The views expressed in this blog, unless otherwise credited, are those of the author, David Halpern, who is always willing to hear contrary thoughts and suggestions. The author's opinions are also subject to change as technology improves or new information becomes available. Questions and comments are welcome. Click to Email Me

May 8, 2012: Photographing a flower as Georgia O'Keeffe might have painted it.

Iris #2, from my garden, May 5, 2012

Maybe it's because I live in New Mexico, but each spring, when the iris begin to bloom, I think of them as subjects for Georgia O'Keeffe's paintings, which often they were. Of course my photographs lack the simplicity and sensuality of O'Keefe's flower paintings, but I would be less than honest to deny that even the making of an image like this "feels" imitative of her vision.

It seems most photographers photograph flowers at some point in their lives. I began making pictures of wildflowers in the 1960s simply because I found them beautiful. I knew almost nothing about them. I'd be hiking in a national park and a ranger would say, "That's a globeflower," and I'd get down on my knees with my camera, make a picture of it and write down the name so that when I showed my pictures to the folks back home they'd be impressed that I had more to say than "Here's a pretty flower." After doing this for a year or two, I had collected hundreds of pictures of wildflowers, but since there wasn't always a park ranger around to tell me what I was shooting, I had a lot of unidentified images that were just pretty and colorful. Can you relate to this?

I bought some wildflower guides and began looking up the names of the flowers. I'd compare my pictures with those in the books, read the descriptions and determine to my own satisfaction the genus and species. The trouble was—I later discovered—my identifications were wrong as often as they were correct. Early in this education process, I recall anguishing over whether an image I made of a yellow ray flower was that of a heart leaf arnica (Arnica Cordifolia) or an arrow leaf balsam root (Balsamorhiza sagittata). It hadn't occurred to me to make a reference photo that included the leaves and stem of the plant, or at least to make notes about the plant's characteristics. I also discovered that it wasn't enough to identify a flower by its local common name, like "buttercup" or "cinquefoil." I had no idea how many species shared those common names. I soon decided I needed to get an education in plant identification if I was going to continue my wildflower photography successfully.

By the time I came to that realization, in the early 1970's, I figured I'd photographed 350 species of wildflowers and I knew that at least 200 of these were either unidentified or misidentified. I was living in Tulsa at the time and someone suggested I approach Dr. Harriet Barclay at the University of Tulsa and ask for her help. Dr. Barclay was an internationally known and a highly respected botanist who was a delightful person to know. She was not about to make it too easy for me by looking at my pictures and pronouncing the names of the flowers. Instead, she insisted, "You are going to learn to classify plants," and referred me to her colleague, Dr. Paul Buck.

I had, by this time become a regular visitor and an unofficial ombudsman for the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge in southwestern Oklahoma and published an article on the refuge in the national Sierra Club Bulletin. So, I was immediately impressed that Paul Buck had compiled a complete list of the vascular plants of the Wichita Mountains. I had studied the history, wildlife and topography of the Wichitas and had photographed some of the common wildflower species, but I had a lot more to learn from Paul. During the next few years, I would tag along with Paul's field trips and attend outings of the Oklahoma Academy of Science, which allowed me to rub shoulders with eduactors and become better informed about the State I lived in. I also learned how to classify plant species and eventually identified all the wildflowers I'd photographed. While I'm still no expert on plant taxonomy, I now enjoy photographing wildflowers more because, generally, I either know what I'm photographing, or am able to find out what I've photographed after the fact.

However, when it comes to cultivated plants, like the iris above, I know far less than I do about wildflowers. The iris is familiar because it the official flower of my native State of Tennessee.

The wonderful thing about photographing flowers, cultivated or wild, is that there is always a way to make images that are different than the ones already made, and probably a way to make them better. Every flower is an individual and every setting and every light affords an opportunity to make a singular statement. Ask a dozen photographers to photograph a rose and no two will make the same image. One may choose to be very literal and document the rose as if it were being recorded for a scientific report. Another might photograph the bloom from so close that it becomes a sensual abstraction. Another could ignore the bloom entirely and concentraate on leaves and thorns, while yet another might chose to present it as a dark silhouette. One may record the rose with such sharp focus that every detail is preserved, while another may illustrate it void of detail, as if it were seen through gauze. One might crush or dry the rose, another might backlight it with a source of such intensity that the flower would seem almost transparent. Still other approaches might include enveloping the rose in flames, dusting it in snow, encapsulating it in ice, or spraying it with droplets of water. Juxtaposed with other objects, creatures or human features, flowers can be seen in many other ways. There is no end to the possibilities.

If you understand your subject, whether it be a flower, a person, or anything that arouses your curiosity—animate or inanimate—and you are willing to approach it with an open mind, have a desire to create a unique image, and are willing to look beyond your natural preconceptions, your opportunities will multiply and your photography will always be a source of enjoyment.

May 2, 2012: Why would you build it this way, unless it was for a photograph?

From Gormley Lane, Santa Fe, New Mexico, May 1, 2012

Just off Canyon Road, which is famous for its art galleries, is a narrow dirt road called Gormley Lane. It's only a block long and connects Canyon Road to a street called Acequia Madre, a fashionable address where the adobe walls conceal some of the most luxurious homes in Santa Fe's historic district. But a walk down Gormley Lane exposes you to some of the most interesting architectural incongruities to be found in this "City Different." Here are the back sides of old structures that have been patched in ways that locals explain with a shrug and the simple statement, "It's just Santa Fe." It usually isn't straight, pretty or to any code, but it works. It also makes interesting pictures and you're not likely to find more of this "style" anywhere than you will here in New Mexico.

On Gormley Lane you can see this wall, which in fact is just the most interesting part of a larger wall, and next to it there is a large metal shed that has rusted an incredible deep red. Across the lane is a carport that looks as if it just grew in place, beginning with an old adobe brick wall that doesn't seem to be long for this world. Someone attached vegas and posts to it to support a metal roof and it serves the purpose. Parallel to Gormley Lane, just a hundred feet or so to the East is Gypsy Alley with upscale galleries, shops and private residences. The mixture of architectural antitheses is uniquely Santa Fe.

