Ask Brooks

Comments on why my work was rejected?

My submission to LensWork was recently returned, unpublished. Would you mind telling me why you decided not to publish my work? I'd love to know so I can learn from the experience.

— a common question

I wish I could add comments to the work we choose not to publish, but it's simply too overwhelming of a task to do so. We review hundreds of portfolios and as you can imagine, the process of commenting on each one of them would be more than a full time job.

In terms of something along the lines of "critique," I might suggest that workshop programs are a better format in which to solicit that kind of feedback. I found them incredibly useful in my photographic career for the honest and candid review I receive from the workshop instructors and fellow participants.

That said, I've often thought there might be some sort of opportunity for someone out there to offer print commentaries for a fee — sort of a remote review process either via recorded comments or via something like Skype. I'm surprised someone isn't doing it. It could be a great service to the photographic community and a lot less expensive for the photographer than attending a workshop or a review even like Houston FotoFest.

Of course, whoever offers such commentaries would need to be someone whose opinion would be sought by would-be reviewees, but there must be someone out there who has the time to do so — perhaps as a semi-retirement project. Maybe I should file this one away for my post-LensWork days . . .

A few questions . . .

I don't know if you remember me but I am a LensWork alumni (#54) - the alphabet project. I'm working on a new "green" version, letter forms found in nature. I devour your words, blog, pdf's, podcasts, books, everything — and I'm always hungry for more. May I ask you for some insights?

• What are your feelings about entering competitions?
• How do you feel about photographing the same things or rather in the same places over and over again?
• Do you find more inspiration in a totally new environment?
• Who do you photograph for? Yourself? If so why show your work to others? And, if a photographer does show his work what are the pitfalls of searching for ego builders? 
• I once exhibited with an artist who's major aim was for fame, she manages to sell her work easily, I must confess of fame and money I would like to sell my work rather than become famous from it, what are your feelings about fame or money (or neither?)

  — Abba Richman

This is one of the things I really love about my work as a publisher — getting to know so many nice and creative folks. Abba's project was fun to publish; some of his photographs of shapes found in the world that look like letters of the alphabet where quite hilarious and inventive. Very fun.

Let me see if I can respond in any way that might be useful.

Competitions: I think they can have a purpose early in one's career, if for no other reason than to give us a reason to complete work and go through the submission process. I get nervous about money, though. The kinds of competitions that charge you an entry fee for a few images and then award some winner a pile of cash need careful examination. I've looked at these things for over 20 years now and I'm yet to find one that distributes back to the "winners" more than a fraction of what they collect. They may masquerade well as contests for the benefit of photographers, but they are huge profit producers for the contest sponsors. Also, I'm yet to hear a photographer report that being in a contest was a career-launcher for them. Maybe for the Grand Prize winner, but for the rest of the folks, it's not all that beneficial. So, I guess, I'm luke warm at best; not enthusiastic, that's for sure.

Photographing over and over: Yes, do so. Your first reaction to a subject may be your very best, but rarely. How will you know unless you do more? Give yourself permission to dig a little deeper and see if you can move beyond the kneejerk composition or way of seeing. Listen; allow time to be a part of your process; be open to what the subject reveals; give yourself permission to experiment; accept failure as part of the process; try to see differently, not just repetitively; angles, lenses, exposure, depth of field, shutter speeds, light, angles of light, your very emotions — how many variable are there to explore? Is it reasonable that the very first combinations will plumb the depths of possibilities? Go back, go back, and go back again. You'll know when you're really done after you've been through a few projects and come to know your own creative process better. Besides, editing is the most creative part of the process that too many photographers undervalue. I say this as an editor and publisher.

New environment: Sure, habit alone makes it a challenge to see what is close to home. The problem with this is that travel is so serendipitous. It's exciting to see new places, but access is problematic; being there when the light is fabulous is dicey; the lure of whatever might be around the next bend is seductive; and time constraints can be restrictive. On the other hand, when we pack the car with camera gear and head out, we are at least divorced from the distractions of everyday demands. Just being there — anywhere — with a camera will increase the odds of making interesting images compared to sitting as a couch potato with the camera in the closet.

