Main Street Estate Shop © Michael Maurer Smith 2009

Carmina and Tony Talk Time and Photography:

“We are the time police, arresting speeders—that’s what we photographers are. We try to apprehend those, this and that in their acts of escaping. And much of what catch we do not realize until much later, if ever. We are collectors, conservators and curators of experience. We are teachers and shapers of our culture,” said Tony

“Oh my god, he’s on a roll today,” thought Carmina. “So Tony, what brings this on?” she asked.

“I’m in a philosophical mood, I guess. I got up around 4:00 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. Something was eating at me. I don’t know what. Anyway, I pulled my copy of Distinctly American: The Photography of Wright Morris from my bookcase, along with Time Pieces—a wonderful collection of Morris’ essays, and I spent the next couple of hours looking and reading and it all got me thinking. Thinking about stuff like, what is the essence of photography? What purpose does it serve? What makes it meaningful and worthwhile? You know, light stuff, no pun intended, he said.”

Tony continued, “I love that Morris was both a writer and a photographer—and that he could see and reveal so much in the humble and mundane—in the residue and remnants of time’s passage. He photographed Nebraska in its flatness and seeming emptiness and yet filled those pictures with meaning—universal and specific. His photographs are often without people but show their effects upon simple objects and the landscape—like the worn pump handle or the lone grain elevator poised against the Kansas’ horizon like a supplicant’s hands in prayer, pointing toward heaven—the presumed guarantor of the bountiful harvest. For me Morris’s work epitomizes the essence of photography.”

“And that essence is what?” asked Carmina.

“The awareness of mortality. It is the realization of our human desire to stop time long enough to absorb and contemplate what’s passing and passed. That is what makes the act of photography so poignant. It is all about the passage of time—extracting and preserving a moment from that flow. It is about the celebration of what was but is no more. The photograph is always memento mori. When it is of a person it is a visual epitaph or will become one. No matter if it is a formal portrait, well lit and composed, or a casual snapshot—it is a record of the past—reference material for the stories of memory, and a resource for the imagination,” Tony replied.

“That’s pretty heavy. But it strikes me that a photograph is more about the present than the past. It’s about how we interpret it. I mean a photograph is only the record of light reflected off a subject’s surface. It reveals nothing about what went on before or after the picture was taken, or what was happening outside the frame. And if the photo is of a person, it reveals nothing of what they were thinking or feeling. It is just a piece of paper with an image on it. Samantha, my 3-year-old niece and I may look at the same photograph together. I will recognize it is of the Taj Mahal. She will not. I will know the Taj Mahal is in India. She will have no concept of India, continents or how far away India is. In effect I will ‘read’ the picture but Samantha will simply see it,” Carmina said.

“What you say is true. However Morris, better than most photographers, knew the respective strengths of the word and photograph and he used each to their best advantage. Like Walker Evans, He thought of photography as a kind of literature—something to be seen and ‘read,’ something to be appreciated aesthetically and intellectually—something to be interpreted formally and contextually.

“Ok. I got it. So, we meet here at the Bean next week, same time?” Carmina asked.

“You bet. Wouldn’t miss it.” Said Tony.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009 

“Why should I explain it? It’s art and if it’s any good it doesn’t need explanation. I’m a painter. My pictures speak for themselves. Words can’t explain the ineffable.” Said Carmina, her voice replete with protest and doubt.

On this day Anthony (Tony) West, a photographer, and his friend Carmina Sfumato, a painter, sat in the northeast corner of the Supreme Bean and at a respectable remove from the other regulars. This was good, not because the two were dangerous but because their discussions could be intense, even erudite. To the other habitués of the coffee shop—a mix of lobbyists, legislators, law students, and state workers—it could be disturbing to overhear two people passionately discuss something besides office politics, case law, who was sleeping with whom, and how best to get in other peoples pockets.

Tony and Carmina were discussing an essay Tony recently read in a fine little book, Why People Photograph, by Robert Adams. In that essay, titled Writing, Adam’s wrote, “ART is by nature self-explanatory. We call it art precisely because of its sufficiency. Its vivid detail and overall cohesion give it a clarity not ordinarily apparent in the rest of life.”

