One of the “rules” for successful pictures, usually learned in the second tier of wading into a photographic education, after spending some inordinate amount of time trying to understand “f-stop,” is the injunction to avoid shooting in the middle of the day, opting for the prettier angle of the light early and late in the day. You just can’t make a nice photograph under the harsh overhead light and deep shadows of noon.
I sometimes have a Robinson Crusoe fantasy, for the solitude, not the hardships. I did say it was a fantasy. On many occasions I have claimed that, except for Barbara being in my life, I would be fine as a hermit, living in a cave. Of course there has to be a fast internet connection. And the truth is, I’d probably be bored stiff within a few days.
This photograph is a variation on tropical tourism cliches, with the compositional tactic of the C curve of the shoreline, sinuously, continuously looping the viewers’ eye, seducing the weekday, workday, everyday drudgery, suggesting that here would be a so much better place to be–calm, peaceful, quiet, alone. Of course the economics and logistics of getting to a place like this almost certainly means you will not be alone.
Reading some science fiction on a recent trip, a phrase jumped out at me, “…arranged to suggest geometries of endless longing.” (“Count Zero” by William Gibson) Sounds like the goal of advertising photography.
During the raging hormones’ stage of my adolescence I saw a movie, “Bird of Paradise” with Louis Jordan and Debra Paget. A young Frenchman goes home with a college friend, to the South Pacific, meets, falls in love with, and marries his friend’s sister, also the Chief’s daughter, the lovely Kalua. SPOILER ALERT! It does not end well. She is barren, and the island volcano is acting up, so she has to self-sacrifice by jumping into the volcano, to save her people.
And then there was the tragedy of the paradise Bali Hai, and beautiful Liat, daughter of Bloody Mary, in “South Pacific.” Apparently 1950’s Hollywood had, hypocritically I suspect, a problem with interracial affairs. Like the song said, “You have to be taught.”
Leaving all rationality aside, those films set the scene for another fantasy, coming down a white sandy beach, alone, toward me, a beautiful skinny girl with artificially darkened skin pretending to be Polynesian.
There is a special place in my heart for photographers, even the assholes (and yes, I know sometimes I’m one of them).
The serious ones remind me of lyrics from a Willie Nelson song, “My heroes have always been cowboys, and they still are it seems. Always in search of, and one step in back of, themselves and their slow-moving dreams.” They spend too much on equipment to be sure they have the best gear, and suffer the weight of carrying it to difficult places. They then spend more to get to some long lusted for location, in the simple hope of catching one brief moment, special in its subtle difference from the moments just before and after.
They get up in the middle of the night and drive long distances in the dark, breakfasting on bad gas station coffee and Oreos, then stumble through rough terrain, just to be in the right spot for the magic hour of civil twilight before sunrise, and/or stay long past sunset for the soft, beautiful light of alpenglow, even when temperatures are freezing or blistering.
They hustle access to events to record athletes’ and performers’ efforts to put everything they have into being the best they can be, or risk life and limb to document human conflict. And most do it with no expectation of profit, just gratified when someone takes more than a cursory glance at the photographs they try to share. “Look what I saw. Isn’t it beautiful/thrilling/magic/tragic?”
They fabricate unique tools for a specialized picture and buy products made to protect their gear from hostile environments. They jump into zodiacs when they can’t swim, hang out of helicopters when they can’t fly. They are sometimes fearless, sometimes reckless, sometimes stupid, and sometimes it’s hard to know the difference.
No matter how gregarious they may be otherwise, seeking, seeing, and making the photograph is an internal journey, a solitary recusal from all other engagement, whether briefly or habitually. If they ever are fortunate to have a satori experience, where the light/location/subject/cosmos all collide perfectly with pressing the shutter button, they will forever seek to repeat it, slowly learning how elusive it can be.
I have been so lucky to have worked with and learned from so many of these mentors, colleagues, and students. “Your heroes will help you find good in yourself….” Randy Travis, “Heroes and Friends.”
“The perception of beauty is a moral test.” Thoreau
There is an “old” joke in my history-obsessed hometown. How many Savannahians does it take to change a burned out light bulb? Four. One to replace the bulb and three to form a committee to talk about how nice the old one was. These piers are already replaced, and I’m a committee of only one, but allow me to make a case for remembrance.