When I have nothing else on my schedule, I often take walks around town with my camera, looking for subjects that strike my fancy. I look for objects and relationships others may not have noticed or photographed, but when you consider how old Santa Fe is and how many photographers have roamed these streets before me, I know that a real discovery is unlikely. I am content to find a slightly different angle, an unusual texture, a light and shadow pattern or a pleasing juxtaposition of forms and shapes. I see many things that are interesting, but I tend to be very selective and make few images of things I've seen in the photographs of others. Still, on yesterday's walk, I found this wall particularly inviting and thought it worth recording one more time.

I could have photographed the entire wall. I might have concentrated on the window alone. I might have cropped the left side so that you couldn't see where the wall ends or glimpse the fence and the tree behind the building. I consciously chose to compose the image as I did because of the tension created as you seek a principal point of interest. There is none, but there is, despite the careful attention to straight horizontal and vertical lines, a visual chaos. I made the picture to suit myself, realizing most viewers would probably not care why I did what I did or what I had to say about what I was thinking at the time. And, while I'm explaining all that to you in this blog, I assure you that I would never commit all this verbiage to a label. There's way too much of that in the art world.

Ours is a form of visual communication. It either works, or it doesn't.

When you visit a gallery or exhibition, what you you do? Do you peruse the photographs on the walls looking for something that catches your attention? Do you walk around reading labels to find out why you should be paying attention to the content of the images? Or, as I do, do you look for photographs that capture your attention and only then, read the label to get more information about the subject or photographer?

April 26, 2012: It's all about the image; not the camera.

Flower pickers, Carlsbad, California, March 4, 2012

I'm a long-time Nikon shooter. I bought my first Nikon in the 1960s, a black Nikon F Photomic body with a Nikkor-H Auto 50mm f/2 lens. That camera was and still is special to me. It represented a change of attitude, coming at a time of transition in my life. For that reason alone, I've never considered parting with it. It didn't make me a better photographer, but it allowed me to become one.

I've used all camera formats, from 35mm to 8" x 10" and I'm now using my 12th digital camera. I've liked something about all of these, but nothing more than the pictures I made with them. The camera was a tool, and my primary demands were good optics and dependable performance; not "bells and whistles." Today, there are few cameras on the market that don't have a lot of bells and whistles, but the most important things are still optics and dependability plus high digital resolution (since I no longer use film). My Nikons give me all I want and a bit more than I need.

Lately, I've found myself engaged in a lot of conversations about cameras. It's not that I want to talk about cameras so much as it is that I get dragged into discussions because of the company I keep. It seems that photographers always want to compare cameras and lenses and argue about whether digital is as good as film. And, I must tell you that I'm losing interest and patience with all of that. I'm happy with my D3x, and while I'll probably buy a D800 soon, because I'm impressed with the image quality it delivers, I don't need to spend my time worrying about whether it will make me a better photographer, which it won't. It won't make me see the world any better, respond more appropriately to my perceptions, capture the moment more reliably, or replace my artistic judgment.

I can't be any clearer; photography, to me, is not about the camera. It's all about the image, which if captured at the right place and time, properly exposed and sensitively presented, succeeds in communicating in a way that moves an audience. Some people can do that with a pin-hole camera, others do it with a large format camera and the best optics money can buy.

I don't recall the last time I saw a label in a museum or a credit line on a publication giving credit to the camera.

Oh...the photo above doesn't have any particular relevance to today's text. I just wanted to share something pretty.

April 23, 2012: I'm back to blogging

Well, that took a bit longer than I anticipated. In fact, I'm still making adjustments to my new Mac computer system, although I've made enough progress to enable me to resume part of my old routine. The new Mac Pro is all I'd hoped it would be.

I almost hate to admit it, but I didn't feel I needed to upgrade my web skills or software until I made this change and discovered that my Windows software wouldn't work on the Mac. I'd used the same old WYSIWYG software for years with satisfactory results. Now, I'm using Adobe Dreamweaver and learning more about the program daily, thanks to the excellent tutorials available to me on Lynda.com. I predict I'm going to like the control I now have over the elements of my site much better. Please don't expect daily posts for a while, though. I've got a lot of work to complete in addition to managing this blog, and multi-tasking is not my strongest trait.

It seemed appropriate to begin this new series of blog posts with the apple blossom picture above, made in my in my yard on Friday, April 20. The spring blooms have been quite beautiful and I'm holding on to the hope that we won't experience a late spring cold snap, as we did last year, and that this will be a good year for fruit and vegetables.

There's nothing special to relate about making the picture above. It is a straightforward exposure at ISO 200 with My Nikon D3x, using a 120 mm. lens set at f/16 with a shutter speed of 1/160 second. I chose shallow depth of field to concentrate your attention on the one blossom. Some may suspect that I used a polarizing filter to give the sky it's saturated blue effect, but I assure you that's just the natural hue of our late afternoon sky here in New Mexico.

Just as I was getting started with the new Mac and my other software upgrades, Photoshop cs6 beta became available and I also took a three-day break for a short trip out to San Juan Capistrano, California. I'll be discussing those subjects, among others, in coming posts. Right now, I'd better get back to my studies.

March 18, 2012: An apology to readers. David's Blog will be down for a while.

I'm in the midst of changing over from using Windows platform computers to Macs. Because I have to convert much of my software to use on the Mac, and begin using some software I haven't used before, this process could take me as long as a month.

For most of my personal computer-using years, which began in the early 1980s I've worked on Microsoft platforms. When I began working with graphics, I found the expense of Apple computers more than I could handle and so, while most of my friends in the graphic arts industry were using Apples and—soon afterwards—Macs, I justified my thriftiness by saying that as long as my files were compatible with the needs of my clients and their suppliers, I was doing "just fine."

The reality , however, while tolerable in the beginning, became more unpleasant over the ensuing years. As my image files grew larger, I began to find that even my custom built PCs with the maximum amount of RAM the mother boards would support and the largest hard drives I could install ran more slowly and frequently locked. Though I always have found ways to work around the shortcomings, I became extremely dissatisfied and my friends tired of hearing me voice my discontent.

Last summer, I spent four days with my students in the digital lab at the Santa Fe Workshops where I did all my work on a Mac Pro. The processor speed and memory numbers were almost identical to those of my PCs, but the operational characteristics of the Mac were superior and far more reliable than my PC's. That experience convinced me that the time for change had come. I've just taken delivery of a Mac Pro and a MacBook Pro laptop that will replace my Windows PCs, and I've begun to install new software, but I still have a lot more to do.