Tony had encountered this sentiment many times before. It was common within the arts community and many artists said they felt insulted when asked to explain their work. So Tony asked Carmina, “Do you feel insulted when you are asked to explain your paintings? “Sometimes,” she answered. He then asked her, “Do you believe your paintings can be fully understood without discussion? And is it possible for an individual to appreciate a piece of art and not hear the words of history, comparison, theory, and taste being spoken in his or her own mind?”

Carmina ran her fingers through the patch of carmine colored hair that was her signature, as she pondered the last two questions. She asked herself, “What do I believe? If I have to explain my art is it a failure? Can my art really be understood without explanation? Is it art just because I say so? And just who and what is an artist? Who decides? If I call myself an artist and no one else agrees, am I really an artist or deluded?

Her introspection was interrupted when Tony asked, “do you know the work of the photographer Walker Evans? “Yes,” she replied. Tony continued, “then you may know that Evans said, ‘Whether he is an artist or not, the photographer is a joyous sensualist, for the simple reason that the eye traffics in feelings, not in thoughts.’ Of course he also said, ‘Fine photography is literature, and it should be.’”

“In my opinion,” said Tony, “fine photography and painting are both literature, because they point beyond their surface and invite feeling, dialogue and thought. Good art is about the eye and the mind, the senses and the intellect. So Adams is right to say that a worthy work of visual art will present itself as clear and sufficient, but I would add, only to the thoughtful, informed, perceptive and capable viewer.”

Carmina, nodded in the affirmative. Then she and Tony turned to look at the remaining patrons. Most of them looked back with the gaze of spectators at a zoo. Being artists Tony and Carmina knew that look well. They turned and gave each other a knowing smile and promised to meet again next Thursday. It had been a satisfying talk. 

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009 

Snapper figured if he bought the best he’d be the best. So he made the call and ordered himself one of the finest digital single lens reflex cameras money could buy. This puppy came with 24.5 megapixel full-frame capability, a magnesium body shell, a carbon fiber composite shutter, a 922,000 pixel LCD monitor, and it could shoot 7 frames per second.

Snapper was elated. In just a few months National Geographic would be asking him to do assignments—he just knew it. The $8,000 he’d just charged on his VISA was investment, he told himself.

The next day FedEx delivered the camera. Snapper tore into the package. He couldn’t wait to begin using this gem. Nonetheless he took some time to study the manual. It seemed to address every conceivable function and contingency.  “For sure, this baby has a ton of buttons and menus.” He thought.

After taking some get-acquainted shots Snapper was anxious to do some serious picturing. But this was Monday, it was late, cold and raining outside, and he was tired. He’d wait for the weekend when he’d have more time. Over the next few days he continued to familiarize himself with the camera’s menus, sub menus, buttons, functions, and combinations.

Saturday came and Snapper was ready to roll. But what would he photograph? What should he photograph? Where? Why? He hadn’t really thought much about these questions until now and it occurred to him that they were not easy to answer. Feeling a tinge of buyer’s remorse, Snapper thought, “I just bought a camera that can photograph nearly anything, under almost any circumstance and I don’t know what I want to do with it.”

“Maybe I missed something in the manual, maybe I can get some ideas there,” he thought. He pulled the plump booklet from his camera bag and began flipping the pages—all techs and specs—nothing about what to photograph, why or when. So he spent the next few hours wandering around his neighborhood shooting pictures of this and that—nothing in particular.  

He got bored and decided to stop at the Supreme Bean for coffee. There he noticed a poster for an exhibition currently on view at the University Art Museum. It featured the work of some photographer named Henri Cartier Bresson. Snapper decided to go, hoping to pick up some pointers.

The exhibit was a revelation for Snapper. From one of the wall labels he learned about something Bresson had called the decisive moment. “What was that all about?” Snapper wondered. Did his new camera have a decisive moment function on one of its menus? He’d have to find it. On another label he read that, Bresson had made his pictures using a completely manual camera—something called a Leica. It had no auto focus, auto exposure or zoom lens. The label also said Bresson rarely used flash. Snapper was dumbfounded. “How could Bresson make such stunning photographs using such simple technology?” he wondered.

