact that I don’t shoot digitally. I’m an advocate of recycling and taking care of your part to do better for the environment, but I spend copious amounts of money on having magic paper dipped in magic water for the sake of art.

There’s a new book out right now that deals with the problem landscape photographers face in dealing with vanishing landscapes (the title of the book). There is a sense of conservation among all landscape shooters, I mean, why wouldn’t we want to preserve that beauty for someone to look at later? What if my kids never get the chance to see a mountain, my parents may never see a glacier, but through my work maybe they can, and hopefully it’s powerful enough to spark something in them to see more of the world.

I was fortunate enough to find Kris’ work via a Tumblr confluence and then first contacted him about a lawn mower.  I’m really glad I did.

"Benjamin" by Megan McIsaac

You may know Megan McIsaac’s work from Flickr, or you might have the good fortune to live in the Pacific Northwest and know Megan personally. I’ve been a fan for a while and totally stole the “making photographs” idea from her. Then I asked her some questions:

Greg: Where are some of the places you’ve lived?
Megan: i suppose technically i have only lived in michigan, near detroit, and now portland, oregon. i have travelled to most states out east and in the midwest and have spent time in mexico and a lot of time in ontario, canada. i will most likely be living in oregon until october of this year and then depending on how much money i have saved, i would like to go further south and explore california and even texas, and then early next year i plan on taking off to europe, most likely france, to live for as long as i can!

G: how did you arrive at photography?
M: my grandfather was and still is a great photographer, he is the one held responsible for my passion in making photographs. our family, the mcisaacs, have been traveling to canada every summer for over 50 years to meet at this great lodge and when i was five or so, i remember my grandfather handing me his nikon while he was making the traditional family picture and i was fascinated with it. when i was seven years old, he and my father gifted me my first camera, a polaroid, for christmas and i really haven’t put it down since.

G: i love that you say, “make photographs” rather than “take photographs.” when and why did you start saying this?
M: haha! a lot of people have been pointing that out lately. to be honest, i have no clue when i began to say it, as far as i remember i have always referred to it as “making” photographs, it makes more sense in my mind. i don’t feel as though i am taking anything and that is not my objective. i suppose the most simple way i can describe it is that i am out to make and show moments, show my perspective through my photographs, not take someone else’s life or take other moments or anything of the sort. i am simply making memories, both personally and for others.

"february 13" by Megan McIsaac

I want to thank Megan for taking the time to answer, and point you all to her prints currently for sale. I hear, if you buy a print, you get extra stuff, like gum.  Who doesn’t like gum?

Go. Look.

We are all photographers

I hear this sentiment frequently. “Now with digital, everyone thinks they’re a photographer”. And the more defensive, “owning an expensive canon or nikon doesnt make you a photographer”. But if I remember correctly, nearly everyone in the country has owned a camera since the 1970’s. That’s the reason you can pick up a Canon AE-1, that would have cost several hundred dollars in 1976, at the thrift store today for $40. Digital cameras have not popularized photography in the last ten years. duh. Not to mention, that mind-set is completely psuedo-elitist. Everyone who takes photos IS a photographer and taking photographs has been a staple of american society and culture for decades. Who cares who calls themselves a photographer, what settings they use, or how much they spent on a camera. Worry more about YOUR pictures if it’s something you like and/or want to take seriously.

f/8 -Keith

Not too long ago, there was a brief and interesting dust-up (maybe? It was kind of car-crashy and I’m still unsure about what went down) over at the Tumb-la-ma-logs between one Keith McArthur and one Brian Everett, and it made me think much about photography as an art form, what it means and about its purpose.

"PCS" by Marie Ince

First, some groundwork: Keith is right in saying that digital cameras have not popularized photography in the last ten years. The Internet has popularized photography over the past ten years. It made it possible for folks like me, whose photos would normally end up in a yellowed photo album in some bookcase or, more probably, in a stack of shoeboxes on the upper-most shelf in the closet, to show and share their photographs with a much broader audience. I also would argue that photo sharing over the internet contributes a great deal to many people becoming better photographers, technically (and perhaps artistically) speaking. It also removed any sense of rarity or preciousness from photographs, one of the main reasons, probably, we’re seeing a resurgence in film as well as digital manipulations that mimic film. There’s another reason, too, which I’ll come to in a moment.