So, I beg your indulgence and assure you that when I return to blogging I will be a lot happier doing what I will be doing—which, as I often said when I switched from analog to digital photography in the late 1990s was, "Doing what I've always done, only better."

March 10, 2012: Does this frighten you? I found it discomforting to be on the trail below this rock.

This enormous rock stands precariously above the trail that leads from Pueblo Bonito to Chetro Ketl in Chaco Cultures National Historic Park. If you're standing to the south of it, facing the broad face of the cliff wall, the rock seems to be a part of the cliff, However, as this late morning picture taken from a point east of it shows, it is mostly free standing, split from the larger wall, larger than the top than it is at the bottom and leaning slightly toward the trail. As I looked up toward its top, I felt more than slightly insecure.

I'm confident that the Park Service monitors seismic activity in this area and that they wouldn't keep the trail open if there was any indication that the rock would be likely to fall in the near future. On the other hand, I hope I can be excused for walking by it a bit more quickly than I did on the other portions of the trail while looking for petroglyphs.

March 9, 2012: Another image from Chaco Cultures National Historic Park, Nageezi, New Mexico.

When you visit a ruin or see an image like this, do you wonder how it would have appeared when it was built and used by the original inhabitants? Not only that, what was the function of the original building and what is the meaning of the architectural style and fenestration?

This is a doorway on what would have been the lowest level of Pueblo Bonito. The room in which I made the photograph was one of more than 600 in the largest structure in Chaco Canyon. Inasmuch as this was a multi- functional public building, I can only speculate about the use of this particular space, though from what the archeologists have told us, it is unlikely that this was used as living quarters. Probably it was used for storage. And, as carefully constructed as the stonework is, we know that the original builders coated the surfaces of the walls with plaster and decorated it with colorful painting, which implies that their primary concern was the strength of the walls and their ability to support the upper parts of what was a four to five story structure, and not aesthetics or symbolism.

Still, one wonders about the significance of the placement, size and shape of various openings and if this door and many others were small simply because the people were short in stature. Was the placement of openings based on strictly functional considerations, or were the Chacoan people also concerned with the beauty of light and shadow as I was when I made this image? I realize, of course, that the light was as it appears in this photograph primarily because there is no roof on this ruin, and that the original building did have a roof and several floors as indicated by the remains of vigas protruding from the walls at what would have been ceiling height.

As a photographer, I suppose it might be sufficient to appreciate the marvelous achievement of the native culture that, more than a thousand years years ago, using tools that are often regarded as primitive or crude, built Pueblo Bonito. One might regard these ruins principally as another location filled with opportunities to create studies of light, shadow and texture, and be content with the graphic qualities of the resulting images. On the other hand, I've come to believe that there is great value in understanding the culture that produced this extraordinary architecture and that such understanding serves to inform my work and give greater meaning to my images.

I was overwhelmed by my first visit to Chaco, and consider the image above and the one I posted on February 29 exploratory and interesting, but without extraordinary content. I feel an obligation to study the information obtained in that visit, to read the history of the place and the people and then return to give more thought to the photographs I will make and the reasons why I feel compelled to make them. There is always the possibility that I will add little if anything to the body of images that already have been recorded, but there is certainty that without a better understanding of the subject, I will achieve nothing, unless it is the result of pure dumb luck.

On February 29, I shared my first impressions. Later, I will share my perceptions as they are influenced by what I am now reading.

March 5, 2012: All is not always as it appears—from photography to sociopolitical commentary

I liked the tree standing out in a meadow by itself...well almost by itself. There was a a not-so-appealing man-made structure around its base and a wire-fenced area to the left of it that was very distracting. I wanted a simple image that I could use for a card with type superimposed over the empty sky area. By selecting a low camera position that would hide the distractions, I achieved my purpose.

Whenever I revisit this simple image, I think about what it says to me, which is more than what it says to other viewers. Typically, I make pictures to express my own point of view. Over the years, that has generally meant that I am demonstrating a love and concern for the natural environment, an attitude I want my audience to embrace. It means that I am trying to reveal beauty, unlike my purpose when I made this picture, which was to conceal reality and direct the viewers' attention to something pleasing and uncluttered. Which brings me to the essential message of this post.

I'm growing increasingly troubled by a trend toward exaggeration, obfuscation, and dishonesty in communications, made even more of a problem because of our ability to convincingly alter reality and truth with digital technology, and to do that so well that most people accept the changes without question.

I began to be concerned when audio tracks began to be altered by deleting words and phrases. It seemed harmless enough when Neil Armstrong's famous statement upon setting foot on the moon, "That's one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind," was slightly altered by removing the "a" before the word "man." But most editors don't stop with such simple revisions. Subsequently, we've become accustomed to carefully selected sound bites in news broadcasts, investigative reports containing clips often taken out of context, and negative advertising for and against political candidates, where spoken words are edited to form often outrageous and sometimes preposterous statements. It's one thing when SNL, Jay Leno and David Letterman create obvious distortions for the sake of humor. It is inappropriate, on the other hand, when the spoken word is edited and manipulated without acknowledgement, for the purpose of persuading or misleading consumers and voters. The splicing of sentence fragments, coupled with the balancing of voice levels and pace to create something that sounds like complete unaltered statements is manipulative and dishonest, unless the editing is done by or with the approval of the person whose speech is being altered. For example, not long ago, I recorded an interview for a radio program. My enthusiastic responses to some of the questions were too long to fit the time constraints of the program, so the interviewer and I cut portions of the recording and, using computer software, were able to reconstruct and shorten sentences. Nothing however was done to change the meaning of my remarks. Had time permitted, another solution would have been to re-record the interview, but in this instance, editing was faster and the finished result seemed natural and harmless enough. However, there's a fine line separating the appropriate from the inappropriate, and with current technology, that line can become blurred.

A friend sent me this link http://player.vimeo.com/video/34678075?title=0& which demonstrates some truly amazing digital effects used to create scenes for the TV show Boardwalk. As much as I enjoyed watching this video, I couldn't help thinking about the effects that abuse of this technology could produce in the divisive climate of this pre-election season, particularly when you consider the amount of money being collected super PACs and what all than money is capable of enabling. And face it, there are people who can create visual and audio effects that most people would accept as reality. Given that most TV audiences and users of the web either do not take the time or are otherwise not inclined to check the facts for themselves, the potential for controlling the outcome of an election might be increased significantly and the public might indeed be duped. The resulting damage would be much greater than it is when an advertiser convinces shoppers to buy a less durable item of clothing or a less tasty brand of soup.

