The Online Photographer

Two Failures

Moon hunt: Summer lasts half as long as you want it to, and goes by twice as fast as it should. The last robin fledgling of the season left the nest today—I saw it; the cantaloupe are out at Raymond Shirk's farmstand (he grows the best cantaloupe in this, I don't know, hemisphere); and the corn's as high as a man. Summer is fast passing by.

Last weekend I noticed from the apps that sunset and moonrise were happening at more or less the same time, around 8:45, so 8:45 on Saturday and Sunday found me driving slowly down country roads out on the high flatlands peering around looking for the moon. Funny thing though. The air was clear on the sunset side, and the moonrise side looked clear, but there was some distant overcast, far off, that shrouded the moon until it was more than ten degrees up over the horizon. Eventually it rose out of a hazy glow in the overcast into the clearer sky. By that time the possibility of balancing the light had passed.

The next night I did eventually see a lighter glow in the dark sky appear, but, again, not until it was well above the horizon. I positioned it next to a silo near a barnyard where a single outdoor light illuminated a single pickup truck. But the moon couldn't quite delineate from behind the haze, and it was too bright relative to the sky and the rest of the scene already. I tried a few exposures. I have a vague notion that if I understood Photoshop better, I could merge two exposures together to make a passable illustration of what I might have been able to see if things had worked out better. But to be honest, I lack motivation for things like that sometimes. If the picture's not there, no use forcing things, unless for some reason you have to.

Forest bonfire: I experienced a worse failure recently I am still kicking myself hard about. And will probably be kicking myself about for a while. My neighbor Les and his wife, who live on the lake, have a big field higher up on the hillside. Two years ago they hired some Mennonites to clear an acre or two of forest. The land clearers made a great diffuse jumbled heap of trees on the low end of the hillside, which Les told me they would eventually burn. Imagine four or five semis parked alongside each other—that's about how big the heap was. For two years it just sat there, drying out and settling, with grass and weeds growing around it and through it.

A month ago I was driving by on the way to a regular appointment in Watkins Glen and could hardly believe my eyes. The Mennonites had taken all that wood and stacked it tightly in a shape that resembled an elongated church dome. It was at least thirty feet high. The rough branches and twisted trunks were so cleverly pieced together that it looked like a completed puzzle or an art installation. And they must had had a crane. At the very top, they had placed a giant stump, roots intact and weaving down into the wood underneath. I saw it near dusk on a cloudy day. It was amazing. Especially on a brooding overcast night, it looked timeless and mystical, like some kind of Druid offering to the gods far back in the mists of time. I knew I had to come back with the camera, and that it would be worth it to come back again and again until I got the shot.

But did I? A week later, I was making the same regular weekly trip to Watkins Glen, and I passed the huge bonfire structure again—and again had the same thought, that I really had to photograph it before it was gone.

The third week, same trip, I didn't think of it until I was headed up the hill. Then I passed the woods that blocked the view of where it had been, and saw a giant heap of ash that was still smoking. It smoked for several days more.

Ow, ow, ow. That one's going to hurt for a while. Of course, you're never sure if something would have made a good picture until you see the picture. But I'm pretty sure.

What's that Jay Maisel quote? "Never say you’re going back—SHOOT IT NOW!" I could have shot it when I first saw it if I'd had the camera in the car. And I had at least a week to go back. If I had only remembered.

If I make an educated guess about a possible photo opportunity and head out a-huntin', I can't really complain if nothing comes of it. But when the universe gives me a gift and I don't have the wits and grit to simply take what's offered, that's on me. Damn. There are now two great once-in-a-lifetime pictures I could have had since I got the new camera that I missed.

Mike

P.S. I'd say live and learn, but, to say that, you've got to learn.

Original contents copyright 2024 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. (To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below or on the title of this post.)

Featured Comments from:

Jeff1000: "I completely relate! I was driving my rig, a 2024 Kenworth T-680, heading west on I-10 in Louisiana, nearabouts Baton Rouge. The sun was going down, pulsing the way it does, and the sky was on fire, like streaks of red painted on a pale canvass. I was driving a section of the Interstate that's elevated, like a bridge, above the Louisiana swampland. The swamp looked absolutely evil, like it was under the spell of Satan. Streaming red light raked across the swamp, and my imagination conjured up the scary creatures that were surely lurking under the water’s red surface: alligators, eels, snakes, leeches; heck, maybe even the creature from the black lagoon. I’m sad to report though that I never got the shot: the shoulder of the bridge’s road was just too narrow to accommodate my tractor-trailer."

Dave Levingston: "The moon and sun do that every month. The day before the full moon you often get around an hour when both the moon and sun are above the horizon. There is often haze on the horizon that obscures the moon, even when the sky is clear. And at the moment there is smoke from the fires out west making it worse. Atmospheric conditions are better in colder months, but the amount of time when they are both visible is shorter."

robert e: "The cynical gloss of this post would go something like: 'you can't win for trying, and you can't win for not trying,' but of course only the trying gives you any chance at all. It's just that you need luck, too. Once upon a time, it seemed that every serious shutterbug kept a spare in the car. I don't think that's a thing any more. Is it because the phone is now the spare? Is it because digital cameras aren't as good in that role as were all-mechanical film cameras? I think it's a bit of both. Come to think of it, spare tires are disappearing, too. What's happening to us, anyway?"

Allan Ostling: "Your missed bonfire photo doesn't hold a candle to the shot that I missed in 1995. I was driving a rental car in Tasmania when I spotted an echidna sitting in the road. I slowed, and missed it, but did I stop and take a photo of this seldom-seen egg-laying mammal? I did not, and regret it to this day."

anthony: "True story: Some guy took a stunning close-up of a great snowy owl in a snowstorm in northern Canada which won a major competition 10–15 years ago. He said he had initially taken a number of shots of the owl, and left to return home. After two hours on the road, he turned around and went back (in the snowstorm!), found the owl in the same place (!!), and took the prize winner(!!!) And so it goes…."

Carrying a Camera Painlessly (Two Skillsets to Work On and Memorize)

I can't find the comment, but Kye Wood suggested a topic for discussion the other day: How do you carry a camera with you at all times painlessly?

There are two things I think are worth working out to a fare-the-well, and (even) practicing till you have them down pat. The first is camera-handling. When you have a main axe—a camera you use most of the time—I think it's important to work out exactly how you're going to hold it and how you're going to operate each of your commonly used controls. Don't think this isn't true for your smartphone too. As an example, many people hold the smartphone when photographing as if the entire back of the phone has to be clear of their hands. But it doesn't. You can wrap your hand all the way around the back of the phone as long as the len(es) are clear. On the other hand, if you have a phone with a superwide lens option, you have to make sure your hand is not visible in the field of the superwide, or else work out a different placement for your hand for when you're using the widest lens. With a larger camera, work out how your grip and position might change with different lenses mounted—a long heavy tele makes the camera handle differently than a pancake prime—or in different shooting situations. For instance, I have a particular stance for handholding in low light; I spread my feet apart, bring my elbows in and brace them against the front of my torso, and hold my breath. I also look around for anything handy I can brace my hips or my shoulder against. A tripod is preferable, of course, but sometimes you don't have time to set it up.