In the 1970’s, while photography wasn’t rare, photographs were. Film was an expense, as were prints. Search through your grandparents’ and parents’ photo shoeboxes and you won’t find one hundred photos from the same birthday party. You won’t find a thousand pictures taken during a week’s vacation at the Grand Canyon. Those kinds of numbers were simply unaffordable. Practice was expensive.

That doesn’t mean there weren’t great photographs produced by amateur photographers, however. In one, made by my mom during a summer trip to Kansas, my sister’s about four or five and chubby cheeked. Her auburn hair is cut in a simple style, nearly pageboy. She sits on an upturned pickle bucket in high grass gone to seed and to the right and out of frame, the sun sets, casting a gold-orange glow on her hair, the grass tops, the fishing rod she holds in her hands. There is no lake visible, no place for fish, and the gold-glow photograph takes on a surreal aspect: a child fishing in grass afire at sunset. Only you can’t see it. It’s in a photo album on a shelf somewhere, I think.

My mom didn’t plan the photograph, and the result was totally unexpected. Beautiful, yes. Magical, yes. But completely unintended.

My point here is two-fold. First, we’re seeing more people consider themselves photographers, either professionally or as a primary hobby, because they produce more good photographs. Previously, when you had to consider whether or not a photograph was worth making, amateur photographers chose to mark those occasions they didn’t want to forget—birthdays, family reunions, weddings and anniversaries (why people don’t make pictures at funerals I’ll never understand, but that’s just me). They were much more concerned with recording the event than with making a compelling shot. Now, however, with development and reproduction costs nearly zero (from memory card to computer to web site), there’s no reason not to make as many photos as possible every time someone pulls out the camera.

Running the numbers
My memory card can hold about 150 photos in RAW format. If I shoot jpeg (heaven forbid) that number jumps to about 300. If I figure I’ll get one good photo out of every ten I shoot, that comes out to 15 good photos every time I fill up the memory card. Does that make me a photographer? Who knows? That number might equate with an accidental shooter—give me and a blind guy the same camera, let us each shoot 150 photos, and we just might come out with the same number of compelling photographs (though right now I’d wager he’d come out with more).

Anyway.

So yes, everyone now is a photographer, capable of producing compelling images, assuming they shoot enough images to begin with and are technically savvy enough to pull the images off their memory card and get those images onto the internet. But it’s not as if the conscious decisions they’re making photo to photo are producing compelling images. Rather, the entry barrier to a good photo has gotten so low, nearly anyone can do it.

Then why don’t we see more good photographs?

Compelling photography
Photography is an interesting art form. Of all art forms, it is the most accessible. As a people we are most familiar with it (see the shoeboxes, above). There is little mysterious about it, assuming we’re talking straight or minimally altered photographs here, and not Photoshopped surreality, which I would place firmly in the collage camp. So what then produces in us the idea that a photograph is compelling? I would say one of three things:

First, the photograph is simply beautiful. Much fashion photography falls into this category. Architectural photography, too, though it often bridges this first category and second. Simply put: the easiest way to claim a compelling photograph is to make a photograph of someone breathtaking.

Vietcong Execution, Saigon, 1968 Photo by Eddie Adam

Second, the photograph places us firmly in a specific place at a moment in history. The most compelling documentary photographers provide this in shot after published shot.We saw it in the famous kiss between nurse and sailor, a moment of execution in Vietnam.  We’re seeing it now in the White House’s Flickr stream. The photos are composed well, technically good, but more importantly, they transport us to a place and time we could never have experienced, and since it’s gone–changed–can never experience again. This, I think, is photography’s widest use and why so many people fail at creating images compelling to others: personal photographs often lack universal appeal because there is no significance to their creation. So your dog can stand on its hind legs. That’s great. Talented dog. Next? And because so many cameras now are so good, the technical superiority of one photo over another is becoming less and less an issue for appeal.

