Plato's Travelogues, Part 5 ~

February was a great month. As is my usual habit, I spent my birthday month engaging in as much travel -- and its attendant dissipations -- as I can fit into a scant 28 days, 29 if I'm calendrically lucky. A predictably and delightfully rainy trip to northern California capped it off, and of course I'm left to reflect on the fact that my recent trips have all involved a good deal of rain. This, I'm convinced, is a good thing. It makes for better photographs.

But traveling also demands, of me at least, a healthy dose of delayed gratification. Here's what I mean: I rarely travel with my laptop computer, a generously proportioned 15-inch Macbook Pro. Much as I would otherwise like to, I don't upload any of my pictures until well after the event, and this can be any number of days away. Oh sure, I always do some on my iPhone too, and those I can see and mess with right away. That, too, is a good thing, but the ones I take with my camera -- more contemplative, perhaps -- benefit from a cooling-off period.

There are a couple of reasons for this, the first of which has troubled me since I began shooting with a digital camera.  As much as anyone, I love the excitement, the joy, of seeing a beautiful image unfold in the viewfinder and then tripping the shutter. A quick glance at the LCD screen might even reinforce that feeling. But the excitement felt at the moment of exposure is often not the same as that which happens when the image is opened up and sprawled, naked and cold, on the computer screen. One is a Eureka! moment, the other is a "what do I do now?" one. They are inherently disconnected. Better to give them the advantage of time and avoid being unnecessarily disappointed. I'm sure it's a holdover from my film days, which involved the lengthy process of gathering up the exposed rolls and spending a few days developing the negatives before I could even get to the task of printing them. The inherent delay, the forced separation, was integral to the process. Consciously or not, I took advantage of it.

But the other reason, which I've mentioned in passing a couple times before, has to do with re-discovering an old image, as if to see it for the first time all over again. If I go back over images I took weeks or even months before, those initial responses and expectations are long gone. I get to interpret an image I had previously overlooked and will feel excited about it again, but for entirely different reasons having little or nothing to do with the original intent. I find that supremely satisfying, but then, I often feel the same way about Portland coffee or a good IPA. Or rain.

So maybe it's just me.

Maximally minimal ~

I don't think I've ever enthusiastically embraced the notion that less is more. Not that I'm given to excess, mind you, at least not terribly often. I don't care for images that are cluttered or poorly arranged either, but the thought that empty space could somehow draw out of the viewer a range of emotions was, shall I say, unsupported. I just don't buy it.

And yet, and yet..........

I spent the better part of this week examining just those very minimalist photographs at the urging of a colleague back east, and could hardly draw my eyes away from them. Hengki Koentjoro, for example, is an Indonesian photographer whose work just blew me away (google him.) So I went through my usual gallery sites with a more refined minimalist eye, and came away impressed. A changed man? At my age, no. But one who came to some revelations about what we've been doing -- or should have been doing --all along.

And it only makes sense. After all, if you think about it, photography is more about what you leave out than what you put in. It's always been that way, we just have a hard time reflecting on it because we're usually in such a darn big hurry. When you bring the camera up to your eyes, you pretty much choke off 99% of the universe in the process. That's not a bad thing, of course; it's the very nature of the art. You just have to slow it down a notch.

So the task I set for myself was to go out and shoot with a maximalist heart and a minimalist eye. And no, it wasn't that I was going to purposely take "minimalist" photographs; such an objective will surely send you down the wrong path. I take pictures the way I take pictures, but I tried instead to be consciously aware of the elements around me that I was leaving out, and that, as Frost might say, has made all the difference.

But once again, mes amis, I apologetically leave you in a philosophical lurch. I have no great moral to impart, no important lesson to pass on. It's just me and an observation. I constantly take pictures, every day, everywhere, all the time. Usually I have a camera with me, but not always. After all, I think, the zen of photography is about the quiet spaces: seeing more, talking less.

Obviously haven't mastered that last part.

A Photography Contrarian ~

I decided a long time ago that I wanted to make my photographs bass-ackwards, and this bears some explanation, as you can imagine. I think it came about when I began to really embrace all things digital, because this made me see things differently from my old darkroom days. A lot differently. And since I'm enjoying myself immensely, I pay little heed to my erstwhile advisors and detractors who came upon this technology from a different angle. Take your own damn pictures! I'm having too much fun.

So let me take you back to those old darkroom days for a little perspective. Despite the usual dissipations attendant to a 20-something neophyte, I was a diligent and disciplined photography student. I took it seriously, and trained under some intensely talented teachers. The lesson brought home by them, ratified by the writings of the ever influential Ansel Adams, was the insistent karma of pre-visualization. Whether in the studio or in the field, each shot was thought out ahead of time (sometimes even diagrammed) to visualize the values, tones, and intent of the photo when realized in the darkroom. It was, as you can tell, pretty much all planned out, and ideally there were no unpleasant surprises. So I ask you: what fun is that?