Audience: I photograph for myself; I make prints, PDFs, web pages, etc for others. When I'm out in the world photographing, I never consider the audience. Ever. But, back in the darkroom or in front of the computer when I start producing something that I hope others will want to see, I do find it useful to try to look through their eyes in an empathetic sort of creative process. Why produce a book no one wants to read? Or, a website that turns people off? As to "ego builders," anyone who says they don't value compliments from an audience is lying to you. The trick is to maintain a measure of equanimity when either compliments or criticisms are laid at your feet. As a publisher, I've learned that people's opinions are interesting, but just opinions. It's always an entertainment when I receive emails that compliment or criticize our publications. Every writer crafts their email from a position of absolute authority — "You're brilliant!" — "You suck!" — and they are often next to each other in the email inbox. During the early years of LensWork, my ego was dashed and raised, raised and dashed with every new comment. I remember the same thing in my early years as a photographer. As I've aged, I've come to a point where such comments don't have the same effect to swing my emotions with such vigor. Listen, absorb, find the nuggets that can be useful in helping your work, but don't let them rule (or ruin) your creative life.

Fame and money: Both are results, not goals. Do your work. Do your best work. Dig deep and create with all your soul. You may become famous. You may not. You may get rich. You may not. These are non sequitur to the creative life. If you really want fame and fortune, become a celebrity, a politician, or enter the business world. Producing photographic artwork is a poor way to pursue any of these.

Sorry for being so long winded, but you asked — and some great questions, I might add. Thanks for allowing me to add my thoughts to the discussion.

Music Royalty Issues

I am planning on adding music to my Photo PDFs, but I don't want to infringe on any copyrights of either the artists or the producers of the music. How does one obtain the rights to reproduce music? Also, are there any "public domain" music sites that will allow reproduction of the music.  I'd like to use Classical, light Classical, and/or Blues and light rhythm.

— Doug

I have to confess, that we sort of cheat — not by breaking any laws or violating any copyrights, but rather by coming at this from a different angle.

There is a sizable corner of the music world known as "loops." These are short segments of musical phrases that can be strung together to write your own music. By combining any number of loops and repeating patterns into a multi-track audio software, you can easily create music riffs for your projects that are royalty free and unique to you — because you are the creator! Another way to express your creative impulses in a project. There are thousands — check that, more like millions — of loops available via download representing every musical instrument, style, key, beat, and rhythm you could possibly want. Most are free; some of the better ones have a nominal cost. Do a Google search for loops or free loops.

Here are a couple of longer experiments where I was just playing with the segments to see what I could do. The first one is from 2001 titled Dharma Greb's. It uses 27 different loops.

Dharma Greb's

Loop Fun Blues

They are certainly not great tunes, but I did have fun with the concept and learned enough to make audio for our products.

Here are a few of the individual loops used in the first composition.

120_arpeg_a_1

120_arpeg_a_7

PW-Flute1a-Short-FadeIn-96bpm-C

PW-Strings3a-96bpm-C-Cascade1

And finally, here are a couple of very simple loop compositions that I made in about 10 minutes of playing around that may sound familiar to LensWork fans.

Marimba - Long Version

LXT intro tabla loop

I first discovered this world with a program called Acid Loops, now Acid Pro 7 from Sony. I now use Adobe Audition to create them. Here's an online software that I've seen mentioned a few times, but I have no experience with it.

Before I discovered loops, I tried — unsuccessfully — to find and buy canned, royalty free music created by professional musicians. They all sounded like business success meeting themes that the corporate world would probably love. I spent countless hours previewing sample cuts on the web and even purchased a couple of CDs of royalty free music. They were all pretty awful — at least for my uses. Who knows, however, they might be a lot better now than when I was looking for something 10 years ago.

I can tell you this: it's a lot more fun to create your own music with loops and a rainy afternoon!

The Greatest Hit

As a LensWork groupie (with a portfolio of images in LensWork Extended #67), I have listened and sometimes taken to heart your disdain of "greatest hits" portfolios in lieu of a dedicated project-oriented approach.  But what of the times when a project cannot be brought to fruition, and one or only a few images that you have captured strike you fancy?  Do you not revel in the one success in the thousands of failed attempts?  Then where do you sequester this "hit?" What's an art photographer to do?

— Alan Berkson

Charles Dickens is famous for wandering the streets of London, gathering tidbits of notes in his is ever-present pocket notebook. He'd find an odd street that struck his fancy, a turn of phrase, an accent in speech, a kind of light, a person's dress, a way of walking — all these he'd jot down so he could use them when needed in his novels. Each note in itself was a gem, but as gems they didn't make a story.

I've always considered the "greatest hit" photograph in a similar way to Dickens notes. I gather them, I hoard them, I delight in them. And then, eventually, I use them in a project where they contribute and are elevated by their peers.