President Barack Obama speaks with a foreign leader in the Oval Office on his first day in office 1/21/09. Official White House Photo by Pete Souza

The third realm of photography is a bit harder to pin down and relies on photography’s ability to transport us, but also on our familiarity with it. And it’s why, I would argue, so many people these days are harkening back to film. There’s something familiar about film. The grain of it, the slight blur. The warm, yellow cast of indoor lighting. It’s familiar to us, almost inherently. Thus, a simple photograph of a middle-aged couple on a faded couch can be incredibly compelling because it stirs in us a wide range of memories and emotions based on our own encounters with the same kind of photograph. We say to ourselves, however unconsciously, this photograph reminds me of…something. Perhaps it’s Aunt Clair and Uncle Dan. Perhaps it’s your mom and dad just before they split. Whatever memory we conjure is bound to have emotion attached to it. It’s almost unavoidable, and the ability to slip from one past to the viewer’s past is what makes so many seemingly simple snapshots so compelling. We feel like we were there because we were. Just not right there, and not right then.

"golden years." by Pat Tobin

This is what I see often in popular photographs and among popular photographers on Flickr and Tumblr–and before you skewer me about the source of my photographs, remember that we’re talking about a wide net: all of us are photographers, so you can keep your rarefied art world arguments for another time, thanks. I see this bridge between moment and memory, a kind of universal fix on a singular idea: the romance of a young girl with balloons, the whimsy of Polaroids clipped to clothesline. The yellow cast and sun flare of staring too long into the sun when we were young and foolhardy and figured our souls invulnerable.

we rumbled rain-slicked streets in a '72 Camaro, looking for races and spoiling for trouble

This is the place I’m trying to go with several series I have in the works. This place of shared memories not exact, but not dissimilar. I work with a digital camera and a car, and I try to exploit the lure of the American highway. I don’t know yet if I’ll be successful, but I do think I have a good idea about intent.

And maybe that should be the criteria in the end. Intent. What do we intend for our photographs, and based on that intent, do they succeed and fly or fail and fall?

Have thoughts you’d like to share?  Please leave a comment, I’d love to hear from all of you.

I like these simple sentences by Megan McIsaac. I like that she describes “making photographs” instead of taking them. It may seem like a hair-fine semantic argument, but I think it’s important, and it’s something I’ve been struggling with lately.

I started making portraits. I started first as a way to get over my reluctance to talk to people, to ask if they would sit for me a moment and share something of themselves. I also want to expand my photographic horizons. I began with an ad on CraigsList asking people to be part of a faces and stories project. People replied immediately and the project has been good so far. But I still haven’t made that leap to asking strangers, and part of the reason is the words I felt were necessary to begin the process: Can I take your photograph?

Again, we’re dealing with semantics here (full disclosure: I earned a BA in English with an emphasis on literary theory and popular culture analysis. I can totally be that guy.), but the very vocabulary of photography can be divisive. Sit for me, I’ll take your photograph. It’s no wonder the media is so rich for analysis by way of watcher and watched, aggressor and victim. Give and take.

Taketaketaketake.

I’m sure there will be many who would poo-poo such thoughts. Many who will argue that it is the results, not the means, that make a photograph great. That make a photographer who she is. I’m going to disagree. In any profession there must be conscious choices made as to the vocabulary of that profession. After all, even as photographers we use words first when working with a subject (see what I did there? It’s tough to loose myself from the photographic language even as I implore others to do so), and we use words to explain our photographs to those that ask.

I’m not sure how I’ll do it. “Can I make your photograph?” sounds too weird right now. It’s too new and doesn’t roll of the tongue. But I’ll get there eventually. In the mean time, suffice to say that I’m a photographer. I make photographs.

