On Photography
By Becky Timbers
10 February 2008
There is a photograph that surely anyone remotely interested in the art of photography will recognize. One that even those who lack the ability to shoot a superior image, but who simply enjoys the beauty of a well-taken photograph, will be familiar with. Or, if neither of these criteria applies, it is a photograph whose author is world-renown, whose work has been included in a multitude of anthologies and innumerable calendars and whose identity has been celebrated since the 1930s . The photograph is called The Tetons and the Snake River and it was taken by Ansel Adams in 1942 in the Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming . It is a black and white photograph that was flawlessly developed. The tonalities range from a deep ebony to pure, undilute ivories. In the distance, craggy snow capped peaks loom omniously over the calm serpentine flow of the river. Dark spruce trees line the banks and scraggy brush hold tight to the loose sandy soils. Overhead, a swirl of clouds hide the brillant sun's rays, working together to create a roiling mass of dark and impending thunderheads.
There's no doubt that the photograph is beautiful and haunting. It is the epitome of nature photography, what all master artists judge their work against and what all amateurs aspire to one day hopefully accomplish. It has established its place in history, marking what once was and what we can now only envision, the beauty and grandeur of the unspoiled nature of the wild American West. It has found its way onto coffee tables, wall posters and screensavers; bookmarks, t-shirts, travel mugs and more. Each to remind us of the pristine beauty of the natural world and each to whisper its slow destruction.
What the photograph does not do, however, is tell the story behind its conception. It does not reveal the thoughts or emotions that influenced Ansel Adams as he set up his camera on the hill overlooking the jagged mountain range. Was he tired, cheerful, dejected, or was he admist a head-spinning, life-altering transcendental state much like that of early romantic nature writers? What was he thinking as he gazed out over the wide expanse of the Grand Teton National Park? Its captivating beauty is not easily ignored and therefore must have instilled some spark of emotion within him. Was it awe, bliss, or serenity or was he terrified of the open vastness and raw magnitude of his surroundings? The answers to these questions can only be presumed; while the photograph delves deep into the allegorical realms of the natural world, it does little to portray the humanistic considerations that influenced its making. What makes photography so alluring is not the final image that poises motionless on a glossy page of a magazine or is slid haphazardly beneath a clear plastic slip of a photo album. Rather, it is the the ability to apprehend the true meaning of the situation, to see the photograph through the lens of a camera and to understand its personal meaning. It is is the ability to become detached from the present yet remain conscious enough to truly experience the circumstances.
It's a funny thing, how a camera lens can change one's preconceived view of the world. By narrowing the scope of visibility, a camera broadens and expands one's perception of her immediate surroundings. It captures the minor details hidden well within an individual's outward appearance, penetrating the outer façade of a person to expose the true meaning of a coy smile, a secretive glance, or a clever wink. A photographer can also, with one click, seize the true emotion of an experience. She can capture an awareness that was ultimately lost on those around her, those who were living in that instant, not consciously seeing the present. A photographer doesn't live in the moment, she suspends time.
A man atop a white horse comes towards me, riding straight down the center of the cobblestone street, paying no heed to the multitude of street vendors or women balancing heavy baskets atop their heads. As I look through the viewfinder of my Canon AE-1, it is just the man, his horse, and me. The mass of people surrounding us disappear and I am drawn to every detail of his secluded figure. His relaxed body sways with the rocking movement of his white steed. His blue-button down shirt billows gently in the wind and his black cowboy hat does more to accent the shadows of his weathered, wrinkle-creased face than to shade his skin from the glaring sun. Time slows. I snap the shutter and the noise and vibrancy of the bustling market comes rushing back to me.
Photography, especially nature and travel photography, can be extremely personal. It allows the shooter to capture exact moments when she feels a certain connection with the world or people around her; moments that are not necessarily shared, but ones that have a precise meaning and will be remembered both on paper as well as her mind for many years. Personal photographs can be neither remarkable nor extraordinary, but their connotation is what is important; the realization that the photographer is immersed in the brilliant wonders of the natural world or experiencing the heady thrills of interacting with exotic cultures. Ansel Adams once said, "a true photograph need not be explained, nor can it be contained in words."
We are driving back through the park at sunset on roads that twist and turn over hills and around thorny stands of acacia trees. The low sun behind us casts a golden tint over the landscape and lights up the clouds with varying shades of pink, blue and orange. The five of us are standing on the torn canvas seats of our green Landrover, the top half of our bodies emerging through three open hatches on the roof and our hair tangling in the warm breeze. Our driver suddenly stops and we all pitch forward, bouncing off the padded sides of the hatches. He jumps out of the car and points excitedly to a golden tree off in the distance, its branches seemingly on fire from the setting sun. On the lowest branch is the long, muscular body of a leopard, draped over the limb like a blanket. It's suddenly very quiet and I feel an immense connection with the leopard and our surroundings. I take out my camera and zoom in on his dappled hide, even though the distance is too far to get a decent picture. As the shutter snaps, he looked in our direction and I will never forget the golden blaze in his stare.
Photography is freeing. It allows for the creative inspirations of one's mind to escape the rigid conformities that are set by modern societies. There is no right way to take a picture, no exact set of rules that say one must shoot a certain object or place the camera at a certain angle. The limitations of photography are entirely established by the individual with the lens. She can open the aperture to allow for a narrower depth of field, ideal for portraits and blurred backgrounds, or she can set the camera to a fast shutter speed and freeze the motion of a fast-moving object. In nature and travel photography, the freedom to shoot is only checked by the photographer's ability to recognize and anticipate the rhythmic movements of her surroundings. This, if realized, grants the photographer a world of opportunities and choices. She can make the subject as abstract or as conventional as she wants; she can choose black and white film or shoot with the infinite pallet of color offered by digital; she can work with structured sets or take paparazzi-style shots. There are no boundaries with photography.