If you're like me, you can remember when we used to be able to believe a substantial portion of what we heard. We also could believe a lot more of what we read. And when we saw something with our own eyes, we tended to be absolutely certain that what we saw was real. Now, it is possible to alter visual reality and make what we are shown a total lie.

Do you remember the controversy stirred in 1982, when National Geographic Magazine squeezed the pyramids a bit to make a photograph fit its cover format? Since that time there has been on ongoing discussion of the ethics of documentary photography. The problem is yet to be resolved as popular magazines, for example, regularly make celebrities appear slimmer and complexions appear flawless.

I don't want to see fantasy or fiction eliminated from entertainment. In fact, I'm a great admirer of what digital technology has been able to contribute to the moving picture and TV industries as well as to my own photography. But, it frightens me that we have created a monster capable of altering too much of life's realities if placed in unscrupulous or misguided hands. Suppose we were lured into creating a new sociopolitical order that proved ruinous to the society we have taken centuries to create? Couldn't happen, you say. Remember what the Nazi regime did in Europe with less technology?

It isn't likely that we could correct that situation easily...and certainly not digitally.

Note: These comments should not be interpreted as an indictment of any political party or candidate for political office. The comments are intended to alert readers to the potential for abuse of technology when there is a disregard for truth from either the left or the right and public complacency or ignorance prevails.

March 2, 2012: It's rocket science for the kids. But the photography is all about timing and luck.

Sometime in 1974, I made this picture of my two sons and a friend launching a model rocket in the schoolyard behind our Tulsa home. The boys had assembled the rocket from a kit of cardboard tubes, wood and plastic and the model was launched with a solid propellant ignited by an electrical spark from a battery. This was their first launch attempt and while they expected it fire, they were cautiously optimistic that it would reach high altitude, eject its parachute and return to earth in one piece.

I was armed with a Nikon F2 camera to capture the moment of lift off and as soon as I heard the propellant ignite, I had only time enough to release the shutter for one exposure as it swooshed off the pad. I'd like to say I possessed impeccable timing, but the truth is that I was extremely lucky to capture the entire rocket in the frame as well as the expressions of amazement and pleasure on the boys' faces. This is the entire image; nothing has been cropped. Had I used a motor drive, I doubt I would have captured the image as I did, and certainly I would have done no better. I've learned that a motor drive, in many situations, is no substitute for instinct. Activated too early or too late, the motor drive is just as likely to miss the critical moment as it is to capture it, especially when the action you're trying to record is as fast as it was in this situation.

One type of action I enjoy shooting today is equestrian jumping. When I first attempted to photograph show jumpers, I did use a motor drive, and too often found that I wasn't often capturing the horse's best leg positions. I noticed that the official show photographers seemed to have an incredible sense of timing, and I learned—with practice—how to anticipate the best moment in the jump and time one shot correctly, as in the photograph below. It was simply a matter of going back to the way we used to work when photographing sports with press cameras, before motor drives were common.

Oh, and yes, the rocket launch was a total success. It reached an apogee of a few hundred feet, the chute deployed and it landed softly in the field without damage.

March 1, 2012: Do you believe it's 80 degrees in Tulsa Oklahoma on March 1?

It's a fact. The Bradford Pear trees are in full bloom here and Oklahoma's senior Senator Jim Inhofe has just published a book debunking the global warming theory. The title, should you care to read it is The Greatest Hoax: How the Global Warming Conspiracy Threatens Your Future, and you can buy it at Amazon for $16.60, a number which appropriately corresponds to the year in which the senator's mind is set. 1660 was also the year in which the enlightened Samuel Pepys began his famous diary which the honorable Mr. Inhofe probably never read. After all, it didn't have anything to say about global warming.

Could this warm spell in Mr. Inhofe's own back yard be Mother Nature's way of sending him a message? Probably not but it seems appropriate conjecture.

Onward...to Colorado, Rocky Mountain National Park and Longs Peak

This is a view from the east showing Mount Meeker on the left and the sheer face of Longs Peak's glacially sculpted diamond on the right catching the light of the early morning sun. Standing 14,259 feet above sea level, Longs is the tallest of Rocky Mountain National Park's peaks and its only fourteener, though the park features more than sixty mountains over 12,000 feet and at least fifteen of those (besides Longs) are taller than 13,000 feet.

Major Stephen Long, for whom the mountain is named never climbed it and neither have I, but I've made many photographs of it, studied the many stories about it and scrambled up a few of the surrounding mountains to photograph it from different angles. I also coaxed my workshop students out of bed early to photograph it at sunrise on many occasions. Why I've never attempted to climb it says more about opportunity than desire. Though there is a climbing route that requires no technical skills, it's not the sort of hike one wants to take in inclement weather. Deaths are, unfortunately, an annual occurrence on the mountain and the weather near the summit tends to be winter-like for most of the year. Climbing alone, for me, has always lacked appeal and while I have hiked hundreds of miles and climbed above 12,000 feet on several occasions, at my age I prefer wider gentler tails and lower elevations. (OK, so I've become a wimp.)

In 1984, Rocky was he first National Park at which I served as an artist in residence and I served there four times in all the seasons of the year. I can't recall how many visits I've made to the park, but the first was more than forty years ago and I taught workshops for the Rocky Mountain Nature Association for twenty years. While I won't say that Rocky is my favorite national park, I do feel a sense of attachment to it, as I do to several of the more than fifty parks in which I've been privileged to work. Each has its own special character and presents its own challenges to the photographer.

Rocky Mountain National Park is very accessible and an excellent venue for workshops. It offers a wide variety of image opportunities for it is about much more than mountains. It has spectacular water, great atmospheric conditions throughout the year and an abundance of textures. It has historical structures and interesting geological features and while you can hike many miles of trails to access back country picture opportunities, there are plenty of spectacular opportunities to be found within a few feet of every parking lot and trailhead. For those of you who like your creature comforts, there are plenty of amenities available nearby and for those who prefer to camp and distance themselves from crowds and traffic, there are plenty of opportunities for that. The park does get a large number of visitors, but if you get out early, stay out late and select the times for your visits that don't coincide with holidays, school vacations and weekends, you'll find places in Rocky that you can almost claim as your own. Believe it or not, after all these years, I can still find places to be alone in the park on the Fourth of July, but you'll have to discover those yourself.