Snapper resolved to find the answers. He rushed home and pulled his new camera from its bag. He turned it on and systematically punched up every menu item for review in the LCD viewer on the back of the camera. He searched and searched but he could not find the decisive moment option nor could he find menu selections, dials or buttons for:

·      Inspiration

·      Beauty

·      Meaning

·      Passion

·      Creativity

·      Observation

·      Awareness

·      Appropriateness

·      Good taste

·      Cliché avoidance

·      Good composition

·      Preparation

·      Readiness

·      Imagination

Snapper was disappointed. The advertising had promised him that the technology built into his new camera would assure great photographs with every click of the shutter. But after seeing Bresson’s work it sure seemed like there was a lot more to photography than just the camera. Apparently greatness as a photographer, even basic competence, did not come easy.

Snapper sulked for a few days until he had an epiphany. He would not have to spend years and years learning the art of photography as did Bresson, Evans, Weston, Avedon, Mapplethorpe or Leibovitz. He would not have to study the history of photography, art and design. There was no need to pull himself out of bed at 3:00 a.m so he could get to the right location to capture the perfect pre dawn light. Every effect, every correction, every addition or subtraction, could be done with Photoshop. In fact with Photoshop Snapper knew he could create an endless variety of pictures from just a few. How hard could it be—clicking a mouse and applying filters? So Snapper made another call and ordered the latest version.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009

There are millions, probably billions, of images on the Flickr website. They run the gamut from the sublime to the idiotic. It is a picture library sans catalog—a de facto giant screen and projector and anyone can be the projectionist.

On Flickr there are no editors, art directors, researchers, photo-librarians, historians, theorists, philosophers, or social anthropologists who shape and order its content. It is an enormous jumble of digital images. In its way it is a perfect demonstration of democracy. Everyone can participate. Everyone can contribute, show and tell. It is a virtual universe of images, mostly shown out of context. Some are superb. Most are snapshots. A very few are serious photographs. I am a member of Flickr and I find it alternately fascinating, educational, entrancing and disturbing.

It is the generalized lack of context I find disturbing. Viewing a photograph without knowing the context in which it was made invites facile analysis at the expense of meaningful interpretation, comment and discussion. It suggests that a photograph is only something to be looked at and not something to be studied—something retinal not intellectual.

But when a photograph is presented and viewed out of context only its formal elements, composition and novelty will command attention. The story the photograph was intended to tell and the truths it was intended to point to will not be known.

As an example consider Robert Capa’s famous photographs of the D-Day landing of the allied forces on Omaha beach in World War Two. They cannot compare in technical excellence, novelty or composition to a typical studio shot done by Annie Leibovitz. Yet in context Capa’s images are exceptional photographs. They are visual records of his actual experience of that event, made as he was being shot at! They are authentic and meaningful—filled with information and questions that go well beyond what is captured in the frames. They provoke both thought and emotion. They are photographs not snapshots—indelible images not mere flickers. 

No photograph can be properly understood divorced from the context in which it was made. Likewise, every photograph is a political, cultural, historical and aesthetic statement (even the snapshot)—it is always something to be read and interpreted. Not just seen.

In fact the photograph is never just seen. It is perceived, based upon what the viewer has learned—the conventions of his or her culture, education and upbringing. The viewer cannot perceive the history in a photograph if he or she does not come to that photograph already knowing that history. Capa’s photographs of soldiers falling in the surf could be from a movie, if the viewer does not know they are in fact photographs of real men falling and dying on Omaha beach.

Indeed a photograph may be worth a thousand words. However, it is the rare photograph that can stand without a few words to explain its context. The danger with Flickr is that it encourages the popular perception that photographs are simple ephemera, the equivalent of intellectual fast food. In fact they are the art and record of our time. They are the reflection of who and what we are and what we are becoming. They demand not only to be seen but also read—if we can and will. 

Garage Works 1936 by Walker Evans, courtesy of the Library of Congress

Fine photography is literature and it should be.” Walker Evans 

Consider the context of this image by Walker Evans. It is 1936 and America is still in the throes of the Great Depression. The sign (Evans was enamored of signs) prominently features the words, Cherokee and work, and to a lesser degree the word “used”. What is their significance? What had happened to the Cherokee? And what was then happening to work in America? Who was being used and by whom? What is the apparent attitude of the women in this picture? How are they dressed? Where are they looking?

Not only is this photograph a beautiful composition it is a story that points beyond the image. It is an exquisite combination of context, craft and art in the service of and search for truth. This is an enduring photograph. It is not a flicker.

© Michael Maurer Smith 2009