Anyway, then you do things exactly the same way every time. In that way, working the controls becomes natural and habitual after a while, and you stop having to think about it consciously. With my current camera, I can find every button and dial I ever need entirely by feel, such that I can even do it in the dark*.

The other thing you can work out for yourself is how you manage your camera kit in terms of transporting it and having access to it. I use only one non-smartphone camera with one lens, so I have a bag that fits it perfectly. I load the camera into the bag the same way every time so I always know how it's situated when I go to take it out. The tripod plate is always attached to it. I changed out the strap of the bag for an UpStrap which won't slip off my shoulder. There's always a card and a charged battery in it. Then, in the pockets at either end of the bag, I carry one extra charged battery and a small case with two extra cards. The camera lives in a certain place in the house, so I can grab it on the way out. The tripod lives in the trunk, which is moderately a pain when I want it in the house, but that works for me better than the alternatives.

I don't leave the camera in the car because I don't want it to freeze or bake, and because there are times I don't want it with me. Like when I'm headed to a doctor's appointment and have to be on time. What I will do if I have the camera with me and the light is good is this: I'll see something, think "I have time for just one shot," and then I'll use twice as much time as I thought I would and then see another shot and talk myself into taking that one too. Before you know it I'm late for my appointment.

Because the camera has a home in the house, I always know right where it is if I want to shoot anything in the house, yard, or neighborhood. And it's ready to go.

So, to review:

1. Camera handling: Work out every detail of your hand positions on the camera, how you work each control you use, how you reset when things get all flummoxed and SNAFU'd, and your stance for various situations. Notice the times when you're out shooting when you have to pause, hesitate, or break your concentration to look at the controls or for any other reason. When that happens, note the cause, and take remedial measures at your leisure later.
2. Kit or bag management: Work out, in detail, how, where, and in what state you keep your camera ready to go, how you rotate cards and batteries (or film or whatever), and how you manage to have the camera handy when you want it and not when you don't. Again, notice any occasions when your sloppiness or disorganization frustrates you, causes you to search, or (St. Ansel forbid!) leaves you stranded without having what you need for a shot you want to take.

If I haven't shot for a while, I'll get the camera out every week or two and just go over all the controls again. It refreshes my habits. It's amazing how quickly I can forget something I previously worked out how to do. Plus, simply holding the camera can motivate me to go shoot more. Lee Friedlander, back when he used a Leica, once said that he often started photographing because he felt like getting the camera out and playing with it. I think that's in the Portraits book. Or possibly I saw it on a wall placard at a museum show at the Corcoran. (One or the other; my memory is being indecisive with me.) Keep these skills sharp like you would keep the edge on a good knife.

One thing I keep meaning to do and haven't yet is to write down all the details of my protocols. I did this in the old days—I kept a notebook of all my methods and all the experiments I did and all my settings and so forth. These days, I always think I'll never forget the details of my procedures with the computer and conversion and uploading to Flickr and so forth, but then sometimes I do forget. Or sometimes they change the tools on me without warning, destroying my "muscle memory" for no good reason.

However you arrange things for yourself, and whatever your preferred habits might be, I would urge you to work out your own particular methods, habits and skills thoroughly and not be sloppy about it. Ideally, you should always be able to put your hands on the camera you want quickly and surely, and you should never waste any time futzing with settings—most especially when there's a person standing there waiting for you to take their picture, but even when there isn't. You should have practiced enough, and worked everything out thoroughly enough, that you are smooth and fluent with your camera. Take as much time as you want to; just don't put yourself in a position where you waste time because you have to. I experience that a lot because I try out different cameras to write about them. I've always disliked the feeling. Enough that I can still recall specific instances. In my idealistic youth, my policy was to use a test camera for three months before writing about it. That way I really settled in to the "feel of the wheel" before passing judgement.

Tyros, dabblers, and fanboys futz and fumble, get lost, get confused, and do things like rummage around trying to find the right lens while a picture waits. (Bah, as Oren might say.) Or carry a huge bag or backpack with everything they own carefully packed away where they can't get at it. Don't be them. People who are more dedicated handle the camera enough that they're easy with it, ready to shoot efficiently and with a minimum of fuss. These are skills worth working to keep sharp.

Thanks to Kye for the topic.

Mike

*Five life points if you remember the bumper sticker "Photographers Do It in the Dark."

Original contents copyright 2023 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. (To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below or on the title of this post.)

Featured Comments from:

jeffdmontgomery: "I like to call it my Go Bag. I have two. One has a Nikon D500 with a 16–80mm zoom and a 60mm Macro. This could handle 90 percent of any job I am called to do on the spur of the moment. I also have an after hours Go Bag that is a little Domke bag with a Fuji X100s in it and two cards and four batteries. Quality enough, and if you can't get it with a 35mm lens, well, I am just out of luck. Both of those bags produce solid for me every semester as a University Photographer."

Dogman: "When faced with the confusion of not being able to locate the right lens, filter, or other piece of gear, you can always remember that Garry Winogrand said, 'Pictures don't happen while I'm changing film.' See. You feel better already."

John Krumm: "Sometimes discomfort increases productivity, at least for short periods. My wrist strap is nice, but it means when I use it with my Nikon Z7, I'm always cradling the camera or holding it in one hand, never relaxed. If I take a photo walk using the wrist strap, I always take more photos than if I use the neck strap. I suppose I might be able to walk longer with the neck strap. But I focus better with the wrist strap, bringing the camera to my eye much more frequently."

Mike replies: I know what you mean. I used a camera for seven or eight months that I didn't have a strap for, because the strap was proprietary and I couldn't afford one ($80 in about 1986 or '87). I would go on long walks around DC simply carrying the camera (medium format) in my hand. I didn't take more shots, because each shot was expensive, but I looked through the camera whole lot more. It was good practice for my eye.

Kye Wood: "We live in the middle of a dry rain forest. When it rains, it's a rainforest. When it doesn't, it's lush bushland. So we're constantly surrounded and surprised by every strange and beautiful creature that exists. So there are cameras peppered near all exits and windows. Because sometimes you only have seconds to grab the camera to make the shot. And in my original post, I recommend a cyclists cloth shoulder sachel as a carry all for all seasons."

