"Photography is an art. It is based on the sciences of light, optics, chemistry, computerization, etc., but if you get too hung up on the science, you lose the art."
- Bruce Barnbaum from The Art of Photography: A Personal Approach to Artistic Expression, 2017
How Do You Choose Which Photographs to Print or Publish?
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Shimmering Wall: The Story Behind This Photo Taken in 1997
In my previous article, I walked you through the making of one of my signature photographs, Fallen Sequoias, exposed in 1977. I’ve decided to use the same process in the creation of another image, made 20 years later, on a one-day hike with two friends in 1997.
The location was Hackberry Canyon, Utah. I had previously seen the upper end of the canyon, but not more than a few hundred yards, and I had also seen the lower end of the canyon, perhaps a half-mile or more, so I was anxious to see everything in between.
In those days, fully 17 years after discovering Antelope Canyon, I was still hoping -- perhaps even expecting -- to find similar slit canyons because I felt that Antelope Canyon was the discovery of a lifetime (and I still feel it was, to this day). It turned out that Hackberry Canyon was not one of them. So, with the wrong mindset, I hiked all day with a degree of disappointment that the canyon was not what I had hoped it to be.
Despite my disappointment in failing to find yet another slit canyon, I was still open to the idea of finding things of photographic interest, even if they weren’t what I was seeking. One of those things that grabbed my attention was a nearly flat canyon wall with subtle humps and bumps and troughs and ridges and black lines superimposed upon a very light, almost white, section of wall. I found a pattern that tapered to a point, standing out from the rest not because it jutted out in front of the adjacent wall (it didn’t) but because the shape was so distinctive. Somehow the tapering shape reminded me of a spinning top. Furthermore, the subtle parallel humps and depressions that crossed that section of wall reminded me of glacial tracks I had often seen while backpacking through the high lake basins of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
So it resonated with me and I exposed a 4×5-inch Tri-X negative on that interesting section of wall. Later, after developing the negative and making a contact proof of it (I make contact proofs of every negative I expose, giving me something to study at leisure), I then carefully evaluated its potential to print to my satisfaction.
First, let me note that I make all of my contact proofs at exactly the same contrast level, all rather low contrast. That allows me to see as much detail in the proof as possible, whereas a high-contrast proof could easily lose detail in either the highlights, the shadows, or both. So, I fully expect the contact proofs to look rather dull, lacking the snap I’d want in the final image, but I want them to give me maximum information about what I have to work with on each negative. I then try to envision the steps needed to put the life back into the final print, when I study and evaluate the proof print.
This contact proof didn’t excite me. It failed to give me the feeling that I could put the tonal qualities into the final print that I wanted, which were the qualities that would make it “sing.” So I set it aside and forgot about it. Recently, reviewing old contact proofs, I ran across this one. Who knows why, but this time I felt the possibility was there to make the print I originally wanted but had previously dismissed.
One reason could be the enlarging paper I’m using today, Fomabrom, made in the Czech Republic. I’ve worked with excellent papers in the past, but this is the finest enlarging paper I’ve ever used. Perhaps I saw the possibilities in that contact proof because of the Foma paper, and the way I’ve learned to work with its remarkably rich qualities. (Yes, I’d recommend it for any darkroom printer…and I’m not on the payroll to say that!)
The other reason might be the greater sophistication of my evaluation, along with accepting that Hackberry Canyon wasn’t the slit canyon I had been hoping for. (It’s possible that I set it down years ago because it didn’t satisfy my desire to find another slit canyon.)
So, this time I decided to seriously evaluate it. I cropped the negative slightly but at an angle, thus eliminating a few bothersome details in two of the corners. Perhaps those corners were the things that made me set the negative aside years ago, and perhaps I never thought of cropping the image at an angle but this time the angled cropping made a huge difference. Over the years I have found that careful cropping is very effective in improving the quality of an image. So, although I always want to use the entire negative, I never hesitate to crop to improve the final image.