February 29, 2012: The subject is very old. The photograph was made last week.

Last Wednesday, I drove up to Chaco Cultures National Historic Park near Nageezi, New Mexico. Although I had been in the area several times, I had never before been in the park, which is one of the locations I want my students to visit during our Four Corners workshop in October.

This was an information gathering session, and I had ample time to visit three of the principal ruins, Pueblo Bonito, Chetro Ketl and Casa Rinconada. The photograph above is one of the images I made at Pueblo Bonito, which according to park literature is the the most thoroughly investigated and celebrated cultural site in Chaco Canyon. Called a Chacoan Great House by archaeologists, this monumental public building served the surrounding communities and covered three acres when, during the period from 850 to 1150, Chaco was a major center of puebloan culture. It contained more than 600 rooms and parts of it towered five stories above the valley floor. Its functions included administration, trading, storage, ceremony, communications, hospitality, astronomy and burial of the honored dead. Only a small portion reportedly was used for living quarters. While a sixty room portion of the structure was destroyed by the collapse of a section of cliff wall in 1941, the remaining walls, rooms and kivas offer much to explore, study and photograph. And while the area is carefully protected by the National Park Service and visitors are restricted to trails and other designated areas, there is plenty of access for photography.

I have to admit that I found Chaco overwhelming and much more than I anticipated. The canyon landscape itself is impressive and colorful, and the details of pueblo construction are fascinating and full of rich texture. The play of light on stone and timbers is beautiful and there seems to be something to appeal to the photographer's eye at every hour of the day. Note, in the picture above the strong diagonal shadows contrasting with the sharp rectangular shapes of the doorways. The challenge was maintaining highlight and shadow detail under high contrast lighting conditions, but anything is possible with digital photography.

What this picture doesn't show is the contrast between the man-made structural and natural formations of the park. That, perhaps more than anything, contributed to my being overwhelmed by the Chaco experience. My eye wandered back and forth between this elements and was equally drawn to both. I spent most of my time studying the challenging compositions—complex because there are so many strong lines that require the photographer to be constantly attentive to tangents and intersections that draw the eye in a less than desirable manner.

In future posts, I'll show more of Chaco, but Ill leave plenty of material for discovery by those of you who will join me for the workshop.

February 27, 2012: Another image from the past...the color of industry

In the very early 1970s, I didn't know many photographers who knew how to work with color transparency film under the available lighting common to industrial facilities like the one shown in the image above. The dominant light usually was provided by mercury or low pressure sodium vapor lamps that seemed to drain all of the color out of the indoor environment. When photographing welders, the torch or arc welder gave off a brilliant "blue-white" light that was much brighter than any other light source inside the plant. Frequently you also encountered fluorescent lamps and it was not uncommon to find daylight streaming through windows and open doors.

All these contrasting light qualities created nightmarish problems for photographers who only had two choices when selecting films. You either used daylight type film balanced for sunlight, or films balanced for the output of photoflood light bulbs, and in either case, the results would not produce either a natural or pleasing appearance. I'm not going to offer a technical explanation of the various characteristics of light sources in this article for two primary reasons. First, there is no simple explanation of relative color temperatures for light sources, and second, most photographers working today with digital cameras and current software apply totally different solutions to solving lighting issues than we did with film.

Rarely, in the 1970s, did we have the luxury of lighting large areas of industrial facilities with properly balanced light. That would have required costly disruptions of plant operations or production schedules. We learned to work as best we could with the existing light sources, placing color correcting filters or gels over our lenses (and sometimes over light sources) to produce something that either approximated balanced light or was more pleasing than we could achieve without filters.

From some of my older photographer friends, I learned to use decamired filters which are calibrated to achieve predictable color shifts in various light sources, once you determine what is the approximate color temperature of the source. Unfortunately, some light sources like fluorescent and mercury or sodium vapor cannot be easily evaluated. These are called discontinuous spectrum light sources, meaning that they do not produce light evenly across the entire spectrum. Therefore the light from these—and its visible reflection—tends to be tinted in a way that seems unnatural, especially when recorded on photographic media.

Most often, I found that the subjects of my industrial photography were illuminated by multiple light sources as described in the first paragraph above, and I relied on color gels placed over my lens to producing the desired effect. For example, mercury vapor lights tended to make everything look green when photographed on daylight type films, and color correction often required a combination of magenta and yellow gels. This was something I first learned from the technicians in the color lab I relied on for processing my film and prints. I started with color negative films and as I became more confident, I applied what I had learned to exposing less forgiving color transparency film. When time allowed, I went into my clients' facilities and made test exposures which were processed quickly before the critical shooting began. In time I developed the ability to evaluate the light sources in most manufacturing plants by sight, and although color temperature meters became available to assist me in choosing proper filtration, I found them less reliable than my own experienced judgment.

The photograph above was one of several produced at a facility in Birmingham, Alabama. Because I was working on a location far away from my own base and wanted to reduce the likelihood of error, I took the time to expose a couple of rolls of 35mm color transparency film in the plant, using various color gels over my lens. A local pro lab quickly processed the film and I asked them to just roll it up and place it in a bag so that I could lay it on a light box and evaluate the exposure and filtration. I recall being surprised that when I picked up the film that afternoon, the lab operator was quite excited and wanted to know how I'd made the exposures. He said he'd never worked with a photographer who was able to produce comparable results under those lighting conditions. By that time, I had become accustomed to working under difficult lighting conditions and thought that what I was doing was not uncommon. Later, when I tried to buy some replacement gels in Birmingham (it was not unusual to damage them when working around welding equipment), I discovered that they were not stocked by the local photo dealers and distributors. I was fortunate to have brought enough gels with me to complete the assignment, and glad I had time to buy more elsewhere before my next job.

Thinking back, I feel relief for all the photographers I know who shoot industrial assignments with digital equipment and process the results with Adobe Photoshop or Lightroom. Even when I was able to test exposures using Polaroid print film, I did not have the luxury of making instant and accurate evaluations of my exposures, and the extent to which I could manage the final color in the wet lab was not nearly a match for what we regularly achieve today.