I guess, for me, the questions is really, What is a project? It certainly can be a group of photographs of a specific place at a specific time. Lots of projects are just that. In a less restricted sense, a project can also be of a specific place and a variety of times. Neither of these definitions of a project serve the greatest hit photograph very well.

But, what if we loosen the definition of a project? What about defining a project by a mood? A concept? An idea? What comes to mind immediately is that wonderful little book by André Kertész called On Reading. It's a collection of people reading, all photographed in public places over a long period of time. Very interesting work, but defined by a concept — in this case a common activity.

Any "greatest hit" photography can be, if you choose to do so, a part of a project if the project is defined inclusively.

For example, let's say you have a fantastic photograph of a beautiful ocean scene with wonderful clouds and a golden setting sun. It's a bit of a cliché image, but it might be wonderful — a greatest hit. It will certainly stand on its own, even hang above the fireplace with pride. But, it could also be included in a project about clouds, a project about the ocean, a project about the setting sun — to be literal. On a more metaphorical level, it might be included in a project about the end of life, about love and romance, about the fragile earth, about the march of time.

How do you want to use this image? How can it best contribute to something perhaps larger than itself? Just like Dickens' notebook of observations, it is how you craft the larger whole that is — or can be — the creative path that makes an artistic statement larger than the parts from which it is composed.

Is this way of working for everyone? Perhaps not. Is it for every image? Perhaps not. But I think a case can be made that if you look at the photographers from history that we most admire, almost all of them made images that contribute to a larger story than just the images they produced. Ansel Adams beautiful images are independent yet equally contribute to an overarching statement about the environment; Dorothea Lange's Migrant Mother is a wonderful photograph, but even more meaningful in the context of all that FSA work done by so many photographers; etc.

You don't have to do project photography. It does, however, offer photographers a venue for something more than a singular, spectacular image.

I do have a specific resistance to the portfolio of "greatest hits" gathered together as such. These portfolios are not about the subjects in the photographs, not about an idea or concept, not about even the artifact of the photographs themselves. When a photographer gathers together a pile of their best images, almost by definition the project is now about the photographer. It's about them — braggadocios with the purpose of self-aggrandizement. It's as if Dickens were to have published a "My Best Observations" as a means of showing how clever he was. I prefer to see how clever a novelist — or a photographer — is by seeing their artwork as artwork rather than the Cliff Notes of their greatest hits, divorced and out of context from their actual work.

The Original

Brooks,

First of all, I would like you to know how much I enjoy your Editor's Comments, including your most recent, Paper as Medium [LensWork #87]. Having said that, there is one point that I feel that is important that you did not touch on: The print is the only way that a photographer can show their image in exactly the way that he or she wants it to be seen. With the computer monitor there is always the issue of the calibration and even then how would one be assured that they are seeing the image just as the photographer wanted. Even with the quality of the reproductions found in LensWork or in the four tone process used by Little, Brown and Company for Ansel Adams' book, there is still nothing like looking at a print to see the depth and breadth of the photographer's vision. I know that looking at a print there is no compromise between what the photographer meant for you to see and how it is being presented. I am interested in your thoughts.

— Rick

I agree with everything you've said. However, way off in the corner of my peripheral vision there is a fly heading straight for the ointment.

More and more photographers are starting to rethink this idea of "the original." What is it? In the days of the darkroom, the original was indisputably the print made by the hand of the artist. Sort of. I never did feel entirely comfortable with the fact that famous photographers like Ansel Adams had assistants who did so much of the work for them. When Don Worth or Ted Orland or John Sexton (et al) did all that work for Ansel in helping him with his printing, at what point exactly does it become their work rather than Ansel's? If Ansel focuses the enlarger is it still his work? If Ansel does the dodging and burning motions, then is it still his work? Does he need to soup the print in the developer for it to still be his work? Is it still his if someone else ran it though the fixer, did the mounting, spotted the image? If an assistant does it all and Ansel only signs it, is it an original Ansel Adams because he approved it as matching his creative vision? What about photographers who do not do their own printing at all, e.g., Duane Michals? What precisely is the darkroom photographer required to do for it to be an original? Fuzz abounds.

Back to my comments on "the original." There are many photographers today for whom the book is the only physical form of their work. There are no prints. The book is "the original." There are photographers working in multimedia for which the PDF or the Flash presentation is the original. There are photographers whose work is an interactive installation piece. What is "the original" for their work?

