Seeing “Iris”

When I look at “Iris” I am taken back to my beginnings in photography.  It was a pivotal image, launching me into the happy pursuit of capturing moments and places.  But today another idea comes forward, a lesson learned from old equipment that has so much relevance today.  When I work with students, almost everyone has a set of zoom lenses allowing them to capture every millimeter of distance possible.  And watch how these lenses are used.  Rather than move in or out with their bodies, they zoom.  Your body stays here, and the zoom lens does the work.  One of the unsung benefits of the old fixed lenses I had, and continue to use, is that I moved where I thought the finished composition was.  In my gut I felt that the final images were more intimate if I walked into the water and made a photograph about the iris, the fog, and the feeling of the little pond, than if I stood dry and distant, and zoomed to the iris.

I am thinking about the meal that lasted all night in Tuscany.

I am thinking about the meal that lasted all night in Tuscany. In one way or another my Italian friends talked about food the whole evening–what we would prepare, sensual memories of what they had eaten the night before, lots of stories about food, plenty of passionate moans, constant nibbling while cooking, no shortage of red wine, and to top it off, dreams of what they might have tomorrow. It had been a four-hour dinner, at least. No, counting dessert, espresso, and more wine, much longer.

The food was simple and pure, bursting with flavors unknown to the mainstream American palate. A dribble of stone-pressed olive oil from the tree right over there, passed generously over porcini mushrooms (picked in the woods right there) and wide thin slices of local Parmesan cheese. We started there. And as exquisite as each course was, I realized that the concept of nourishment goes far beyond feeding the body. It has a lot to do with sustaining the soul.

Now here I am, starving. And I know what to do. In a side pack I put a bottle of water, a hunk of fresh bread, and an apple. That will take care of hunger, and out the door I go, to take care of my soul. I walk several blocks west, the pavement ends, and a dirt road disappears into a green tunnel of alder. The road becomes a trail, hugging the bank of a clear little creek. The trail ends and I stop. The thought I left home with was to follow the stream, searching out reflections and movement. But a splash of red–is it a flower?–has pulled me up the side of the bank and into the forest. Already feeling more nourished, I tear off some bread and smile. Adventure has hooked me again.

an excerpt from One Thousand Moons, Eddie’s book of images and essays. © Eddie Soloway

Photo Diary III

Seeing “Windy Night”

I have learned to let go of any expectations when I set out to see and possibly make a photograph.  A few years ago I arrived on Nantucket Island with ideas of images filled with sea grasses, waves, and sunset light.  Soon after the weather quickly turned into a wild, windy, and wet storm.  The island was hunkered down and I was bummed.  I could not make the photographs in my head.  I remember the moment when I shook off my disappointment and decided to go for the essence of storm.  From that point on I learned to let go of my pre-conceived images and enter a place wide-eyed and curious about what it had to offer.

Stretching Perception

In the autumn of 2007 I visited the work of Masao Yamamoto at The Center for Photographic Art in Carmel, California.  I had seen his little jewels before, but never in an exhibition.  The prints were perhaps an inch by an inch and a half.  One wall might have but one print.  Another had a cluster of many tucked together off to the side.

The artist statement was as follows:  ”When looking at my installation, I would like the viewer not to try to understand.  Rather, as a landscape, for example, please just view or take a look.  Haiku moment is a translation of the moment when a haiku takes shape, and it is probably a moment that comes to you suddenly, striking your feelings.  Likewise, my installation often reveals its story in front of my eyes at the last minute before the de-installation. It is difficult, however, to describe it by words.”

Self Portrait on a Rainy Night in London

Photo Diary II

Seeing “Ripples I”

A few posts back I mentioned my journey into reflections. The fascinating thing about them is that so many layers of focus present themselves. You have the surface of the reflection (in this case the water), the thing reflecting (trees, leaves, and sky above), and what lies below (the rocks and water). Your choice is which of these – all, one, or none – to bring into focus. And since the water is moving, you get to decide what effect its movement will create. There are enough choices to stay busy for a long time. This image of ripples has a very delicate layer of focus on the water surface.

The old man told me there was a cave . . .

The old man told me that there was a cave a few days by canoe down the river. “It’s a big cave, the kids will love it, but it’s hidden by the woods. The only way you can tell it’s there is from the creek that flows out of it down to the river. Good, cold water,” he added.

I went back to the group of twelve students waiting on the gravel bar. In a moment we pushed off to begin a week floating down the Buffalo River in northern Arkansas. I wondered what to do about the cave. I love caves, always have–the intrigue of finding one, and then the reality of exploring it, never knowing where the claustrophophic passages might lead, the thrill heightened by stories of treasures, skeletons, and unsolved mysteries. Caves hold a high position in my adventuring mind. I almost mentioned this one to the group as we set off in the canoes. But I held back, thinking that such an announcement would send a few students into a hell-or-high-water race to the cave, possibly creating an obsession for the next few days at the expense of everything else this river and its banks had to offer.

Three days later we rounded a bend and there, emptying into the river was a creek, clear and cold. I suggested we pull over and send some people up the creek to refill our water bottles. I smiled when, moments later, the forest reverberated with their shouts of “Cave! We found a cave!”

an excerpt from One Thousand Moons, Eddie’s book of images and essays. © Eddie Soloway

Forget the artistic journey – developing an eye, having something to say, honing the craft – You can do it now with no skill at all!

With hours to spend in London’s Heathrow airport I skimmed through many magazines. An article in a digital photography magazine announced that you could “Turn your bad photographs into great paintings.” It says a lot about where we are that you can be less than capable in two artistic areas – photography and painting – yet follow someone else’s software recipe and “create” a masterpiece.