John Abee: "Of all the topics discussed on the photoblogs, none interest me more than how we assure ourselves that we have our camera of choice at hand and set up as we need it when we need it. Whether its a discussion of bags/straps (or lack thereof), settings, utilization of custom modes, et cetera. For me, IMO few things more directly contribute to the enjoyment of this hobby than being comfortable with the camera and having it reliably at the ready."

ASW: "Outside of photography, my primary hobby is long-distance trail running (up to 100 mile races; weekend training runs of 20–30 miles). Very good for seeing new landscapes and loads of wildlife, but despite reading that it's possible (e.g., Thom Hogan's descriptions of himself and Galen Rowell) I've never figured out how I can combine the two. My gear (Nikon D700 or Nikon D300, various mid-level lenses) isn't that big or that heavy, but I can't imagine trying to run with a D300 + even my small 35mm ƒ/1.8 lens, let alone a telephoto zoom or ultra-wide angle.

"On top of that, pretty much everywhere I have lived and run over the past decade is hot and humid, so even if I could figure out a way to securely attach a camera to my person so that it wasn't swinging and beating me to death, I fear that the sweat running off of me would not be great for the gear.

"The final kicker is perhaps a personal issue, but running over and through water, mud, rocks, and roots regularly leads to falling down. I can tell you that falling on the ground hurts plenty, so I don't want to imagine what it feels like (for my body or heart) to smash your camera gear between your falling body and the mud or rocks.

"The obvious answer is a small camera or smartphone, but I'm that one luddite who's never owned a cell phone and I didn't have an interest in photography until affordable DSLRs became available. I suppose it's possible to find many smaller cameras that match or exceed my geriatric DSLRs, so perhaps I need to return to camera research and acquisition. My wife will love to hear it.

"Glad to have you back Mike."

'Those Who Cannot Do, Teach,' but Why Is That?

Reader TC wrote, yesterday: "I've always found it strange how, with street photography, unlike other genres, people who don't really know how to do it very well seem more apt to try to tell other people how they should do it."

Mike replies: Well, of course! If someone is naturally good at something and has never experienced problems, how would they know what the problems are?

A little story. When I was at Dartmouth I roomed for one trimester with a guy who played number one singles on the Dartmouth tennis team and was ranked fourth in the Ivy League at the time. Because I had played tennis all my life and had always had problems with my serve, I asked him if he would give me a lesson and some pointers. I had taken lots of tennis lessons, so I knew how they went. He said sure, adding that I had picked the right guy, because he had a great serve. He did, too.

As we were talking down to the courts, he paused and indicated to a small outcropping of granite (New Hampshire is "the Granite State") some 20 yards away and said, "see that rock? Watch this." He uncoiled a ferocious serve and nailed his target. The ball zinged off the rock and went forty feet in the air. "That's how you serve," he said. Impressive. I thought, "this is going to be good."

But...no. Once we got to the court, that's all he did, again and again. He would say, "you do it like this," and then execute a few flawless serves. I then served, and he would say, "no, no, not like that! What are you doing? Like this," and then demonstrated a few more times. A few more rounds of this, and he was getting very annoyed—why was I was doing it all wrong? All I had to do was do it the right way, like he did. He was showing me how. Except he wasn't, of course.

Being a teacher-type myself, I even tried to help him a little with his teaching skills, which was funny. I tried to ask him about various elements of his serve, but every time he'd say, "I don't know. I just do it." I tried to get him to look at various aspects of my serve so he could tell me what I might change. That didn't work either.

That was as far as we got. He couldn't analyze a single thing about his own serve, much less anything about mine. He had zero suggestions as to what I could try to correct or change. He simply got exasperated with me because I wasn't doing it right, and then we gave up. The lesson lasted ten minutes, about eight minutes of which was mainly frustration for each of us.

Meet everyone where they are
The best serve lesson I ever got, on the other hand, was from a gentle and famously patient teaching pro at the Woodstock Club in Indianapolis who actually didn't seem to be much of an athlete. This man had a reputation for being able to teach tennis to anyone. When I arrived for my lesson—I might have been about 13 at the time—he was standing on one side of the court throwing a ball to a five-year-old from ten feet away, teaching the kid how to time his swing so he could hit it. I watched this for fifteen minutes while I waited. By the end, the little kid was actually hitting the ball, and about one out of three was finding the sweet spot on the racquet face and sailing surprisingly far, almost up to the net. The little kid was beaming, bursting with pride, calling to his mother to look. I swear, I learned some things just watching. With me, he said, "the first thing you need to learn is how to get the ball into the service court reliably. Once you can relax about that, then you can work on improving." By the end of my lesson, I had learned a reliable spin second serve that I used for the rest of my tennis-playing life.

Because I was always interested in teaching, after the lesson I questioned that pro about his teaching methods. He told me, "I try to meet everyone where they are," which has stuck with me. With intermediate students, he tried to pick something that he thought the student could improve in the hour. With all students, beginners especially, he was looking for ways to increase the student's confidence and sense of accomplishment, to give them a little of the sweet taste of victory. He said it really didn't matter to him what the level of the student was—he got as much satisfaction teaching a five-year-old how to hit the ball for the first time as he got from coaching a top high-school or college player. He himself, he told me, played at the level of a solid club player.

In pool, the best teachers aren't necessarily the best players. The guy I took lessons from, Jerry Briesath, couldn't hit his stroke any more, because of essential tremor, but he still worked with famous professionals. And all the way down to schlubs like me.

Sometimes great "do-ers" are also great teachers. Sometimes they aren't. Sometimes great teachers are not "do-ers," and sometimes they are. But the two are different things, and being one of them isn't proof of the other.

Mike

Original contents copyright 2023 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. (To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below or on the title of this post.)

Featured Comments from:

Charles Rozier: "Re doing vs. teaching: I think the arts, particularly past the early technical stages, are a different world. In my experience, time spent with a real artist (or a top level pro) can be much more valuable than any amount of more prosaic 'instruction' from others. In that situation one may be forced to learn by observation, imitation, and osmosis. Although it's a big plus if the master happens also to be a good teacher, it's not the essential thing."

Mike replies: True enough. I once asked David R. Godine, founder of the publishing house of the same name, how to get started in publishing. His suggestion was to get a job at a small publishing house doing anything at all—even pushing a broom—and then keep your eyes and ears open and absorb all you can. And of course what you suggest is the time-honored way to become a studio professional photographer—you assist for a few years while you learn, then strike out on your own. That's the classic model; I'm not sure if it's done that way any more.

T. Edwards: "Another great post—you're on a roll. I've always been fascinated by the relationship between coaches and elite athletes. I remember watching Tiger Woods out on a practice green before some major tournament. He'd stroke a couple of balls towards the hole and then huddle with his caddy and coach for an animated (though out of earshot) conversation. I would really would like to have been able to hear what they were saying because I always wondered what those two guys could possibly have to say to Woods who—at that time—was head and shoulders better than any other golfer on the planet."