In the darkroom I print to get the shimmering tones in the triangular section that tapers to the point at the bottom of the image. Then I burn the two lower corners at much lower contrast to darken them perceptibly from the brighter center portion. Not too much darkening; not too little; just the right amount to allow the center to stand out from the two lower corners. Finally, a little selective bleaching helps to highlight the shimmering qualities in the oblique, parallel humps, and depressions in the sandstone wall, giving it a metallic quality.
It’s surely an abstract image. I imagine it’s one that some viewers will be attracted to, perhaps studying the many little details, whereas others will turn away from it quickly, seeing little of value. It’s a fact that some people simply do not find abstract images attractive. Others are attracted to the enigmatic qualities inherent in abstraction. I find it very attractive, and that’s the most important thing to me in deciding to print or display any image. The salability of the image is of no importance because I found long ago that neither I nor the gallery owners who have displayed my work were ever able to decide in advance whether or not a photograph had real sales potential. So, I simply evaluate how strongly I feel about it. If it resonates with me, I’ll show it and discuss it at my workshops, or have it displayed in a gallery exhibit. That’s my sole consideration.
This article is courtesy ofELEMENTS Magazine. The ELEMENTS is the monthly magazine dedicated to elegant landscape photography, insightful editorials and fluid, clean design. Inside you will find an exclusive and in-depth articles and imagery by the best landscape photographers in the world such as Charles Cramer, Christopher Burkett, Hans Strand, Rachael Talibart, Christian Fletcher, Charlie Waite, and Steven Friedman, to name a few. Use the PETAPIXEL10 code for a 10% discount off the annual subscription.
_About the author: Bruce Barnbaum is one of the most prominent photographic thinkers and educators in the world. His iconic book, “The Art of Photography, A Personal Approach to Artistic Expression,” is widely recognized as the bible of photographic thought, insight and instruction. Bruce is also known as one of the finest black and white traditional darkroom printers. His work is represented by galleries in the United States and Europe and is in the collection of museums and private collectors worldwide. _
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How it Was Shot: ‘Chair and Shadow’ in San Miguel, Mexico
I believe it would be fair to say that I am known mostly for my landscape work, from broad “grand landscapes” to abstracts in the slit canyons. But throughout most of my career, I’ve also photographed human-made settings extensively. On a workshop I presented in the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico in 1994, I took the group into the Convento San Miguel in the village of Maní.
Maní is so small that it doesn’t even appear on maps of the area. It lies between the famous Mayan ruins of Chichen Itza, in the center of the peninsula, and Tulum, on its east coast. I discovered it by chance on a scouting trip for the workshop in 1993, driving from one major Mayan ruin to the other. But Convento San Miguel, which is bigger than the village, is the real attraction at Maní. Its construction began in 1562, shortly after Cortez’s Spanish conquest of Mexico. Today it is a school, a church, a ruin, and a village meeting center. It is in use daily. Amazingly, the authorities gave us full permission to wander anywhere in the structure and photograph whatever we liked.
In the 1994 workshop, I wandered around working with problems or questions from students but also looking for photographs myself. I incorporate that as a teaching/learning tool during workshops, inviting students to see and discuss what I find is a worthwhile image. Of course, students are scattered around during the field sessions, so only a few can take part in such discussions when I make an image. Consequently, in those days, I also made a 4×5” Polaroid image of each negative I exposed, to show students who had not been there so we could discuss any aspect of the image that interested them. At the end of each field session, as we boarded the chartered bus that took us from place to place, I would pull out the Polaroids I had made that day and passed them around the bus so they could discuss the imagery.
During the field session in Convento San Miguel, I wandered into the room where the image was made. It was a bare, rectangular room with a barrel-vaulted ceiling from end to end, peeling plaster on all walls, one door into the room on the side of the room (the one which I entered), and another door on the shorter wall of the rectangle leading out to a balcony. There were no windows.
Several students were working on compositions in the room, which contained folding chairs scattered randomly. At one point, after working with one student, I looked up and saw the chair and its shadow exactly where it was in the room. It may have been moved, perhaps several times, by students prior to my entering the room, or even while I was working with a student, but I had not touched it. And yet, the moment I saw it, a whole story unfolded in a flash before my eyes: the great classical cellist, Pablo Casals, had been sitting in that chair practicing the Bach cello suites. He had just finished, gotten up, and walked out of the door leading to the balcony (the one admitting light into the room), and I could still hear the music echoing in the room.