I would love to have an opportunity to go back to some of my clients' facilities and see how different my digital interpretations would be from the film versions, although I know that the results also would reflect changes that have occurred in lighting technology as well. I recall that the first time I worked in a plant illuminated with metal halide lighting, I was surprised to find that daylight type film required almost no color correction and I was able to work much faster without having to select filters and apply filter factors.

That thirty-five year old image, above, has held up pretty well, but I'm glad that technology is where it is today and that 21st century photographers don't have to struggle to get even better results.

February 17, 2012: A construction scene that looked like a set for a modern dance performance...

Construction workers on the site of Tulsa's BOK Tower in 1973 seem to be dancers on steel. The 52-story skyscraper would be the tallest building to be found in any of the states of Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, North Dakota, South Dakota, Missouri, Arkansas and New Mexico at the time it was finished in 1975. Designed by Minoru Yamasaki, the architect of the twin towers of New York's World Trade Center, the building is a smaller look alike of the twin towers that were destroyed on September 11, 2001.

This was a personal image made on 35mm film while I was out for a walk in downtown Tulsa. Later I would have several assignments to photograph various stages of the building's construction, but this one was prompted simply by my own curiosity.

February 15, 2012: When I have been totally out of my element.

During my career as a commercial photographer, I called myself a generalist, which meant that I did not specialize in any single type of photography. Though I worked for clients who were headquartered in more distant places, I relied heavily for day-to-day activity on the businesses that were located in my own back yard. That was in Tulsa Oklahoma, known for many years for its oil-related businesses. I did my share of work in the "Oil patch," but a successful studio operation in that part of the country demanded versatility and that meant being prepared to serve a diverse clientele. A typical week might start with photographing jewelry and end with an assignment to document construction activity on a new high-rise office building. I did a lot of advertising illustration and corporate annual reports, which required traveling extensively, photographing executives, shooting from helicopters, and doing product photography on location or in the studio. If the subject was the board room, corporate offices, manufacturing facilities, architecture, art, studio still-life or the natural environment, I was completely at home with my subjects. If the subject was food, I might have taken the assignment, but there weren't too many of those opportunities. I loved working with character-type models and I avoided anything related to fashion and that (at least to me) included dancers.

But, in the early 1980's I was offered three opportunities to photograph ballet dancers, and I timidly accepted the challenge.

I'm not a ballet aficionado and all I know about photographing the ballet I learned from a friend who had danced with the New York City Ballet and was kind enough to give me a quick course over one weekend. Ballet dancers amaze and fascinate me with their athleticism, their ability to withstand pain and the fact that if you look carefully at the legs of a ballerina, you'll notice the development of muscles you never realized were part of the human body.

My first assignment was to photograph ballet student dancers practicing in the studio and I did that well enough that I was invited by Tulsa Ballet's artistic director, Moscelyne Larkin, to make publicity images during a rehearsal for a regular performance. Before doing that, however, I attended a scheduled performance of the company so that I could go into that session with some knowledge of the dancers and at least and idea of what was going to happen. In the end, it was a paid learning experience even though some of the results were quite usable. Subsequently, however, the advertising agency for the Oklahoma City Ballet gave me an assignment to make photographs, like the one above, to promote the company's second season under the direction of Edward Villella.

Photographing dance in the studio when the subjects pose for you and the lighting is completely under your control is one thing; photographing a dance performance is another. It is action photography, but not like photographing sports. If you photograph football or basketball and catch an athlete not quite at the peak of action, or even in an awkward position, that's often permissible, but if you catch a dancer at one of those awkward moments, it's an unpardonable sin. And if you don't know what to look for, in the extension of a leg or arm, or in the position of a hand, what might look pretty good to you is likely to arouse expressions of disgust from a dancer or director. Perspective is also extremely important, for dancers dislike camera angles that distort the proportions of their bodies.

When photographing during a rehearsal, I was permitted to take a downstage position near the orchestra pit. That allowed me to place my camera at a level that approximated the waist height of the dancers. However, I was allowed to use only the stage lighting, which meant that I had to use (in 1984) very fast film and lenses with large apertures. Fortunately, I've always had a pretty good sense of timing and an ability to anticipate the peak of action, because I was shooting with Hasselblad cameras and the motor drive wasn't a suitable "crutch." To help capture of the correct moment, my assistant and I both exposed images from approximately the same positions. And, we shot a lot of film. The results were satisfactory and the out-takes were many.

I appreciated the opportunity to photograph ballet, and while I was able to satisfactorily complete three assignments, The greatest benefits to me were the valuable lessons that can be applied to other endeavors. The most important lesson was to never attempt an assignment without as much research on the subject as time will allow. You may not have time to become an expert, but you must take time to learn the things that will keep you out of trouble. The next important lesson is to be humble enough to accept direction from those who know what you obviously don't know. And, finally, when you discover that something really isn't your thing (and mine isn't dance) be honest enough to admit that and show respect for those who excel at it.

I've been making photographs for sixty years, experimenting, studying and enjoying almost every minute. I figure I've made almost every mistake you can make, though I tried to make each one only once. Having said that, I'll only photograph dance again in the unlikely event that the subject is one of my grandchildren.

In my next blog post, I'll show you a picture of a kind of dance to which I can comfortably relate.

February 11, 2012: Fantasy vs. reality... Remembering a visit to Reelfoot Lake thirty years ago.

In December, 1980, I accompanied my then mother-in-law, an avid birder, on a trip to Reelfoot Lake in the northwest corner of Tennessee. The lake was frozen and Mimi*, as she was affectionately known to all her family, wanted to see what effect the ice had on the bald eagles that were wintering there. And, she was hoping that the eagles would be easier to see under those wintry conditions. Not only was the surface of the lake frozen, but as you can see from the photograph above, the lower trunks of the bald cypress trees ringing the lake were thickly coated with ice.

Traveling with Mimi always produced amusing stories. She was a diversely curious person who traveled widely and studied ornithology, botany, and photography with great intensity. She was also more than slightly opinionated, tending to accept newly learned facts only when they did not conflict with her own long-held presumptions. Therefore, much of what I knew about photography, nature and life itself was, during the early years of my marriage to her oldest daughter, Judy, generally viewed with suspicion. However, as both of us aged, she and I became closer and my comments were treated with a modicum of cautious acceptance.