Romano Gianetti: "Just yes. As a member of a University faculty, I can assure you that be an expert (even the expert) in a field and be a top teacher in the same field are two completely separated skills. The only impossible combination is that you know zero and can teach well—the other three are surely possible."

Trevor Small: "My son, who teaches senior school physics and chemistry, tells me that a lot of teaching consists of breaking down complexity into simple components, in the correct order and in the correct relationships. A very different skill set to actually doing the task, in many cases."

Edward Taylor: "I have written about this misconception many times. Whenever you see a criticism of a posted photo (like on Fred Miranda's site) the photographer (or his/her defenders) frequently responds with a request to see the critic's work. 'If you're such an expert, let's see your portfolio! You don't even post here.' In other words, if one cannot do top-notch work, one should not be critiquing. This is, of course, nonsense. One critiques as a consumer or a coach, not a performer. Rumor has it that Mark Spitz's swimming coach couldn't swim. Movie critics don't make movies. Art critics are not necessarily artists. I can say that I love The Beatles and hate the Stones, even though I am not one-thousandth as talented as either one. The best critics are not the best producers of art, obviously. And, since we are talking about art, everyone's opinion is valid and no one's opinion is valid. I just know good art when I see it."

Robert Stahl: "Having taught photography the past 46 years your article especially resonated with me, Mike. Thanks for this topic and your insights. In my view, it's a somewhat rare occurrence to be talented as both a teacher and creative practitioner of photographic seeing. Three who have excelled wonderfully at both skills are the late Ernst Haas, Freeman Patterson, and Sam Abell."

Geoff Wittig: "Having taken workshops in both photography and oil painting, and having taught some oil painting, I have an opinion on the subject. (My wife would say, 'I'm not surprised....')

"Mike is absolutely right. Skilled artist and good teacher are two independent skill-sets, often with little overlap. In my experience, a genuine desire to teach and the commitment to do it well are by far the most important factors. Without this, you're unlikely to learn much no matter how gifted the artist.

"I have met brilliant artists producing exquisite work who can't explain their workflow or why they chose a particular color palette. Watching them paint a demonstration is frequently unhelpful. A great teacher, by contrast, explains the logic behind her choices every step of the way; why this subject at this time of day. Why this composition and value structure. Why this area is emphasized and that one muted and softened. How the drawing is nailed down, how the technical tools like value structure, warm/cool color contrast, paint handling/brushwork and judicious details are used to serve the artistic goal for the picture. It's like a magician revealing his work; you can start to comprehend how to build your own art by incorporating some of that logic and technical skill. What you're trying to say with your art remains up to you; a good teacher gives you the tools to accomplish it."

Daniel: "Brings to mind Mickey Mantle talking about a conversation with Ted Williams. Subject was hitting the ball. Williams peppered Mantle with questions about almost every aspect, from stance to grip to timing ball rotation. Mantle finally said, 'Hell, I just swing the bat when the pitch looks good.' Over-analyzing is not teaching. Williams was a major league anal analytical type. He did not connect with Mantle on the explanation of fine points in hitting a baseball even though both were great hitters. Not every great teacher connects with every pupil."

Bob: "I recently retired after 45+ years as a flight instructor. I considered myself an okay pilot but a really effective instructor. The key, I think, is just what you said—teach the students on their level. Identify their weak points and use plain, clear language to suggest ways to improve. I’ve also taken a number of acting classes; the really good teachers took the same approach."

Simon: "We all remember poor teachers, and this can reinforce the notion that teaching is an inferior discipline to supposed excellence. But I think this is misleading. Like your tennis coach, a great teacher can do more for the sport and the individuals he/she works with (and on a deeper level than mere technique) than a grand slam winner ever could. In professional cycle racing the greatest achievers are not usually good at supporting others, whether in a coaching or mentoring role, or tactically when in the team car. The driven nature of 'winners' and their leadership role within the group, combined with their innate talent, mean they invariably don't understand the role of their journeyman teammates. With photography I think I have learnt more from the 'why' than the 'how.'

"Although learning things like the rules of composition help one understand why some images work better than others, it is not difficult to use a camera. However, it certainly is hard work trying to make meaningful images that stand the test of time. One thing that appears to link all great photographers is a sense of purpose, of needing to produce significant, meaningful work."

The One That Got Away

The phrase "you should have seen the one that got away" comes from fishing, of course. But it ought to come from photography.

When I recommenced photographing regularly this past Fall, I got fish-slapped by something I knew but had almost forgotten: to photograph is to get pictures, but it's also to miss pictures. Every day I go out, I return with a mental list of the ones I missed. Sometimes there are none, but often there are two or three.

Those misses get burned into my brain. I have a very visual memory. When I think of a person, I used to worry about my memory because of the lengthening amount of time it was taking the name to come to mind. But then I realize that I can recall the face instantly. So there's nothing wrong with my memory: it's just that it's the visuals that come to me first. Being very honest, I can remember missed pictures from decades ago, a few of them anyway, and still see them in my mind's eye.

I'll give you just a few examples from recent outings:

One*: I'm at the Tractor Supply, and the woman ahead of me, who is also buying dog food, is talking to the clerk. Like a lonely old man, which I imitate sometimes, I butt into the conversation, and she immediately engages, and we trade pleasantries about our dogs. Then I notice husband, standing off a few steps, looking glum, irritated, resentful and bored, and giving me a bit of the stinkeye for chatting up his woman. (Or so I imagine.) Cut to the parking lot: their German Shepherd is sitting in the driver's seat of their dark silver pickup truck, illuminated gorgeously by the setting sun. All I had to do was ask; the worse that could happen would have been a refusal, and that's no big deal. The camera was right on the passenger seat of my car one parking spot away. But because of the husband's attitude I thought, naw. Result: potential picture of perfectly lit German Shepherd in the truck cab looking anxiously back at his masters, in tones perfectly suited to B&W, is burned on my brain, taunting me (still, and it's been a few months now).

Two: On another dog walk, it was too dark to take the camera. Dusk. On the way back I hear voices on the lake, and when I got a view between two houses I see: opposite shore, black; foreground objects, silhouetted; the water of the lake, bright with the reflection of the darkening sky; and, set in a perfect composition, is a bass boat with the motor off, one fisherman standing at the bow with his line in the water, a second one standing by the motor with his line in the water as well, all pretty much silhouetted. All of it a perfectly composed picture just staring at me. It would have taken some effort to get the shot; I would have had to find something to loop the leash to, would have had to trespass on an absent neighbor's lake frontage, which I'm not above doing occasionally when the houses are empty; and I would have had to ask the fishermens' permission, because they were close enough to the shore to talk to. I don't know if I could have brought it all together. But maybe. A potential catch that got away.