I am sitting in the front seat of an old olive green army lorry. There is no roof, only a short piece of clear Plexiglas serving as a makeshift windshield to separate us from the flat arid savanna stretching out to the horizon. To my left is the driver, his big hands positioned at ten and two on the big round steering wheel. A fibrous length of sugar cane protrudes from his mouth, the sticky juices running down his chin and onto his naked, black chest. He looks over at me and gives me a lopsided smile. My bare feet are up on the dashboard, ankles crossed and toes spread wide, letting the warm air tickle through them. I raise my camera to my eyes and focus on my feet with the plains stretching into forever in the background. I press the shutter and capture the moment. Nobody will understand when they see the photograph, but I have captured a care-free crossing of the Yaeda Valley in Tanzania. I have captured the feeling of freedom and of eternity.
A photographer must have the innate ability to isolate an image from the noise and distraction of a broader viewpoint; to be able to lock her focus on a precise spectacle and exclude the surrounding details and unassuming objects in order to capture the wanted image. In the words of photographer Albert Sadler, "seeing requires an 'eye'. One must 'see' the picture before the shutter is released." In nature photography, seeing is being able to extract an image from the expansive landscape and frame it within the confines of her lens. In a panoramic view of the sun setting over the Masai Mara National Park, it is the three acacia trees on the horizon, silhouetted against the gold-streaked sky or the lone elephant making its way across the dusty plains. This ability to see takes practice, it does not come overnight and a photographer must constantly be aware of her environs if she hopes to snap a distinguishing image. She must also constantly revise her eye to expand her creativity in subject choice and technical cleverness. Photography is an evolving art; it is never static and never fixed.
There are flies all around us. They land on our legs, our arms, our lips, our eyelashes. I feel like an impatient horse stamping my feet on the uneven ground, trying to deter the flies from tickling my leg hairs. We are surrounded by a group of seven Maasai men and women dressed in colorful wraps and beaded jewelry. The women wear long earrings draped through their elongated lobes and the men display numerous necklaces around the bare necks. Small children peer out at us from around the cracked brown legs of their mothers. I turn my attention to a child sitting on a rock just outside the entrance of a mud hut. His eyes and nose are crusted with sleep and dried snot and his big brown eyes follow our every movement. He leans his weight on one arm and I focus my lens on his small fingers. Flies feast on the brittle residue of food and mucous, almost covering his entire hand in furry legs and transparent wings. I snap the shutter and his hand once again became his.
Photography is an art, and like other arts, it provides freedom through creativity and independence. For almost two centuries, we have recorded historical events, natural phenomena, cultural and environmental wonders and a myriad of other occurrences that define and characterize our society today. Through black and white film, slides, color film, and more recently, digital imaging, photography has allowed humanity to document the passing of time by capturing it on paper. But unlike past decades, photography today is used to blur the margins between the real and the illusionary. It is used as a marketing ploy to make people think that what they see is what actually exists. Beautiful women and gorgeous men pose together in a manner that demands attention. They sell their bodies as well as other merchandise, ranging from jewelry to clothing to every possible home appliance imaginable; their images no longer represent the beauty of our race but rather the consumeristic mentality of our society.
It is the same for nature and travel photography. Today, the idea of nature is exploited to sell almost any product conceivable, simply because humans feel a strong connection to the biological world. Nature is gradually being destroyed by the slow onslaught of a growing population and the endless greed for newer technologies, yet its use in car commercials, pharmaceutical advertisements, and promotion of seasonal clothing lines, among numerous other products, keeps individuals from truly realizing the extent of its destruction.
Similarly, images from foreign lands that portray exotic cultures and traditions are no longer novelties. Globalization has united all corners of the earth and made once innovative works of art, seem commonplace. With the Internet, it is no longer necessary to travel halfway across the globe to obtain an image of women, bent at the waist and wearing pyramid-shaped hats, plant seedlings in rice a paddy or to capture the migration of thousands of wildebeest sweep across the vast green savannah of the Serengeti.
Nature and travel photography should not be lost in the digital media craze that is reinventing our society. They should not be employed to falsely portray the idyllic modes of our culture; the materialistic attitudes and ignorant beliefs. Nature and travel photography have the ability, if utilized correctly, to free and liberate the photographer from the more contemporary digital imaging and to offer real insight into what world encompasses and what we are destroying.
Ansel Adams once said, "to photograph truthfully and effectively is to see beneath the surfaces and record the qualities of nature and humanity which live or are latent in all things." In essence, he is referring to the occurrences and marvels that are lost in day-to-day encounters, the famous photographs shot on a spontaneous whim that captured the ending of the Second World War, the natural beauty of Yosemite Valley or the colors and vibrancy of African nations. Not the images that are set up in front of a mottled backdrop with the Hollywood faces of scantily clad females and bare-chested men.
Since the early 1820s, when Nicéphore Niépce produced the first ever photograph, photography has grown and expanded to provide us with a means to communicate that can only be described and captured on film. To me, it is exactly as Dorthea Lange explained, "photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still," and allows us to return to the past and to share memories that are only preserved through an image.
More Feature Stories
More stories by Becky Timbers