This is the northeast corner of Savannah’s Historic Landmark District (essentially the early city), and the rotting pilings are long gone and there is a bright, shiny new public river-walk along this shore, almost all the way to the industry in the background. The grassy area to the right, Eastern Wharf, is now an ongoing development of condos, apartments, high end hotel, retail, service businesses, and two large parking garages, partly planned to help siphon off some of the traffic going into downtown. It’s a well done development, and safer, and much more useful than the empty space that was there for so long, but … it reminds me….
The first time I saw Times Square was in the fall of 1967, on a weekend pass from Fort Monmouth, NJ. It was pretty seedy, with lots of adult theaters, and prostitutes easily available (so I was told), with hotels where the USO could get cheap rooms for soldiers. These days, anytime I’m in Manhattan I try to go to Times Square and walk up the red steps, and it’s all bright and shiny, and family friendly, but it’s not as interesting. It all seems predictable, commercialized, sanitized.
There is a sub-genre of photography sometimes deprecatingly called “Ruin Porn” and I confess some attraction to the subject matter. All the stuff that was once bright and shiny eventually shows the vicissitudes of time and fortune, and that is a lot more interesting visual story.
In last week’s post I mentioned actors who dress up and busk in public places for tips. Barbara found one outside the Louvre and tried and tried to get some kind of reaction from him to no avail. As soon as she dropped some cash in the bucket, she got the reciprocal bow from “Tut.”
Also in last week’s post I suggested small movements to manage distractions in the background, a lesson I clearly forgot here where the suggested continuity of the street traffic posts and the street lamp has Barbara’s head in a vice grip. Oops.
Based on a very unscientific, anecdotal survey of thousands of photography students from all the years of teaching I did, it’s a wonder there are any pictures of people at all. A substantial number of people say they are not “people” photographers. I get it. Landscapes hold still and don’t talk back, normally.
But if you were to look at a collection of those peoples’ photos you would almost certainly see a number of people pictures, of family and friends. The avoidance (and that’s what it is) is about approaching strangers and asking to photograph them. I get that, too. At 18 I was a shy kid suddenly a staff photographer at a daily newspaper. Photographing people for an assignment was “the family/friend” picture, easy because it was already a given when I got there. But to do the “Man on the Street” interviews, cold stopping strangers on the street, was a real struggle.
Fortunately there is a relatively painless option to photograph strangers, by going places where they expect it–farmers’ markets/fresh markets, festivals, etc. This photograph was from a summer in Prague where multiple performances of concerts and theater were all around, and young people were hired to promote the events on the street. (Barbara and I saw a performance of Don Juan at the Estate Theater where Mozart conducted the premier almost 200 years earlier, handing the last pages of the score to the orchestra just before the show. Pretty cool.)
A quick nod and ask for permission, a quick yes, snap, and move on. Don’t dwell. Of course take a minute to be sure the background is not close behind the subject, and by moving a little left or right you may be able to make the background simpler, less distracting, more supportive of the portrait–micro movements that change the relationship between the figure (subject) and ground (background).
There are some costumed-target rich environments that are a photo hustle, where the actors expect some cash in the hat for the photo. If you like the look, pay up. It’s a lot cheaper than hiring a model.
“Whimsy” is a word I seldom reach for, but the discovery of it is one of the great pleasures and rewards of aimlessly wandering unknown streets in distant cities.
I have recently become fascinated with the endless contortions of growth in the numerous oaks in our extensive urban/suburban forest. I see tentacles reaching for the sky, the ground, and all in-between, each attempting to stake a claim to some portion of the light. Larger, older trees seem to defy gravity; I wonder why some limbs don’t fall just from their own weight. Younger versions feel positively spry. This photograph is how I imagine Ents, from “Lord of the Rings,” should look.
It is hard to see clearly in your own hometown, because you become immune to what you see everyday, no matter how beautiful or curious. It’s all just background noise, as we go from one task to another.
A friend and former Nikon School colleague still does some small group photo trips, and told me he wanted to bring 6 people to Savannah for a few few days; would I help with the itinerary, and would I like to assist? Of course. Helping with the itinerary meant I could show the group more of this region than just the “Historic District” (technically the “Historic Landmark District” since we have something like 15 designated historic districts).