Three: Just two days ago. It's been one of those dreadful winter days, dark, wet, all grays and browns and blanketed with oppressive overcast like the world itself is depressed. I'm just driving to town for Chinese food. Why take the camera? It's a decidedly unpromising situation to encounter any photographs. But. The local Mennonites and Amish don't like being photographed, so I don't photograph them. But I'm not above getting a picture of a horse and buggy when the opportunity arises, as long as the people inside aren't featured. I've got a lot of desultory tries littering various folders, but no standout picture yet. So what do I see that night? An empty Mennonite buggy with a gaunt horse standing motionless in a parking lot by the lake. I just glanced at it on the way by, but as the car passes all the elements snap magically into visual arrangement and bam, there's the picture, just waiting. Eminently gettable. All I would have had to do was pull over. There was no one around. I would have offended no one.

Four: When I had just had the loaner Sigma for a few weeks, I was going out to walk to dog on a beautiful evening, and I almost took the camera with me. I argued with myself: it's hard enough to handle the leash; Butters tugs at me when I'm trying to hold the camera still; I've seen the route a million times, and know all the pictures. It's always the same, more or less. So then, not a hundred yards down the road, what do I see but one of the two or three most spectacular skies I've ever seen in the Finger Lakes, which is really saying something. A great dramatic heap of distinctly defined clouds above the opposite shore, lit up all around the rim by the setting sun behind it, with one giant crepuscular ray coming out of one side. It was so stunning I just stood there staring. To add insult, I was passing right by virtually the only spot on my walk where I have blanket permission to walk down to the lake's edge whenever I want to. All I needed was the camera with me and I would have had a picture I would have been proud of for the rest of my life. One of top two or three missed pictures of all time.

The photographer's burden
Damn. You just never know where they are going to come from, and you never know when. There's no guarantee that you would have actually gotten the picture that was there; all you know for sure is that there was a good opportunity there waiting for you, sometimes staring you right in the face. Served me right. Carrying a camera is the photographer's burden. But you gotta do it. Take the camera.

Why don't these picture opportunities appear when I'm not actively engaged in photographing on a near-daily basis? I don't know, but that's the way it is for me. Once I start actively photographing again, they start to appear here and there. And—I'll just speak for myself—I know the best of the ones that got away are going to live on in my visual memory, sometimes for a long time.

Mike
Flickr page / New Yorker author page

*The TypePad compositor is very irritating when it comes to numbering things. If I type "1.", it immediately thinks I want to go into list mode, and supplies a "2." at the beginning of the next paragraph as soon as I hit return. There's actually a whole column in this: many, many modern interfaces add intrusive "helper" features just because they can, forgetting that control is actually more satisfying than being "helped" when you haven't @#$%! asked for help. Spellcheck gone awry is only the most common example of this. I say: stop helping, and give me control.

Original contents copyright 2023 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. (To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below or on the title of this post.)

Featured Comments from:

Len Salem (partial comment): "The counterpart of 'the one that got away' is the one that serendipitously happens. Many years ago I was on holiday in Los Angeles, exploring with my then film camera. I saw a warehouse in a commercial district painted pink and standing out against a blue sky. In the UK no one ever painted warehouses pink. So I started taking a few photographs of it from different angles when I saw, out of the corner of my eye and about to come into frame, a jogger wearing a T-shirt in the exact same shade of pink as the warehouse. I waited a second or two and got that image. I would share it here but it is still in storage after a recent move and being pre-digital it is not on my computer. But I feel that photo was gifted to me somehow by a benign photo god."

John Krumm: "This is indeed a good sign that you are getting thoroughly back into photography. I have to tell myself to leave the camera home sometimes, because I'm doing something with my wife, and I want to be mentally present, but the occasional lost image flicks by. And think about all the lost images you never see, all the walks you skipped, early morning treks you passed on, country drives you canceled, and unexplored roads you drove by, eager to get home. As much as having the camera with you, you also have to be out there in the first place."

Mike Peters: "Wear your camera every day, every time you leave the house. In the winter or if it's raining, it's always under my coat. In the summer it's just there. I haven't left the house without a camera since the '80s. Most times I never use it, but when I see something, it's always there."

xf mj (partial comment): "The tension between dog walks vs. photo walks: I hear ya, Mike. I have tried so many elaborate leashing arrangements, while I attempt to hold the camera still for a shot, to somehow keep my tugging dog tethered and out of trouble. None of them really work, because sir Rocco always interrupts my composing somehow, or at least threatens to, and that distracts me from getting the shot and even just hunting the shot. Instead I'll hastily take pictures just to prove that 'Ha ha ha, Rocco, you didn't foil that one!' even when in reality the picture is just a tosser because of my haste. Of course I gotta be grateful to him because he is what gets me out of the house most times, especially in the dead of winter."

David Zalaznik: "Hi Mike, enjoyed the post. Your comment about asking permission of the fishermen struck me as something that I have rarely done beforehand. My goal has always been serendipitous moments and stopping to ask permission all too often would change the situation from what brought me to that moment. I start taking the pictures and, if they become aware of me working, I will stop for a moment, smile or wave and hold up the camera and go back to shooting.And I always take the time to talk afterward. I can think of only a handful of times in a 35-year career in photojournalism that the subject had an issue. Now, the clarification to that is I would take the photo only if I am on public property. And that goes for the Amish as well. They have a constitutional right to practice their religion and I have a constitutional right to practice my craft."

hugh crawford: "The mind is basically a camera, so they don’t really quite get away. My favorite film scene on that topic."

Dan Khong: "It is OK to miss a shot. For as long as there is still breath in our bodies, there will always be other opportunities."

Raymond Lee: "My father came to Hong Kong empty handed at the age of 12. His first job was an assistant store keeper for a rich family which had a son who spent money on photography. It's 1950. He ended up learning photography and darkroom techniques.

"Fast forward many years and I was 10, maybe 12, and I learned from him the basics. It's the early '70s.

"I didn't end up a photographer. (Nor did my father.) But I have been taking pictures since then. I like looking back at them. They remind me of occasions that I might have forgotten, or not, but they let me savour those moments.

"But I remember at one stage, probably towards the end of when film was mainstream, maybe around the mid-'90s, I made a comment to a friend while she was showing me around in Shanghai (where I visited for work): she asked, do you want to take a picture of this (some historical building)? And I said, I'd rather spend time looking at it and capture it in my brain. I did. I still remember that exact moment, and that exact scene, although the rapid changes in the city must have made it unrecognizable by now.