I recall that once, on a spring trip into the Texas Hill Country, as I was driving on a county road in the vicinity of the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center, Mimi saw a hawk flying above us . Thinking it might be a species she hadn't seen before (she was very attentive to bird shapes and flight patterns) she ordered me to catch up with the bird so that she could get a closer look. I obliged to a degree, but unlike the hawk's flight path, the road was straight, and I realized that it was going to take a good deal of luck to get really close to it. While trying to watch my moving target, and keep one eye on the road—which thankfully was free of traffic—I also was looking for side roads that might get me still closer to our objective. Unfortunately, I was not able to catch up with the hawk, and I recall that Mimi continued speculating throughout that afternoon about which species she was "almost sure" it had been.

But, now we were off in search of bald eagles. We'd left Nashville early that morning and arrived in the vicinity of Reelfoot Lake around noon. So, before heading to the shore of the lake, we decided to stop for lunch at a rural roadside restaurant. We ordered at the counter from the owner, a woman who obviously had lost patience with tourists and became "testy" when questioned. I recall that the menu listed small and large hamburgers, but there was no indication of what small and large meant in terms of weight and Judy asked what the difference was.

Sarcastically and without changing her facial expression, the woman quickly replied, "Size."

Before Judy could respond, Mimi snapped, "I don't believe a daughter of mine could ask such a stupid question," and then posed a question of her own to the waiting proprietor. "With all the ice, is it harder to spot the eagles?" To which the reply was, "No, the ice is on the water; the eagles are up in the trees."

That reply seemed just a bit too impudent to Mimi, who turned her back and proclaimed, just out of the owner's earshot, "That woman is stupid!" And I was thinking that it all depended on who was asking the question.

The burgers were followed with a short drive to the shore of the lake where we did see eagles high above us in the trees, just as the woman in the restaurant had predicted. The binoculars came out and the objective was met. Not being a bird photographer, and having seen enough pictures of eagles sitting quietly on tree branches to know that I wasn't likely to add anything important to the body of photographs created by others, my attention was drawn to the roots and knees of the cypress trees. Coated with a thick layer of ice they appeared to me as the frozen feet of large animals, like something out of Maurice Sendak's imagination. I spent my time making black and white images of these fantasy shapes until I received notice that it was time to move on.

Mimi and I went on several photographic outings together, during which she usually had an agenda different and far less flexible from my own. Her's was likely to be focused on a specific goal, so while she could be tolerant of my less purposeful approach, she occasionally could be impatient, dismissing my interests as trivial. For example, during my second stint as artist in residence at Colorado's Black Canyon of the Gunnison, in 1993, she couldn't understand my fascination with that place and midway through my month-long commitment encouraged me to go home. "I don't know what you see in that hole in the ground," was her comment during a long distance phone call. I stayed.

* Miriam Kuhn Weinstein (Mimi), mother of my first wife, Judy, was an accomplished amateur photographer. She created a large and varied collection of color photographs between 1963, when she was widowed by the untimely death of my father-in-law, and 2001. One of her principal interests, which provided subjects for more than one exhibition, was finding and documenting carnivorous plants. Judy died from leukemia in 1996 and Mimi died just four and a half years later in 2001.

February 6, 2012: Remembering a visit with Roman Vishniac

I think it was 1982, but it may have been a year later. I flew to New York with a friend, while the two of us were working on the design for an exhibit for the lobby of the Tulsa Jewish Community Center. We were using photographs to depict the history of the Jewish people from the rise of the Third Reich to what then was present day Israel, and one of the images was Roman Vishniac's 1938 photograph showing Rabbi Baruch Rabinowitz in discussion with his students in the then mostly Jewish Hungarian town of Mukachevo. In 1944, all the Jews of that community were deported to Auschwitz.

The highlight of that trip was our visit with Vishniac and his Edith in their upper west side apartment. We had arranged to meet with him so that he could tell us more about that particular photograph. More importantly, I had been very interested in meeting him since 1973, when I was fortunate to have had an opportunity to spend the better part of a day with Cornell Capa who raved about Vishniac's images.

Although Vishniac's credentials were many, he has become best known for his photographs of pre World War II Jewish communities throughout Europe. His work in photomicroscopy and biology earned him almost as much recognition during his lifetime and he held several professorships and honorary degrees. Among photographers, many know him for his sensitive portraits, including a well-known image of Albert Einstein.

I was surprised that Vishniac and Edith, to make sure we didn't go to the wrong apartment, met us in the hallway outside their door. They seemed very pleased that we had come to visit and graciously invited us in and offered us refreshments. I had expected this to be a short and perhaps formal meeting, but it was just the opposite—extremely relaxed and cordial. We talked about the image we had selected for our exhibit, or course, but the discussion extended to a variety of subjects and he gave me a tour of his workspace, where Kodak yellow boxes of 35mm slides were piled to the high ceiling. Though the appearance was one of clutter, I had little doubt that he knew the contents of every box.

Early in the visit, while sitting in their living room, my attention was drawn to a tall breakfront cabinet filled with objects of oriental art. "What is your interest in Oriental art?" I asked a bit timidly. "I am professor of Oriental art at CCNY," he responded, and when I commented on the diversity of his interests he gave me a mini-lecture on the importance of continuing one's education throughout life. There was nothing condescending in his remarks, he was simply admonishing me to maintain an active curiosity. It is a concept I embrace fully.

Vishniac told us stories about his travels around the shtetlach of eastern Europe, showed us a portfolio of exquisite prints and told us of a 16mm film he had made and attempted to send to the United States with a woman who had promise him she could see that it was shown in an effort to give American Jews an awareness of what was happening to the Jews of Europe as antisemitism was rising. That film, he said, was lost and never made it to the U.S. He didn't hear from that woman again, but he had made a second film from his out-takes and he offered to show it to us if we could take the time. Of course, we could take the time and he set up his projector and screen, brought a large reel of film from his workroom and we watched what he said was a film lacking the quality of the original. Still it was impressive, even without a soundtrack.