Don't get me wrong, this was wonderful training and it provided a rich background from which to spring. And spring I did. I began, imperceptibly at first, to turn my meditative gaze outward, and I discovered that my camera and my eyes teamed up to find the things that interested them, and I pretty much went along for the thrill-ride. Maybe it's just in the way I use imaging technology, or maybe it's the tequila, but in either event there's a profound joy -- and, yes, the yang of a little discomfort -- in not knowing exactly where I would end up. Life is like that.

But if you open yourself up to a little post-visualizing, here's what you'll discover: a wealth of infinitely-layered images that open themselves up to you with new surprises every time you visit them. They will entertain you, they will delight, they will talk back with an atittude and they will be profoundly challenging. I think that's the whole point of art anyway, and it's not the sort of thing you can easily plan out ahead of time. Create your own river I say, and then go with the flow.

No telling what you might discover.

Zen and the Art Of Trying Not To Freeze Your Ass Off

Blame it on climate change. The recent winter shift in weather patterns up here has been pretty dramatic, and not in a warming direction, either. Quite the contrary; it's a mini-Ice Age, a snowpocalypse, and downright pleistocene if you ask me. Cold, in other words, and I didn't sign up for this, but here we are. We'll make the best of it, come hell (oh, I wish) or high water.

So with temperatures that never got above the teens, my friend Dan and I took the notion that it'd be a good idea to drive up into the Columbia Gorge and find some frozen waterfalls to photograph. We bravely sallied forth, bundled up like a couple of four-year-old's, with all the photo gear we could muster. Which, between the two of us, is considerable.

The waterfalls in the gorge are an incredible site any time of the year; they wax and wane with the seasons and the rainfall. I've photographed them many times, but never in a nearly-frozen state like this. It presented some interesting challenges. We hiked (or, rather, skated) on the lower trail up to Latourell Falls, picked our way carefully down to Bridal Veil falls, and then coasted into the parking lot at Multnomah Falls. Somewhere in the mix we found an inviting brew-pub in Hood River to thaw out. Ok, so it's not the Shackelton expedition. Give me a break.

But you know me, I have to make every excursion into something more personal, more intense, than just a cruise with a camera. I want to bring the camera up to my eye and and lose myself in the moment -- in this case, an extremely cold moment, but a spellbinding one nonetheless. The swirling mists at the bottom of the falls were instantly freezing on our lenses (and my glasses) so I know that I was sometimes shooting on faith alone. Therein lies the beauty of the motions.

And truth be told, I love shooting in gray and inclement conditions. Let me rephrase that: it's not that I love actually shooting in them -- I take my creature comforts seriously -- but I do truly love the photographic possibilities inherent in the gray skies, the rain and the fog. Add to that snow and ice now, too. A nice, warm day presents few challenges physically or photographically, and for all their discomforts, the frozen waterfalls quite literally took my breath away. It was a rare visual feast.

Shackelton would have been proud.

Un-Resolutions For A New Year ~

I find myself sitting at my desk, gazing mindlessly down at the meadow, here in these first few hours and days of the new year 2017. By tradition, one supposes, I should be pondering some resolutions and promises to keep in these upcoming months, but I'm not of that mind. Sorry to disappoint.  Another fine tradition is to register an optimism that the new year will accord us a more generous slice of luck and goodness than last year. But truth be told, acknowledging all its ups and downs, 2016 was, on balance, a pretty good year. So was 2015, and the year before that, and the one before that, too. I've lived a lot of the-year-before-thats, by the way, so I guess it'd be alright to remark on a few things I might like to do this year.

I fully expect that photography will continue to surprise and challenge me. If it has taught me anything, it's that when I stay in the moment, I'm best able to see light and beauty. I've struggled all my life as a photographer to achieve and appreciate its zen, and I'm getting closer.  A few more years maybe, or in another life, but I'm thoroughly enjoying the effort.

Oh, and sure, there are some new things (ok, toys) that I'd like this year too, but whether they help me improve my photography is questionable. But so what. New toys seldom do, but that's hardly the point. They keep us excited. For example, I really don't need another camera, but boy would I like that new mirrorless Fuji X-Pro2. I have the Xe2 and love it to death, and I do recognize the difference between need and want. But again, so what. On the other hand, I do expect to pick up a new printer this year and hand-print my photos. I'm getting more and more people asking to buy them, and I'd like to have complete quality-control over their production. Plus, just between you and me, I miss printing something fierce.

So here I am, still gazing down at the meadow, think wistful thoughts. I'd like to get out more with my friends and colleagues to wander about the city looking for the perfect photograph, or at least a darn good one. I'll try to connect more, and hope you'll reach out, too. It doesn't take much to talk me into a photowalk, and if misery loves company, well, so does happiness. Even more so.