"So, my point is, if I can capture a moment with a camera, I'll do so. But at the same time, I always slow down to try very hard to impress the image in my brain. That way, if I missed a shot, there's a backup somewhere in my head—although theses days, in my 60s, memory is less reliable than early days floppy discs."

What Is the Story

In my "Secret Art" article (which fell off the front page of newyorker.com today, so that's over with, I guess), I wrote: "...numerous events can be commemorated with a single picture. It just has to be a good one, and to tell enough of the story...."

To which blogger Ann Althouse responded, "What is the 'story'?"

I love that. It is indeed the question. It's the question photojournalists and newspaper photographers have to ask themselves all the time. (Sometimes I'd be hired to tell a fake story, like the time I was hired to photograph a protest and only six protesters showed up. The police almost outnumbered the protesters. My job therefore became to fake the pictures by making it look like there were more protesters than there were. The client used a picture of three shouting protesters holding up a banner flanked by two policemen, all crowded into the frame. What you couldn't see was that, not counting me, that was exactly half of the total number of people at the event!!)

"What's the story?" is also an idealistic question. In practice there's also the matter of "...and what worked as a photograph?" Lots of times we know the picture we would have wanted, but it didn't work, and instead we got the birthday girl on the porch admiring her own cake. So then that becomes the picture of the 11th birthday because the one that would have told the story better didn't turn out to be such a good picture. To steal (and mangle) a quote from Robin Kelsey's Photography and the Art of Chance, the world is a mix of order and disorder, and what works as a picture is the sum of a series of accidents. Put shortly, you have to try your hardest to get what you want but then, later, when you edit, you have to put all that aside and also be totally open to what worked and what didn't.

I think one of the drafts of my article had a section about just how difficult family photography really is. That part survived as only one sentence: "Creating a comprehensive record of a family’s life is inherently challenging—it’s an extended, ambitious, and multifaceted documentary project...."

A neighbor once let me photograph his five kids playing energetically in their backyard. (With a manual-focus but autoexposure film camera.) None of them would cooperate in the least, so I had to get what I could on the fly. It was a real camera-workout, and challenged my shooting skills. I felt afterwards that although it's an ordinary subject, photographing moving kids in action is actually pretty difficult, right up there with the hardest shooting challenges I've faced. Well, the same thing is true of being a true family photographer, I think. It's an ordinary and natural thing to do, but to do it exceptionally well is very difficult, and requires skills, in at least some aspects, that most people struggle with. I doubt there are very many people with a truly comprehensive photographic archive of their family's life. I know I don't have one. My attempts are sporadic and inconsistent, the results not very well organized and incomplete.

It hasn't stopped me from trying, of course.  :-)

Mike
(Thanks to Oren Grad)

Book o' the Week

Grit and Grace: Women at Work in the Emerging World. Unfortunately, this will be the posthumous swan song of the indefatigable documentarian Alison Wright, whose untimely death at 60 in the Azores this year meant she never got to see it published. Wright's photography was inextricably entwined with her life's dedication to social justice, a sense of acceptance of humanity, and a roving search for beauty and color.

The book link is your portal to Amazon from TOP, should you wish to support this site.

Our link to B&H Photo

Original contents copyright 2020 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:

A Thought on Good Technique

[Comments have been added.]

What part of your own practice of photography does technique play? I took this a couple of nights ago—saw it from the car, and though, hmm, maybe someday under the same conditions I could take a picture of that. Which then struck me as being a crazy thought—Jay Maisel's admonition to "always shoot it now; it won't be the same when you go back" came to mind. So I turned around, went back, heaved my lazy butt out of the heated driver's seat, and shot it. I dealt with the low light by taking five or six series of brackets and then just looked for the best one. But of course it could have been better technically if I'd had a tripod. I have a great tripod—an ideal one, really—but I keep it in the back room behind the bookcase. It wasn't doing me a lot of good there. What would be wrong with storing it in the trunk?

I'm not sure my indifferent technique here hurts this—it's properly exposed (I can't look at the sky without thinking about how to properly expose a picture of it). But better technique in steadying the camera might have helped. I'll never know, will I?

Anyway the idea came to mind that I'm not taking much if any joy in good technique—good craftsmanship—these days. There's no moral imperative to use good technique. Part of ignoring it is a protest against the tunnel-vision attitude of technique-above-everything that pervades the internet these days. (And possibly also a protest against 750-page manuals.) But being a good photographic craftsperson can be part of the fun, no?

Mike

Book o' the Week
Eye and Brain by Richard Gregory, Fifth Edition. "As far as I know nothing in the past 50 years is a better explanation of how humans see." —Hugh Crawford

The link is a portal to Amazon. Thank you kindly for helping support The Online Photographer!

The following logo is also a link if you click on it:

Original contents copyright 2020 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:

Ken Bennett: "I think good technique is necessary but not sufficient for good photos. That is, using proper technique is important all the time, but good technique by itself is not enough. The reason that the technical part of photography gets so much attention online is that it's measurable, while the aesthetic parts are not; but the combination is what makes a good photo. Light, composition, and the moment are crucial, but without solid technical skills it's hard to make the photo that you see.

"You should carry the tripod in your car. I have one in the back of my truck and often find use for it."

Harry B Houchins: "I carry a small pillow-size beanbag in the car. When I see something as you did. I stop and use the beanbag on the roof of my car. Doesn't take nearly as long to set up as my tripod. Which, true be told, I hate to carry around with me even in the woods."

John Krumm: "Maybe there's a lazy way to do this one. Put your camera in continuous mode (not bracket). Use a high enough ISO to get a good enough shutter speed for a sharp shot. Shoot 12 or more images. Up to 36 images. Then do a 'means stack' in Photoshop, and watch your noise go way down while detail remains good. Adjust photo as needed. This is what Brooks Jensen does all the time with his G9."

Robert Roaldi: "There's no need for self-flagellation. No one is judging your photos, and if they are, screw 'em. Lots of photos have noise/grain in them, some have some motion blur, sometimes the exposure is off. Sometimes these things matter, oftentimes they don't matter at all. Do you enjoy looking at the scene? Unless someone is paying you, that's the only criteria that matters. People worry way too much."

MikeR: "More winter pictures of Keuka, please! I've only stayed at Keuka Lake in mid-summer, usually July or August. This year it will be late August. We'll rent a couple of big houses, so that the family, comprising about six to nine sub-families, can get together for the first time since 2019. When there, I've always wondered what it would be like to live in one of those houses in mid-Winter. Much fewer people, quiet, solitude. Neat photo opportunities! I even investigated once, and found that winter rentals are almost non-existent. Either the houses are closed up, or their owners have returned from wherever they go in the summertime. So, please more Winter Keuka pictures!"