Especially Vishniac's death in 1990, there has been criticism of his work as being absent of diversity (it concentrates heavily on the poor and on the orthodox Jewish communities) and as not being authentic in that he took considerable license in describing his subjects and the circumstances under which they were photographed. Some research has indicated that certain photographs were "staged," but little criticism has been made of the quality of the photography an the value of his work as an archive of a people who were removed from European society in the atrocities of the Shoah (or Holocaust). As for Vishniac the man, I can offer no more insight into his character and personality than that one visit produced. I can only say that he was generous with his time and information, and if the stories that he told me and my friend were exaggerations or fabrications to some extent, that is nothing to be unexpected among photographers, especially those whose travels and experiences cover a many years. If you read the autobiographical writing of William Henry Jackson, you will find it full of hyperbole, and I have witnessed much of the same in the tales told by my own contemporaries. Some day, I'm sure the same will be said about some of my own tales, though I have always tried to be factual as my memory serves me. Someone once told me that as you age, the second thing to go is your memory, and I've forgotten what the first thing was.

The photograph above was made as our host was rewinding the film on his projector.

February 2, 2012: Taking a new and somewhat different view of an old and familiar subject.

A week ago, I had an opportunity to revisit one the locations of my October workshop (blog entries for November 11 through 19), the White Place near Abiquiu, NM. I wanted to go back to an area I felt I had "discovered" too late in the day and photograph it under better light, and I was able to do that. Then while wandering over the landscape alone, without the responsibilities associated with a workshop, and after the fascination with the newness of the place wore off, I began to realize how very monochromatic and almost colorless the place is. As I mentioned in the earlier posts, this should be rather obvious from its name, but then I often tend to see subtle variations and shadings from reflected light and imagine colors that the camera doesn't capture. I found occasional rocks with vivid color, but there was so much that was just shades of gray that the spots of color were completely overwhelmed.

In an environment like that, one looks at the shapes of the formations and concentrates on light and shadow. And when the light levels fall and the shadows fade and the textures, though apparent, are less dramatic than they are when strafed by sunlight from a sharp angle, you find yourself looking desperately for something to give definition and a perception of depth to the scene. And sometimes, that quality—that something—just isn't there. Still the silhouetted shapes against the sky or dark foliage are graphic and the subtle folds of the earth's surface are tempting. You try to conjure a way to either bring contrast to the scene when processing the image or to interpret the image using an alternative process.

Being more or less a traditional "straight photographer" I've never been comfortable altering reality with my photographs. On the other hand, to be honest, I've always been an interpreter of what the camera sees. I commonly used filters with black and white film to achieve desired contrast, and used the view camera's swings and tilts to "correct" the camera's perspective and to remove distortion. When printing, I lightened and darkened selected areas of the image to force the viewer's attention to fall where I wanted it or to create or emphasize a desired mood. But, essentially, the objects and landscape elements that are seen in my photographs are things that were there in front of my camera, void of manipulation and, in shape and form, recognizable to anyone who might have been looking over my shoulder.

When I make a really good picture, there is normally an aha moment when I recognize that I've captured something that is excites my sensibilities. I didn't have such a moment that afternoon at the White Place and when I returned home I found most of my images even less interesting than I had imagined they would be. Many seemed simply dull, even after I had converted the colors to black and white. I considered throwing them out, but I decided to think about that for a while longer. After some thought, I began to wonder how they might look if I treated them as if they were a series of old William Henry Jackson prints or Edward Sheriff Curtis photogravures. What if they were printed in sepia or brown tone with vignetting to darken the edges and corners as if photographed with some older lenses? The shadows were soft and the contrast was flat. So what would happen if I made them look old?

Nine images were processed in Adobe Lightroom (v. 3.6) converting them to black and white, applying split toning and a vignette and darkening the blue sky slightly. The process was rather simple and I didn't feel it was necessary to develop the images in Adobe Photoshop to alter them further. I began with the photograph above and then applied the similar but not the exact same adjustments to others. The principal difference between most of them was in the way curves were adjusted. Here are two more, and I will be glad to share more with you if you ask.

This was an interesting experiment. I'm pleased with the outcome, but I'm not planning to make this a standard treatment of this subject. Other visits to the White place will offer different light and weather conditions and I'm sure to either discover new formations and textures to photograph, or new ways of looking at the familiar ones.

January 16, 2012: Come with me and explore features of the Four Corners region in October.*

From Tuesday, October 16 through Sunday, October 21, 2012, I will lead photography students on an exploration of the Four Corners area where the borders of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah intersect. Sponsored by the Santa Fe Photography Workshops (www.santafeworkshops.com), this event will give participants an opportunity to photograph incredible landscapes and archaeological sites before returning to Santa Fe where we will spend two days in the digital lab, refining our images and printing personal portfolios. During our time in the Four Corners, we will use Farmington New Mexico as our base, making day trips to places like Shiprock, and the Bisti Wilderness (the final list of locations is subject to changes and additions).

*This event and other fall workshops will not be posted on the Santa Fe Workshops website until later in the year, but, I wanted those of you who follow this blog to be the first to know.

The photograph above provides a glimpse of one of many unusual and unique natural formations to be found in the Bisti Wilderness, 36 miles south of Farmington, New Mexico. My plan is to take workshop participants to places like this that they are less likely to find on their own.

October has been selected as the time for this event because the weather conditions at that time of the year are generally more favorable—rainfall is minimal and the temperatures can be very pleasant. Between now and then, I will be scouting the area and talking with several of the regional authorities to ensure that we will be prepared to deal with then current local access issues.

January 9, 2012: Interesting juxtapositions

Late one afternoon, just before the new year, I was feeling a bit homebound and decided to get out and make a few pictures in my own yard. The sun was low in the southwest and it cast the shadow of a large apricot tree on the adobe wall that separates my yard from my neighbor's. What was most interesting was the way that shadow appeared to form a support structure for the branches of my neighbor's wonderful old apple tree extending over the wall. The juxtaposition of these elements created an image I'd not seen before. It was a delightful surprise to find this picture right outside my back door.

For various reasons, most of us overlook the most accessible image possibilities. It's not that we don't notice them, but because we see them so often, they tend to seem too familiar and ordinary to be worth photographing. Someone else visiting for just a few hours, on the other hand, might find these subjects intensely provocative. If only we could regain the childlike curiosity that makes everything seem fascinating—the ability to perceive the same subjects differently as the viewing angle, light, time and other variables change.

Did I say, "If only we could regain that childlike curiosity?" Let's be more positive about that. We can regain that ability. It's something I discuss in my workshops and there are exercises I learned years ago that help to retrain tired old vision. If you'll join me for a workshop, I'll share these with you.