For most people, the line between original work and not original work lies somewhere between the artist's vision and the physical artifact created to make that vision manifest. Somewhere, but precisely where can be difficult to nail down.

In my case, I do extensive creative work on my digital files, but I have an assistant do the printing. I consider my digital files as "the originals" (where the creative work happens) and the prints as reproductions. The prints never look precisely like my originals nor precisely like the vision in my head.

And this doesn't address at all the conditions under which the so-called original is seen. Paul Strand looked at is work under a very strong light — a bare incandescent bulb just inches away from the print — which is not at all how we today look at his prints in the museum exhibition. Under what lighting conditions does the photographer intend their work to be seen? From what distance? With whose eyes? (We all see color slightly differently, for example.)

So, when you touch on the idea that the original is the only way a photographer can show their work exactly as they intended it to be seen, we can quickly find ourselves peering through a glass darkly. An argument could be convincingly mounted that the only people who ever see work exactly as the art maker wishes are the art makers themselves. The rest of us always see some form of compromise. The only question is how much is the compromise and how much are we then missing?

The Engineer and the Creative

How do you resolve the conflict of the Engineer vs. the Creative? Do you even have it? I struggle with it constantly. I am the epitome of the "too much analysis leads to paralysis" syndrome. I find myself too worried about the technicalities of a shot, be it gear or technique, to the point that I feel it seriously blocks my creativity.

— Andy Garcia

Your question is couched in the language of technique (or technology) compared to the creative muse, but your use of the word paralysis makes me wonder if you might be describing a touch of perfectionism. This is a true paradox for all of us involved in the creative life. We create not just to be productive, but rather to be productive in a certain sort of way. We strive for excellence. For many art makers, it is the pursuit of perfection that drives us. And that's where a potential field of quicksand awaits.

Perfection is a worthy goal. It's opposite is sloth and production with a careless attitude. Even if we aren't aiming for perfection, we are certainly not aiming for sloppiness. So, we set goals and targets out of our reach — on purpose. We push ourselves and our materials to create things that are, by definition, difficult. We equate success in our art life with the achievement of perfection — or at least coming damn close. By itself, there is nothing wrong with this, except . . .

The fear of failure. The engineer in us — I suspect a very strong component of many photographers — then wants to test the thousand on one variables in the process so as to eliminate any flaws. We want control. We lust after precision and predictability. And, if we are not careful, we are sucked down that quicksand in pursuit of the impossible. (There is a story of Ansel Adams deflating a student's perfectionism by remarking, "It's the Zone System, not the Pinpoint System.")

This all fits too nicely with the only practical outcome of obsessive perfectionism — and that's procrastination. Perfectionists want perfection and will tend to interpret criticism (self-inflicted or otherwise) as a failure to reach perfection. Of course, the one sure and infallible way of never falling short of one's goal is to never finish (or start) the work. Procrastination becomes a perverse form of survival. I've often seen this in a workshop scenario where a student puts up work while deflecting any comment upon it with the excuse that it's not yet finished. This is a handy game that allows any challenge to one's creativity to be deflected by the engineer who is "still working on it." It takes courage to say, "It is done" precisely because nothing can be done perfectly. (Remember the words of Goethe, "Boldness has genius in it.")

Back to your question — the engineer is a handy persona for figuring out stuff. We all need to wear that hat from time to time. But, the engineer is also a very handy tool for the procrastinator. There are always more tests that could be run before the artwork is engaged. Always.

Being an artist is a battle of epic proportions played out on a personal gridiron. Perfectionism versus the pursuit of excellence. The procrastinator versus our creative drive. Self-doubt versus self-realization. The drive to create must engage the forces that resist creation, even if these forces are self-imposed or even subconscious. Balance between the (necessary) engineer and the creative self is difficult to maintain, but it is one of the core challenges of being an artist — at least a product and perhaps even satisfied one.

For me, the release from perfectionism came when I realized that art making is a process, not a destination. The artifact is a by-product of the process. If today's product can be improved, that's acceptable when one realizes that learning, progressing, moving, changing, improving, and growing are all part of the artist's path. This goes hand in hand with letting go of the products we've created. But, that's another topic for another day.

Hope these thoughts at least offer something to ponder.

Confidence

You know how we all go through those ups and downs of confidence in the quality of our images? Is some way to tell how we are doing? Am I improving? I have low confidence right now and find myself wondering if there is some way to gauge progress or level of ability? Is critique the answer? Or maybe trying not to care about how I think others perceive my images?… perhaps in between? I am not sure.