And as I continue to shift my gaze from laptop to meadow, I notice a few snowflakes beginning to fall. Yes, we do get snow in Portland, and it reminds me that I do need to resolve to make an important purchase, and soon.

Snow tires.

Right Back Where We Started ~

Ok, so it's just a few days before Christmas and by rights I should be getting started on my shopping, but no. I figure I still have time, and besides, I've been thinking more about apps recently than presents or even sugar plum fairies, whatever the heck they are. That's just how I roll, particularly since I was introduced to a photo app this week by a like-minded friend. Truth is, of course, I have a ton of photo apps, but this one has me preoccupied...and for all the wrong reasons.

It's a new one called Darkr. And yes, that's how it's spelled. Darkr. Maybe it's just me, and maybe I'm a little skeptical. It's supposed to give the experience of actually using a "real" camera (as opposed to propping up the iPhone in front of your face?) and then spend a little time working with the resulting black & white negative, just like in the darkroom. Only, not.

As you can see, you get to look through the viewfinder of an actual (well, virtual) camera, in this case what looks like a Yashica rangefinder. But you could also choose a medium-format or even the viewscreen of a large format camera, image inverted and all. Plus, you control the exposure with actual shutter speeds and f/stops. Now don't get me wrong, I think this is all very cool and I can't say I'm not enjoying playing with it. But I have to wonder: who is this designed for, and dear god, why?

If it's aimed at us old guys -- you know, like we've been hanging 'round the general store, pining for the fjords -- then they missed the mark by about a mile. We've moved on, and happily so. We have good gear and iPhones, and if the mood strikes we still can haul out the old Deardorff and load up some Tri-X. But frankly, the mood doesn't strike all that often any more (chalk it up to age and statins, and yes, I'm talking about old cameras, not whatever the hell it is that you're thinking about.)

And if it's aimed at a whole new generation unfamiliar with that old stuff, well then, good luck with that. Some analog experiences can't be reproduced in a digital world, but that doesn't mean you can't try. And I'm betting this app was designed by just one of those very people, thus my skoosh of skepticism. We're just not thinking on the same wavelength.

So you know what I'm going to do someday? I'm going to hike up Half Dome, set up a big old Reis tripod, find a good position under the dark cloth, and make my best Ansel Adams landscape -- on an iPad. I think he, of all people, would see the humor in it and frankly, if he were still around, he would have beaten me to it. Old guys.

That's just how we roll.

The Future Is Hanging Around Here Someplace ~

Let's establish this right off the bat -- I'm the world's worst prognosticator. Nostradamus I'm not. All the cocky predictions I made in my youth, about anything, have all been wildly off. When I first encountered personal computers, for example, I figured they might be useful in helping me organize my baseball card collection. How could I have seen they'd replace my darkroom, and that I'd be perfectly cool with that? And I'm sure it's not just me: where are the flying cars we were promised? So when I opened my laptop the other day and read the exciting headline The Future Of Photography, well boy howdy, was I curious to find out or what?

Turns out that particular story was actually an ad for iPhone lenses (one of which I already own, it seems) so I was somewhat miffed at not being transported to a new dimension. But it got me interested in stirring the tea leaves, so I poured some more coffee and headed into the unknown: what, dear Google, is the future of photography? I was not disappointed.

Undreamed-of new products and techniques, software and hardware, were on display for me to digest, but I wasn't really interested in all that. What caught my eye were the articles about new ways of seeing, and different ways to reflect upon reality that photography may offer us. These are truly revolutionary ideas. We've gotten into the habit of allowing photographs to mean something real to us when in fact they are contrivances, the artifacts created when we use technology to make an image. As we move into the future (at light speed, by the way) the totality of photography's ever-changing syntax will be overwhelming, but I bet we'll hardly notice. Our acceptance of what is real will adapt right along with it.

James Burke, one of the world's most influential science historians, wrote in his 1978 book Connections that not only do we not know the future, we can't know the future. The progression of time is non-linear: things that happen now effect the things that will happen later, and the process is utterly random. But I take heart in this. Nothing is pre-ordained; no outcome is inevitable. That's exciting stuff, even -- especially -- for a photographer in the digital age. One of those articles suggested we'll make up new rules as we go along, but I say, Rules? We don't need no stinkin' rules. Do we?

So what the heck, here's my stab at it: with every new piece of software, every new app, every new device (my iPhone and I are staring at each other across the room) we'll take image-making across uncharted borders, and define reality anew at every step. The "camera" will become as quaint as the "telephone."  Everyone will be able to create an image and then adjust it to conform to their own very individual way of seeing the world. Most will be mundane, but some will blow our socks off. That's largely how it is even right now, so that's really not that daring of a prediction, I guess. But however photography morphs, it will always be startling and unexpected, challenging, troubling, eternally engaging. Its unfamiliarity will be warmly welcoming.

Oh, and robots. Robots will do our dishes.