Instantly, I yelled out, “DON’T TOUCH THAT CHAIR!” That chair, together with its shadow, in that bare room, told a full story. But the door was swinging wildly open and closed due to strong winds. So I first set the tripod where I wanted to place my camera, then walked out onto the balcony to find a small piece of plaster (such pieces were everywhere) to shove under the door, as an anchor to prevent it from moving. I found the right-sized piece, and carefully placed it so that the door blocked bare light from streaming toward my lens from the fully opened door. (You can see it under the door.)
Then I made my exposure, knowing I would eventually print it in 11×14” size. I also made a Polaroid of the setting. The Polaroid was usually a rather poor example of what I had pictured in my mind as the final image, but this one was rather good (I used a very low contrast Polaroid film for that exposure). I discussed the image with some students who were still in the room, even encouraging them to make an exposure of it, or any variation of it, if they saw fit.
That was it. That’s the story behind the image. But there are two follow-ups I feel are of such integral importance that they each need further discussion. The first is that upon returning to the bus at the close of our session at the Convento, I pulled out the Polaroids I had made and handed them to the first student in the front seat so they could be passed around the bus for discussion. At the back of the bus was a student who had come with his wife, who was not a student in the workshop (but welcomed, like any non-participating wife, husband, relative or close friend) to join in the fun and discoveries of the workshop. When the Polaroid came to her, she stopped at the one of the chair and shadow, burst into tears, and cried out, “I’ve got to have the photograph.” I was stunned. I pointed out that I hadn’t even developed the negative yet! But she again said, “I have to have the photograph.”
I said, “How about this: When I return home, I will develop the negative and print it as an 11×14” image. If I like it, I’ll send it to you. If you like it, please pay me. If you don’t like it, please send it back.” She agreed. It took weeks, but I developed and printed the image … and liked it. I mailed it to her and received a check.
Quite honestly, I don’t know exactly what struck her as so moving that it elicited tears. I never asked. But it was obvious I had made an image that provoked a strong emotional reaction. I think it says something about the emotional power a photograph can have.
The second follow-up occurred about three years later. During a workshop at my home/studio I was showing prints one evening, discussing questions students had about any aspect of each image. One of the images was this one. I put it up, saying nothing (as I usually do as I show images), waiting for students to make comments or ask questions. One student rose from his chair, walked slowly up to the print, and said, “I can see Pablo Casals sitting in that chair practicing the Bach cello suites” and then he continued to describe what he saw in that image, ending up by saying, “And when he finished, he walked out of that door, and I can still hear the music.”
I stood there dumbfounded! He had described exactly what I had felt, even using the exact words I had used to describe my feelings. He had never been to a prior workshop, and I had yet to write about this image in any magazine or other venue. He came up with those words solely on his own!
What does this say? To me, it harks back to the opening words of my book, The Art of Photography: “Photography is a form of non-verbal communication.” Apparently, I had communicated something, and apparently, it was communicated so effectively that the receiver (the student) used my exact words to describe what he got out of the image. To this day, I shake my head in disbelief.
The article courtesy ofMedium Format Magazine. The Medium Format Magazine is #1 magazine dedicated to the finest medium and large format photography. Inside you will find an exclusive and in-depth interviews, articles and imagery by the best photographers in the world such as Edward Burtynsky, Christopher Burkett, Nick Brandt, Dan Winters, Cooper & Gorfer, Robert Ascroft, Tim Tadders, to name a few. Use the PETAPIXEL20 code for a 20% discount off the annual subscription.
About the author: Bruce Barnbaum is one of the most prominent photographic thinkers and educators in the world. His iconic book, “The Art of Photography, A Personal Approach to Artistic Expression,” is widely recognized as the bible of photographic thought, insight and instruction. Bruce is also known as one of the finest black and white traditional darkroom printers. His work is represented by galleries in the United States and Europe and is in the collection of museums and private collectors worldwide.
#editorial #features #brucebarnbaum #howitwasshot #mediumformat #mediumformatfilm #mediumformatmagazine #stilllife