There’s something freeing about a crappy camera. The type of camera that belongs in a messenger bag. At the bottom, among the Doritos crumbs and pencil shavings. It’s the camera you don’t mind being ruined. The kind of camera you can take with you wherever you go. The sewers, for example. It’s the type of camera you’re willing to point at anything because it doesn’t matter if the photo turns out or not. It is, after all, a crappy camera.

I forgot what a joy this kind of camera can be. I began taking photographs again just before the new year, and I felt so good about it, I embarked on two new projects January 1: 365days and 2009, a year in pictures. My fresh-minted son is one reason I began these projects. The main reason, really. But the other is that I enjoy taking photos. The act of photography makes me a more careful observer, a better seer. I’m able to find details in everyday life that, without a camera in my hand and photography on the brain, I might not notice otherwise. And the crappy camera, for some reason, frees me from deeming something not worthy. It makes it easier to practice. And as we all know, practice is a big part of excellence.

I used to think writing prompts and writing exercises fell into the waste-of-time category because I’m a snob and believed those who needed writing prompts should worry less about prompts and more about sitting down and god-damn writing. I still hold that belief, to some degree, but now understand writing prompts might serve as practice when ongoing projects are scarce. And writing prompts could be the seed that germinates into a full-fledged story. This is not, actually, unlike a photo-a-day project for someone who’s day is often routine (like, if you work in an office, drive the same route every day, and rush home most days to spend time with your family whose company you enjoy more than all others. Maybe even all others put together. Hypothetically, I mean. If that was you.)

Many of the photographs I take are crap, or are at least wholly unexceptional. But the simple act of taking one every day makes me a little better, and the sheer number of photographs suggests a couple good ones in the bunch, at least.

In his latest book, Outliers, Malcom Gladwell suggests one of the keys to expertise is practice. Notably, 10,000 hours worth. Merlin Mann, part inspiration for this new blog, has also lit upon the idea after reading Twyla Tharp and Stephen King. I first heard of this practice idea in an interview with Donald Barthelme. My fiction teacher read an excerpt in class. To paraphrase, Barthelme maintained that writing fiction is all about soiling paper, and when pressed on the amount of paper he had soiled, Barthelme confessed to “boxcars full.” But the message didn’t settle until I read an article in Wired about David Galenson and his theories on genius types. I would hazard, without having read the book, that Galenson’s work heavily influenced Gladwell’s Outliers.

I’m not saying I’m a genius. Far from it. I know this or that about the craft of writing fiction, but it’s taken me a long time to figure it out. I’m a long-term “genius,” according the Galenson. The other, quicker genius is enjoyed by folks like F. Scott Fitzgerald (one of my favorite writers) who captured a zeitgeist and wrote perhaps the greatest American novel (in that it is most American) before he was 30. Fitzgerald had something innate, and when he tried to examine it, to coax it out of himself, he could not, his writing suffered, and he died.  Pleasant stuff, right?

What does all this have to do with a crappy camera? It’s pretty simple, really. If I paid attention to what other people told me to do for photography, I’d probably buy some mid-range Canon SLR, several lenses, a $500 tripod and worry about depth of field, white balance, and a million other bits of photographic minutiae that, in the end, would keep me from taking as many photographs as I need to get better. And so now I shoot often with this crappy Fuji FinePix S700 and worry not about color, exposure, depth of field, or clarity. The cheap camera (with busted LCD, I might add) enables me to focus on large-scale concerns like subject and composition. It also enables me to take a ton of photos fast, with little worry. In essence, it enables me to practice, practice, practice. And later, when I’m comfortable with composition, then I can move back to the Pentax as my primary camera and begin examining things like depth of field, how shutter speed and aperture interact, and what it means to have a really nice lens.

And what does this have to do with you? It’s simple. Do what you need to practice. Take the time, use the tools you have on hand, whatever they may be, and know that all creative work is separated: large-scale concerns like structure and composition, and small-scale concerns, like word choice and sharpness. It’s easy to get so bogged down in the little things that we forget the large-scale concerns. Remember them, and use the tools necessary to keep them top-of-mind.