Only Photograph the Things You Love

I have wondered what it is that makes one photograph effective and another just a big yawn. Why is it that one photographer can make a photograph of an object and everyone's jaw drops to the floor, and another can make almost exactly the same photograph and no one is impressed—except the photographer’s mother, knowing being impressed is part of a mother's job description? 

I have come to the conclusion that one image is portrayed with great love and sensitivity, while the other is just a pedantic recital of the details of the scene. One is infused with love; the other is not. Why is that? What is the secret element that makes one very eloquent and the other just a statement of fact? One is an expression of a connection with—a love of—the subject material.

If a picture tells a thousand words, then what are yours about? Where you went last summer? Or “I was there one time…” If that’s as far as they go—fine, family photo album fodder. But shouldn’t there be more? Shouldn’t the photographs we make have more substance than a simple snapshot of Mom and your children at the beach? Shouldn’t they be more a statement of place and of an emotional state?

So how do we connect our emotional response to a scene or subject to the image we hope to place on our wall, or a client’s wall? I have been somewhat scorned for this statement, but I am not completely convinced that the life of the image is complete until it is displayed on a wall, or more recently, in electronic media of some form. Perhaps the thing I seek most is a response from a viewer—to know that I have communicated an idea, an emotion, or a thought to another human being. As long as the negative sits in a file in my film storage safe unprinted, or the files collect dust on a computer’s hard drive, it cannot elicit an emotional response from another viewer. How can your work be appreciated if it is never seen?

In my mind, if there is no emotional response to the scene or subject by the creator, then it’s nothing more than a sterile exercise—which may be okay if you are photographing to learn a new technique or as a teaching assignment. In my case, that is what I did for literally decades in my studio business, where I was essentially a hired gun. And there’s nothing wrong with that if that’s what your intent is. For instance, when Mrs. Jones wants to bring her four juvenile delinquents to the studio for me to create a timeless portrait of them in artistic perfection—which requires more work from me than she will ever realize—and especially since at least one of them is the personification of Satan himself… and I have to make them look angelic! Or when I was contracted to make photographs of a dozen new natural gas engines in the morning, and then to photograph individual couples at a high school prom in the evening. Both jobs paid very handsomely, by the way, and the only investment I had involved was my time, the transport of my tools to the location, the film and processing and printing of the film, and then delivery to the client. But there was no emotional investment at all, only time and goods. So, for me, did these images represent an artistic statement or a statement of my state of mind and emotions at the time? No, they did not. Mrs. Jones was ecstatic and purchased a wall-sized portrait for her living room, and for her, it represented a strong emotional connection. But for me, it was just another assignment… and, if you are a portraitist by trade and inclination, and there is no emotional connection between you and the people being portrayed, your portrait work will probably not connect with the people being portrayed. I had to learn how to connect with people emotionally very quickly since I often had five or more portrait sessions per day. The clients liked them—obviously, since I was very successful over a 40-year time span. But would I display them in my home? Nope, not even a small chance. As an aside, you should know that I do have a 24" × 30” portrait of my family in my living room that was done by a photographer in a nearby city, and every time I see it, I am reminded of the deep family ties that I do have. So for me, there is an emotional connection. However, there was none for the photographer, and by this time, that photographer has sent the portrait files from our session into the eternal bit bucket in the sky.

And then there was the time I was engaged to produce a series of photographs of food for a promotional cookbook. The job was fun. The company bought a full week of my time, so it was profitable, and I had a food stylist and art director on set. No particular emotional connection, and I didn't even get to sample the food! (By the way, these were done more than 25 years ago. Food styles are a lot different now, but these images won several Golden Addies from a metropolitan press club at the time of their publication.)

So the question remains: How do we make an emotional connection with the thing we are photographing so that we can make an equivalent emotional connection with the viewer—mirror neurons, if you will?

Tell a Story

One of the first things for me is for my images to have a storytelling quality. I like to say something, visually, about the material I am portraying.

Use an Unusual Viewpoint

I want my photographs to be an expression of my human soul—how I view things—and for me, an idealized landscape or scene from nature.

Abstract the Image Down to its Most Basic Elements

People ask me from time to time why it is that I most often work using black and white, and even then, why I use large cameras and only black and white film when the world is in color and carrying a digital camera would be much simpler. The simple answer is that for me, using large cameras forces me to really slow down and see things—to really look at what it is I am portraying. For me, black and white removes the “pretty picture” element and reduces everything to its most basic form, and consequently to its most emotional elements. And the most basic elements are what I see as most consequential. Another thing I like to do is to remove anything from the photograph that isn't essential so that the attention goes immediately to what I view as most important.

Hide an Easter Egg or Include an Unexpected Element

A very favorite technique of mine is to include an unexpected element. In that way, I reward a diligent viewer with something they may not have been expecting. I remember backpacking in the outback of southern Utah and finding a rattlesnake that was sunbathing on the trail in front of me. That incident made the journey much more memorable—and not in a negative way. Just more memorable. And although I didn’t photograph it, I will always remember the time I found a rattler under the dark cloth I had laid on the ground.

There is a rattlesnake under one of the foreground boulders. I like to include unexpected elements in my photographs when I can. I used a Canon 6D camera and a Canon 17-40L lens. And, by the way, if you've ever been out hiking and hear the very distinctive buzz of a rattler, then you know just how unsettling that can be.

A thing I like to do when I can is to include something in the photograph that might not be seen on first glance. It enhances the storytelling quality of the image.

Add a Touch of Humor

Everyone loves a good joke, so why not add a humorous touch to your photographs? Sometimes you will see something that strikes you as humorous. I was walking up a street in Lisbon and I saw this wall-sized poster of a woman that I thought was funny. Because I don't speak any Portuguese, I felt free to add my own title to it and maybe make someone look twice and get a chuckle as well.

This photograph was made while walking up a street in downtown Lisbon, Portugal. I thought the poster was funny, though I had no idea what the words meant. I later learned it meant “Never a Crisis,” though I do think that if I was in downtown Lisbon with only half my clothing on, it would be a crisis for me! There are some things that no one needs to see or know about! I used a Toyo 45A camera, a 210mm Sironar-S lens, and Kodak T-Max 100 film.

There are probably hundreds of ways to make an emotional photograph. What I seek to do is to find a way to make the viewer feel what I was feeling at the time—maybe the absolute wonder of the creation of nature, or a good joke. Find a way to take their breath away. In reality, as the old saying goes, “Your life isn’t measured by how many breaths you take, but how many moments take your breath away.”

By the way, the lead photograph was made in City of Rocks State Park in southern New Mexico. The sun dog was directly behind the vertical rock and lent a very distinctive aura to it.