William Shannon: "I think that this image was well worth going back for. The palette of blues defined by the geography, the sky and the time of day and the warm window lights reflecting off the water offer a feeling of warmth piercing the cold. I like the exposure and in this case I think that tripod sharpness might cut into the feeling offered by the photograph."

Darlene: "What part of your own practice of photography does technique play? Having good technique is a fundamental part of the craft. Being able to predict the technical results is having an understanding of the craft. I practice good technique and always have a tripod stowed in my vehicle. A shutter release cable is stashed in there too because I never know if I will be toting around film or digital.

"I also have an excellent pair of sunglasses to protect my eyes from the sun. Without my vision, I would find photography very frustrating to practice."

Kirk Decker: "I'd suggest that good technique isn't found in the use of a tripod. Good technique is that you knew how to take an acceptable image without a tripod. Had you been super captivated by the scene you would have, no doubt, started to dive into the bag of camera steadying tricks that a person with good technique, such as yourself, knows. It is a very nice photo by the way. I think actually listening to that little voice that tells you to stop and take the photo is 90% of the struggle.

"I should add that I am a huge fan of tripods and if one is available, you should use it. But, to paraphrase a '70s saying, 'technique will get you through times of no tripods better than tripods will get you times of no technique.'"

Dave (partial comment): "Mike, The photo looks fine. The thin branches in the foreground are sharp enough on the screen in front of me. (17 x 10", 2–3 feet viewing distance.) The thing that grabs me is the mood of the photo, rather than whether it's as technically as good as possible. A good, rich darker blue without magenta creeping in. Dark, but easy to see the distant 'layers.' I'm glad you turned around to take that photo!"

The Difference Between Youth and Age

A spread from Bystander, the
bible of street photography

I mentioned I didn't take any street photographs on Street Photography Day last Sunday. I'd like to expand a little on that.

The difference between youth and age is that when you're older, you've learned what you're not. Those rose-tinted contact lenses fall away from our eyes as the years wear on. When you're young, life is a sort of vague infinitude of casual impulsive ambitions that are going to be fulfilled magically one day. But with every additional year you get under your belt, well, there goes another one.

This is why young boys argue about which supercar is best. Rob's going to have a Ferrari; Joe's going to have a Lamborghini. It's serious enough that they've had to learn how to keep the argument from getting too passionate because it could cause a rift in the friendship, and they both know that. What's never questioned is the assumption that they're going to have cars like that when they grow up. Because of course they are. The future is vast—and in it all things are possible.

I might be getting that example wrong. Maybe 12-year-olds today don't care about cars. I've heard that older teenagers don't. If they do care about vehicles of some sort, maybe Ferraris and Lamborghinis don't enter in. Even my plucked-from-the-air boy names are probably wrong: those are 12-year-old boy names of my era. Today's 12-year-olds would be named Ethan, Noah, Jacob, Aiden or Jayden. Joseph was only the 20th-most popular boy name in 2010 and Robert didn't make the top 50. In fact, I have no idea what boys of today aspire to. I don't know any 12-year-olds. But you get the point.

Jimmy
For males, of which I am one, the most reliable reality test when it comes to vague aspirations being shut down by the passing of the years is no doubt sports. I played tennis when I was a kid (it exploded in popularity as I passed through youth*) and while I never exactly thought I was ever going to be "all that" as a tennis player, still, age first impinged for me when players younger than myself were, first, playing in the big tournaments, and then winning them. Jimmy Connors was five years older than me (rank of the name James in popularity the year Connors was born: 1). That was the way the world was when it was the way it was supposed to be. Today the Big Three—the astonishing triumvirate of Federer, Nadal and Djokovic—are 24, 29, and 30 years younger than me, and they're all old. And I haven't hit a tennis ball since before any of them were born, except—and this is true—in my dreams.

So anyway: who am I kidding? I'm never going to be a street photographer. I don't have the personality for it. I would almost wager that if I went through my entire archive looking for one great street photograph—just one—which no one would disagree fit the category and the quality of which no one would dispute either—I wouldn't find that unicorn!

The difference is that when I enrolled in photography school in 1982 and honestly thought I was just about the luckiest guy in the world because I got to do photography all day every day, well, of course I was going to make great street photographs. If not immediately, someday.

At my age now, it doesn't take a genius to know that that "someday" is never going to come.

And that's all right. The real key to success is to figure out what you're actually good at. Without illusions. Doing so involves an honest and objective appraisal of who and what you are—but it also involves a clear-eyed view of what you're not.

Mike

*It's done very well during the pandemic, too, being a naturally socially-distanced activity.

Book o' the Week

Bystander: A History of Street Photography by Colin Westerbeck and Joel Meyerowitz (Laurence King Publishing, 2017). First published in 1994. In this revised edition, the story of street photography is brought up to date with a re-evaluation of some historical material, the inclusion of more contemporary photographers, and a discussion of the ongoing rise of digital photography.

The above is a link to Amazon from TOP. Here's Bystander at The Book Depository. The following logo is also a link:

Original contents copyright 2020 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site. As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:

Knack Mac: "Figuring out what you aren’t going to be good at is so important at any age. When very young, I wanted to be an architect. When I went to college, I was in engineering rather than architecture, but I was given a photo assignment by the yearbook to capture first-year architecture students working late Friday on their assigned big project. They worked into the night, and I noticed a friend who was an architecture student wasn’t there. Later I asked him where he had been. He said he had finished the assignment Wednesday. He admitted he had talent for architecture those other students didn’t. They would be doomed to designing bathrooms when he was doing skyscrapers.

"I realized then it is unwise to compete against people with more talent. Better to find something that you either do have a talent for, or in which there just isn’t a requirement for much talent. I took that to heart and realized I was going to be competing against engineers who had more talent than I did, so I left engineering. I went into something that required less talent: marketing."

["Knack Mac" ended up as CEO of Miller Brewing—so maybe his talent for knowing what he didn't have a talent for is something talented young people would do well to listen to and learn from.... —Mike]

Phil S.: "On sports being the locale where many young men first give up a dream, there's an achingly beautiful song called 'Speedtrap Town' by American singer-songwriter Jason Isbell that features these lines:

Well it's a Thursday night but there's a high school game
Sneak a bottle up the bleachers and forget my name
These 5A bastards run a shallow cross
It's a boy's last dream and a man's first loss.

"I always thought that pretty well summed it up."

Sroyon: "Hmm, you (claim that you) are not good at street photography...but do you enjoy it? If yes, then why not do it anyway?  :-) 

"I get what you're saying, but I also think there's something to be said for pursuing something one is not good at, purely out of love. Maybe not as a profession, because most professions require some level of proficiency. But why not as an amateur (Latin: amare, to love)."

