Let’s look again at Figure 3-7 as an example of a photograph that works successfully for me. In making the photograph, I walked all around the cluster of standing and fallen trees before choosing my camera position. From that location, the line of the dominant, diagonal sequoia tree was effectively echoed by a clump of fallen branches lying diagonally in the lower right corner. That relationship created a wonderful dynamic in opposition to the stately vertical lines of the standing giants. Lighter lines (trees in the background receding into the fog) and the lines of the small dead tree on the right (vertical trunk and horizontal branches) lend variety and tonal interest to the near uniformity of the vertical trees. All of these things, taken together, make the image work for me.
Note
Photographers look for relationships; snapshooters look for “things”.
Always consider the elements of composition in combination. To me, the essence of photography—of all art—is in the relationships that are created. A musical note is meaningless unless combined with others. Rhythms, harmonies, timbres, and other aspects of musical composition must be added before a musical work emerges. The same is true of photography. A line, by itself, is not a photograph, nor is a texture. Balance or imbalance implies a relationship between at least two elements. Photography flowers when relationships exist, when they are made evident either subtly or boldly.
Just as the sciences advance by finding relationships within their realm of endeavor—and sometimes beyond it—photography and the other visual arts become most meaningful when they relate objects and forms to the viewing public in ways that have never been shown previously.
I cannot overemphasize the importance of this statement. When a photograph includes a bunch of things but shows no compelling relationships among them, it simply fails. It doesn’t matter if you walked 15 miles and nearly killed yourself to get the image; if it has no interesting visual relationships, it fails.
All too often a photograph fails because it is strictly an “object” photograph: an isolated object of visual interest. The object exhibits no interesting relationship to anything else in the photograph, and the remainder of the image is strictly background. With rare exceptions, such photographs are mere documentation of objects; lacking internal relationships, they fail artistically.
Even if there is a central object of overwhelming importance, a photograph of it is usually enhanced when it can be related, however subtly, to other elements in the image space. Visual relationships spawn visual harmonies and impart heightened interest. Most photographers start out with an overriding concern with subject matter. As time goes on and they become more sophisticated, their emphasis turns more toward studies of light and form and the wonderful relationships that exist among the elements of the scene—even in the context of a particular type of subject matter that intrigues them.
This does not imply that you should avoid relationships of “things” in your images. The relationships between objects in any scene are of primary importance, but they will become even stronger if they not only relate in terms of object relationships, but also in terms of visual relationships brought about by lines, forms, colors, lighting, etc.
Involvement with the Scene
Just as you must consider the relationships between the various elements of composition, you surely must also consider your basic interest in the scene. In my case, I could possibly put together a well-composed photograph if I think strictly in terms of the elements of composition; but what meaning would it have? Probably none. It surely would not excite me if I have no real interest in the subject.
Nature and the landscape initially pulled me into photography. My interests expanded to architectural objects quite early in my career. Along the way I have periodically done portraits, delved into multiple negative imagery, experimented with fragmented, cubist images, and worked with toning and chemical coloration of images, which increasingly fascinated me, then abruptly lost its fascination. Where I will go in the future is anyone’s guess. My main interest is the interrelationships of light and form to create visual dynamism. I find my most pleasing subjects in nature and architecture. I naturally gravitate to those areas, and not surprisingly, I feel that I make my strongest statements there. But I try not to be static in my approach, no matter what I’m photographing.
Yet there are areas I have not delved into and never expect to because they have no interest for me. The abstract details of walls that Aaron Siskind did so well do not move me enough to want to photograph them. The grotesque cadavers and flabby women of Joel Peter Witkin actively repulse me. Whether I like or dislike the subject matter, I will not attempt to produce meaningful work with it if I am not moved by it. At best, I could produce a good but meaningless composition, much like a grammatically perfect speech that says nothing. My photograph would have no internal conviction, and I seriously doubt that it would stir much of a reaction in anyone else. It shouldn’t, in fact!
All this relates to the ideas presented in Chapter 1 about understanding what interests you and how you respond to those interests, and then conveying your thoughts through a photograph. Unless you have that gut-level involvement, you’ll probably take pictures but you won’t make photographs.
If photography is truly a non-verbal form of communication (as stated in the opening sentence of this book), then the best way to fully understand the importance of subject matter in photography is to relate it to the importance of subject matter in verbal communication. Think of great orators, like Winston Churchill and Martin Luther King, and their astounding ability to put their thoughts together in beautifully crafted words. They speak with authority, knowledge, and beauty about the issues that involve them and consume their daily lives and thoughts. But ask them to make a speech about longdistance swimming, and they would be tongue-tied. They have no involvement in the subject matter and no understanding of it, so they would have nothing of importance, insight, or beauty to say. This holds true for photography as well. If you have no interest, involvement, or understanding with what you’re photographing, your photographs will not be of interest to anyone else. They can’t be because you have nothing to say.
In my workshops, I ask students the following question when reviewing their work: “What are you trying to say, and what are you trying to communicate in the work you’re showing us here?” The reason for the question is to force students to express the relationship they feel to their subject matter. In essence, I encourage students to focus more deeply on their own interests, for unless you know yourself well you’ll always be groping around for subjects to shoot. You will produce little of interest until you find your area of interest.
Rules, Formulas, and Other Problems and Pitfalls
Before ending this chapter, I’d like to examine several pitfalls that can ruin potentially fine photographs. The first—and worst—is looking for, or following, “rules” of composition. Rules are foolish, arbitrary, mindless things that raise you quickly to a level of acceptable mediocrity, then prevent you from progressing further. Several of the most well-known rules—the rule of thirds, the rule of avoiding a horizon in the center of an image, the rule of having an image read from left to right, the rule of not placing the center of interest in the center of the image, and so many others—are undesirable constraints with no validity. (Just look at Ansel Adams’s “Moonrise over Hernandez” to see how many rules are broken.) Again, heed Edward Weston’s words that “Good composition is the strongest way of seeing.” If your composition happens to adhere to rules, fine! If it happens to break rules, fine! Forget the rules; just make always strong images.