At the end of the day I think what I am struggling with is the age old question, "Am I any good?" How do you deal with that question, is it a bad question?

— Tony

I guess my first reaction is to ask, What difference does it make? If you are not good, the prescription is to do more work. If you are good, the implication is that you should do more work.

Let me try an analogy. I've learned how to speak the English language, at least as well as most, not as well as some. I use language every day, but when I order a meal at a restaurant, or write a blog, or talk with my grandson, it's not a competition as to whether or not I use language better than someone else. I speak to communicate. I speak to connect with another human in some way. I listen to their use of language in order to understand them. The same could be said of photography — particularly when we think of photography as another form of communication and connection between people.

Having said that, however, it is true that language (insert photography here, too) has nuance and subtlety. I take my use of language seriously, so I try as best I can to use it effectively. The more I can improve my understanding and use of language, the better I can make myself understood and in turn understand others. So, I study the use of language. I read; I listen; I experiment; I edit my writing ruthlessly. I revisit old themes to attempt improvements with the new skills I've learned. I revisit my old work to see how I would do it differently today. I observe how people react to my words and use their reactions as feedback on what I've produced. I know how I hope they react. If their reactions were not as I expected, I try to understand why and how I might change my work to make it communicate more harmoniously with my intentions.

Re-read that last paragraph and you'll see there is a process involved. It's a process without end. It's a process with infinite capacity for learning and improvement. It's a process that pursues excellence through the process itself. That is precisely what art is, at least for me — a process to be engaged. It's a way of life. In my way of thinking, it is more important to engage the process than to consider the production of artwork as a means to succeed in some other measure — like popularity. Fame and success might be a handy by-product, but they are not the reason to be an artist.

So, I would suggest that confidence — since that's what you asked about — is not a measure based on someone else's opinions of your results but rather a measure of how well you are connected to the process.

Hope this helps.

Inspiration

How should I (or, for that matter, even should I) explore my inspiration? Here is my example: I absolutely love photographing old boats, working waterfronts and in particular, fishing villages. I love the sights, sounds and smells of fishing docks and can spend all day wandering around photographing and talking with the fishermen (when they have the time). The thing is – I'm not sure why I am drawn to these subjects. I have tremendous respect for their professions and livelihood, but I would never want to become a commercial fisherman. So, would exploring the reasons why I am drawn to them improve my photographs or more importantly my photographic experience?  And if so, how does one explore his/her own inspirations?

— Dan Kehlenbach

   

At the risk of sounding flippant, why would you want to photograph something in which you have no interest whatsoever?

A few random thoughts . . .

• If it bores you, it will likely lead to boring photographs.
• Curiosity is more important than a new lens.
• Photography is more about questions than answers.
• A camera is one of the best excuses to poke around somewhere that is often off limits.
• More often than not, people will be flattered that you are interested in them.
• Why you are interested in something is less important than the fact that you are.
• Be careful of excessive introspection. Just do the photography and let the self-analysis arise later, naturally, if at all.
• The best photography is not about you; it's about what it is you are photographing. You might actually be the subject, but why should we think others would be interested in our self-examination through our artwork? Photography-as-therapy often leads to bad photography and ineffective therapy.
• You will likely make better photographs if you know as much as you can about the subject — often before you pick up the camera. It is your curiosity that will propel you to learn and do the important research.
• The phrase "my photographic experience" catches my attention. Remember, as an artist, you are a conduit, not an objective. There is a lot to be gained by giving yourself to a project and letting go of the personal, experiential part of the process. A friend of mine is fond of saying, "Do not speak unless spoke through." Become transparent. Like your lens. Your job is to gather, focus, and let the story pass through you, not to clutch and accumulate hedonistically. This often happens, but it's a perk, not an objective.
• You mention "sights, sounds and smells" — which are a clue to your interest. It's not just visual, but sensual. This is a good place to start.
• You also mention "talking with the fishermen" — which is an aural and intellectual process, not a visual one. Stories, stories, and stories. This is also a good place to start.
• That you don't want to become a fisherman is unimportant. That you want to tell their story is.
• Inspiration is a tricky word. It always brings to mind some sort of muse arising from the wispy vapors of the unknown. In my experience, curiosity is a better source of photographic motivation and momentum. Leave the wispy stuff to the theoreticians in art.

Does any of this help?