Mike replies: Oh, I do not enjoy it at all. It's torture. As I said, I don't have the personality for it; it's awkward and agonizing for me. I much prefer making pictures in situations where I have permission to do so, or at least where I feel like I'm not bothering anybody. I've written about this at length several times over the years. But I agree with you—if I did enjoy it, I would have no problem doing it just for the fun of it and the love of it. That's a good enough reason. But no, I don't enjoy it.

Shooting Skills: Contrast for Clarity

Here's a simple shooting skills exercise that might be of use to you if you've never worked on it before. It's best if you give it about two hours. The purpose is to make you more aware of tonal contrast as a way of making a main subject more clear.

You can do this with any camera, including a phone (these illustrations were taken with my old iPhone), and with either a zoom or prime lens. It's equally useful for color or black-and-white. And definitely don't worry about whether the pictures you're seeing are "good shots" or not. This is just an exercise, for practice. However, you should be "single-tasking," not multitasking. Do this when you have a clear stretch of time during which you can concentrate entirely on shooting.

What you do is look for any picture in which there's a plain or obvious single main subject, and try to take a picture of it with a background that tonally confuses with the main subject and then, a background that tonally sets off the main subject.

What you'll notice is that the changes are often not drastic. Often the difference is either just a slight change of angle or of camera position—maybe walking a few steps, getting a little higher or lower, or being more aware of backgrounds. The purpose of the exercise is to start making those little changes more automatic. What you're changing is your visual thinking, your awareness.

For practicing, the subject can be anything. Here, the subject is just an odd flower that reminded me of the SARS-CoV-2 coronavirus virion we've been seeing in scanning electron microscope and transmission electron microscope pictures. In the first exposure I made the lower boundary of the head of the plant (I'm not naming it because I have no idea what it is!) confused tonally with the yellow-green plant behind it:

Note that you might actually prefer this version, but don't pay attention to aesthetic impressions for now. You're just doing an exercise, not trying to second-guess which alternative might actually work best.

Just a slight change of camera position puts the whole head of the plant against a contrasting background.

Here's an even more mundane picture, but an excellent example of what we're looking for here. A telephone pole:

The subject is in direct view and is clear visually. The bottom third of the pole is set off against its background. But other than that, the background isn't helping; neither is the background "giving" us anything, i.e., doing any work in the picture. But take just a few steps to the left and notice the improvement in the perception of clarity:

Now the whole pole is clear against the background and the background itself is stronger because it's simpler. There's no technical trick here and the lens and sensor don't matter. It's just a matter of seeing, is all.

Mindless groove
If you've never done this exercise before you might not find a suitable subject for the first five or ten minutes. A hint: look at the world, not at the viewfinder. It will become easier as you go along and start to get the knack.

Most people don't have the stamina to do a shooting exercise for two hours. After about about 45 minutes, you'll be getting tired of the drill and be eager to say "that's enough of that."

But keep walking and keep looking. It's the second hour when most of the benefit accrues. You're bored and fed up. Finding examples is no longer challenging, and you start rejecting poor opportunities that you've learned won't really work very well. In the second hour you start to get into a more "mindless" groove. Your mind wanders and you start thinking about other things. Maybe taking fewer pictures, but still looking—ah, there's one. Yeah, this works. That's when you start to cruise, and that, I think, is when it starts getting to be second nature.

Because that's what you want. You want it to something you kinda don't think about—so that during normal shooting you'll just juke and move a little bit here and there to get rid of undesirable tonal mergers. And you'll see those problems when they come up without having to think about looking for them.

But I know that most people will quit before two hours. They don't have the stamina. Heck, some people get tired of any kind of shooting before the two-hour mark. If you want to be good at any skill you have to have enough determination to put some hours in.

Note that you can do the opposite too—you can de-emphasize an unwanted element, say by moving a little to put it against a tonally similar background so it doesn't show up as well. A few weeks ago I was shooting a car on the street and I noticed that two dark-green trash bins were vivid against a patch of light background. A change of shooting position didn't make the car look worse but camouflaged the trash cans against the dark shadowed side of a garage, de-emphasizing them. Using this trick you can sometimes "take something out of the picture" without taking it out of the picture.

I think I had something else to say about this exercise, but I can't remember what it is. If I remember, I'll add it later as an update.

Mike

Original contents copyright 2020 by Michael C. Johnston and/or the bylined author. All Rights Reserved. Links in this post may be to our affiliates; sales through affiliate links may benefit this site.

(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:

Jim Metzger: "I took a class with Moose Petersen many years back. One of the exercises involved putting a small stuffed bear in a tree and asking the participants to set up a shot as if this was going to be a wildlife photo. Since this was pre-digital we had no way to exchange images but Moose just walked from tripod to tripod, glancing through the viewfinder for no more than a second or two. He declared only one of the eight participants would have a 'good photo.' The other seven were perplexed as to how he could know this. It was all about having a 'clean' background. That lesson stayed with me for the last 20 years or so and it is the first thing I explain to people who want some tips for better photos."

Jim Richardson: "Excellent! You can often tell much about a photographer by how they achieve 'separation' in a picture, making sure that competing elements get their own space. It becomes even more important when you are trying to maintain the visual presence (and thus meaning) of a small element in a composition, a small figure of a person in the distance, for example, that you don’t want to lose in the clutter. And silhouettes require this sort of thinking lest the graphic shape become indecipherable. In another realm, old time newspaper printers in the backshop always advocated that they liked photos with good contrast. Photographers (like me) often misunderstood their advice, thinking they meant we should print on No. 4 paper to get more 'contrast,' when what the actually wanted was clear separation of tonal areas."

[Ed. note: We have two Jim Richardsons who comment hereabouts. This Jim is the National Geographic photographer.]

Rodger Kingston: "I think I pretty much do this when I'm photographing, but I've never done it as an exercise. Interesting. I'm curious enough that I'll give it the two hours and see what I get. Who know, maybe this old dog can learn a new trick."

[Ed. note: Rodger is a major collector of vernacular photography and has published numerous books of his own work including 2019's Train to Providence as well as books of selections from the Kingston Collection.]

Peggy C.: "I learned this exercise years ago. It's also a good one to use when my photography is in the doldrums. I will carry my camera around and set myself a task. For example, isolating one set color against a dark background or a pattern of only one kind. I don't expect to really get anything great but it's good for my creativity. Works equally well for my painting."

Pros van Heddegem: "Thank you. Excellent elementary exercise! Good to mention this two-hour 'rule': learning is indeed also a matter of discipline."

John Krumm: "You inspired me to look through my Flickr feed to find shots where I more clearly simplified the background to emphasize contrast, or maybe emphasized it in another way. Looking forward to trying your exercise as well. Even doing that was helpful. Here’s an album of some that stood out to me."

Robert B: "Just to elucidate the biological facts: your flower is some species of allium, i.e., garlic, onion, or leek."