Assisting was a bit of a concern for me. It’s been about 10 years since I’ve done any teaching, and I have not kept up with a lot of camera/photography technology advances because…I don’t want to! Been there, did that, for about 50 years. So my role was to just talk as we went, about making pictures, what to look for, what to look out for, where to stand, etc. It took a day to really get into it, but it was fun, except for not being used to intense 12 hour workdays anymore. And what I got in return, watching them, was a fresh look at home.
As I went walking that ribbon of highway And I saw above me that endless skyway I saw below me that golden valley This land was made for you and me
I roamed and rambled, and I’ve followed my footsteps To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts All around me, a voice was sounding This land was made for you and me “This Land is Your Land” Woody Guthrie
The first recorded ‘Road Trip’ may have been “The Odyssey,” but the Siren call of the open road seems a particularly American thing, although that could just be a kind of patriotic home team pride. Whether on foot, horseback, Conestoga wagon, train, or by car, we long for distant, unknown landscapes, from the Louisiana Territory to the Moon and Mars. And when the road beckons, many of us find resistance difficult.
Watch my back and light my way (My traveling star, my traveling star) Watch over all of those born St. Christopher’s Day (Old road dog, young runaway)
They hunger for home but they never stay They wait by the door They stand and they stare They’re already out of there They’re already out of there “My Traveling Star” James Taylor
When I was attending the University of Georgia in Athens, my girlfriend at that time, still in Savannah, sent me a card with a Carole King lyric inside, “So far away. Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore?” We commercialized wanderlust; anyone sentient in 1950’s America could finish this jingle by the second note:
See the USA in your Chevrolet America is asking you to call Advertising jingle for Chevrolet
In the 1960’s we all watched the same TV shows, and I fantasized, like many of my classmates, of driving a sporty convertible through the west, with no particular place to go, or time to be there. A few years ago, a Nikon School colleague and I talked about renting a vintage Corvette and doing the Route 66 drive, but realized that trunk wouldn’t hold all our camera gear, let alone luggage.
Well, if you ever plan to motor west Travel my way, take the highway, that’s the best Get your kicks on Route 66 “Route 66” Bobby Troup
It’s a seduction, the magnetic pull of mystery, a presumed promise of something more, better, a pot of gold at the end of the asphalt rainbow.
I’m going up the country Baby, don’t you wanna go? I’m going to some place Where I’ve never been before “Going up the Country” Alan Wilson
Saint Patrick’s Day in Savannah is our annual, riotous, pagan festival. Our parade is the second largest in the US, after New York City. I marched in it as a teenager, and walked in it many years later as a City Councilman, and it is interminable, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a technicolor presentation of local business, and politicians, and families, with some weirdness thrown in for good measure; if you have been here for more than a couple of months, you will know people in the parade. It’s patriotic with many military and ROTC units marching, many of the soldiers and cadets sporting bright red lipstick markings from the young women who “assault” them in their moving formation.
I said pagan, although, technically, the parade is run by Catholics, but the day, and especially the evening, is a bacchanal. We have a complicated relationship with alcohol here.
When General James Oglethorpe founded the colony of Georgia in 1733, with the establishment of Savannah, one rule he had was, “No Rum, No Slaves, No Lawyers.” That rule did not last long.
It used to be we would see some ceremonial events a week or so before the day, and celebrating might start a day or so early, but I think I first noticed these decorations a couple of weeks ago, and there seems to be a little more every day–trolleys with green wreaths on the front, sophomoric humor on green t-shirts–and we are still almost three weeks away from The Day (Sunday, 3/17), or the parade (Saturday, 3/16).
It’s the 200th anniversary of the parade this year, with only a couple of years when it did not happen, during Covid, and it’s on a weekend, so the street party will be big. By the Wednesday evening before, we will start hearing inebriated, weepy or angry debates from the street, around 3 AM, about who was supposed to remember where the car was parked. One favorite plea for help is saying, “We parked on the square.” Yeah, we have 22 of those just downtown.
So come and enjoy if you are so inclined, but please get an app that will remind you where you parked, please try to hold down the late night noise in residential areas, and please don’t pee in my flower beds.
(Announcement: I have had several people ask me about prints of photographs used in this blog, so I’m trying an experiment. From now until June 1st, I’m offering a $250 price for an archival, custom print of any photograph used in the blog (go to www.savannahphotographicworkshop.com to see them all), signed, unmatted, approximately 10×16 inches on 13×19 paper. Caveat: no photograph looks the same on a screen and in a print: my goal is to retain the feeling of the picture, not to duplicate.)
