My first book, Visual Symphony, presented four different areas of my work. This multifaceted approach gave me more leeway to present other work without as much resistance. My subsequent books of the Tone Poems series also present several different areas of my work combined with music on CDs, which expands my range into another art form. Yet I recall that when my early landscape work began leaning toward abstraction, many of my friends and acquaintances expressed surprise—and more than a little displeasure—with the change from the imagery that they had come to expect. It can be extremely difficult to break away from what others expect—and often demand—from you.
Prerequisites for Creativity
Creative photography requires intelligence, flexibility, time, and effort. Given these qualities, creativity cannot only be attained, but also improved. Creativity requires passing up things that are obviously good but ordinary, and searching for things that may be good and are unusual. Often creativity is the process of combining two variables in a way that has never been tried before—or even combining them more successfully than ever before. Unique conditions may make the combination exceptional, though the same combination may prove to be useless under other conditions.
I would like to draw on examples of my work to help illustrate these ideas, and start with examples drawn from two areas that I’ve discussed in different contexts already: the slit canyons and the cathedrals. When I first saw the structure titled Figure 16-1, I immediately saw its graceful lines as electromagnetic field lines—as elegant as the lines I found in Antelope Canyon and equally dramatic. Had I not wandered into Antelope Canyon and then rappelled into Lower Antelope Canyon (long before it became a tourist attraction), I could not have imagined this imagery. It was a product of my math/physics background and the good fortune of finding the slit canyons.
This example represents creativity through new and unique subject matter. But does it go farther? I believe it does. To me, its originality stems from the interpretation of those structures as forces in nature, representing the type of force field you see by putting iron filings on a sheet of paper with a bar magnet held below it. No doubt I would have been drawn to those structures by their lyrical shapes, their compelling contrast, and their apparent movement, but those factors alone may not have been enough to make me photograph them. When I saw them as representing force fields, however, they became terribly important forms for me, with “Circular Chimney” (Figure 3-6) so immediately compelling that it was the first exposure I made in Antelope Canyon. Without my background in mathematics and physics, I might have seen that form merely as unusual and fascinating, but devoid of photographic value. (This is a prime example of the thoughts expressed in Chapter 1.)
After I made that image, I continued to search for and photograph additional slit canyons because of their analogies to electromagnetic or gravitational lines of force throughout space. My goal long ago was to become a theoretical researcher in that field, and my interest in it has always remained high; so the canyons transported me in a very real sense right into the heart of the areas that I have always found fascinating. The creativity that lies within those images results from my interpretation of the canyons as something more than eroded stone.
I’d like to make an important aside here concerning the contrast range of the slit canyon imagery. Let’s look at “Circular Chimney” again. The contrast in the scene was excessive. As contrasty as the photograph is, it still represents a dramatic decrease in the actual tonal range of the site. My technical understanding of compensating development was enough to give me the confidence to attempt photographing there. In an amazing case of serendipity, I had learned the procedure only two weeks prior to finding Antelope Canyon. In a real sense, then, the creativity involved with that image was a direct result of my technical advancement. Without that knowledge, I probably would have walked away lamenting the limitations of photography. There is an important lesson to be learned from this: technical expertise, artistic ability, and creativity are integrally related. If you don’t improve your technical ability, it may seriously inhibit your creative potential.
I saw the north transept of Winchester Cathedral on a rare bright, sunny day. Figure 16-2 is a literal rendition of the full negative showing the white stonework. Yet the light-toned, literal rendition failed to convey the mood I felt. I cropped the top of the negative, the right edge just below the upper triforium gallery, and along the bottom to eliminate distractions. By printing far darker than a literal rendition would have allowed, I obtained the mood I sought: a somber but brilliant mood, along with a feeling of age (Figure 16-2). This isn’t how the cathedral looked to me; it’s how it felt to me. Because photography is both an art form and a means of personal expression, it’s far more important to convey a mood—even through a departure from reality—than to simply report on the scene in a journalistic fashion.
Figure 16-2. North Transept, Winchester Cathedral
I “discovered” the English cathedrals, just six months after discovering Antelope Canyon, and although my methods were the same (i.e., using compensating development to rein in a high contrast scene), my philosophical approach was diametrically opposite that of the canyons. In the cathedrals, I strove for detail and information everywhere. In the canyons, I allowed areas to be devoid of detail in order to enhance the overall design and the feeling of movement. I wanted the viewer to visually wander through the cathedral images and discover the wonderful details within them as I discovered the details for myself. While the canyon photographs actively avoid showing “place”, the cathedral photographs pursue it.
I find it difficult to assess the originality or creativity of my cathedral photographs. I’ve always wondered whether they are simply technically competent images of great structures or whether they ascend to the level of art. Perhaps my years of commercial architectural photography make me hesitant to assess this body of work, despite the fact that I recognize a number of significant departures from reality within it. Let me elaborate on one.
In the north transept of Winchester Cathedral I found a wonderful floor dating back to the early 12th century. Above it stands a series of old, rounded, Norman arches made of rough stone. There was a feeling of incredible age and history in that area, and also a quality that was almost dungeon-like. But it was a sunny day. The area was flooded with light, and the light was enhanced by the almost white stone of the transept.
I photographed this scene knowing that the final print would bear little resemblance to the transept as I saw it (Figure 16-2 and Figure 16-2). With major cropping and a far darker printing than a literal rendition would have allowed, I altered the mood greatly. In doing so, I attempted to re-create the feeling I experienced while standing there. I wasn’t interested in capturing the scene. I was interested in conveying my mood, my impression of the scene.
The final photograph appears to be a straight documentary photograph of the scene as it was. It appears to be the type of scene that could have been done by anyone with a camera in hand. That’s precisely what I want. I don’t want viewers to be aware of anything but the apparently “straight” image before them. I want them to respond to the mood it evokes. I don’t want the image to appear manipulated or altered by me in any way. This philosophical approach is typical of the entire body of work I did in the cathedrals.