Just let it go…

Itchen Navigation, Hampshire. Photograph made with a Panasonic LX3.

If you spend any time reading the mainstream photographic press, you’ll quickly realise that they are on a mission to tempt you into buying as much gear as possible. No great revelation there – they have advertisers to please, after all. The line they usually take is to play on fears of ‘missing the shot’. If you don’t have a bag full of lenses to cover every possible shooting situation, a bunch of filters, reflectors, flash, diffusers, etc., etc., you will end up being unable to take that killer shot which will win competitions, make you a ton of money and secure your place in history…. OK, perhaps I’m exaggerating just a tiny bit there.

Obviously, ‘The Gear’ is a big aspect of photography but can you have too much? Going back to basics and shooting with a limited number of focal lengths – maybe even without filters – is a great spur to creativity as well as being an excellent way of learning. With a lot of gear the danger is that you end up spending far too long deciding which lens is best or which filters to use rather than assessing the scene to see if you can make a workable composition with the equipment you happen to have with you. By spending time thinking through the design of an image you will almost certainly ending up making a better photograph than if you were to spend that same time trying to decide whether your 18-35mm zoom is sharper than your 24-70 and whether or not you really need to go wider than 24mm.

And there is another point. Sometimes, you can be too concerned with photography and totally miss the enjoyment of simply being there. If you don’t have the right equipment to make a certain image, just let it go. Chances are, there will be a much better one just around the corner that you can take. And, even if there isn’t, you can simply enjoy being out in a great location. So don’t worry about having ‘all the gear’. Make the best of the gear you do have and don’t forget to take time out from photography to relax and take in the sights, sounds and smells of where you happen to be.

Book review: ‘Yangtze – The long river’ by Nadav Kander

Front cover

I thought I’d kick off a new strand in my Web Journal: an occasional series of reviews of photography books that I have collected. To kick things off, a look at one of my favourites: ‘Yangtze – The long river’ by Nadav Kander.

Kander, an Israeli-born South African living in England, made several trips to China in 2006-2007, travelling the length of the World’s third longest river and documenting what he saw with his camera. This is landscape photography in its broadest sense, more documentary in intent and style, but the breathtaking quality of Kander’s work and the scope and vision of the project speak for themselves. Quality that was recognised with the award of the prestigious Prix Pictet in 2009.

Changxing Island II, Shanghai, 2006

On the face of it, it’s the story of a river from mouth to source but, more than this, it is a document of a unique moment in China‘s history. The country is undergoing rapid industrialisation on an unprecendented scale and most of the scenes Kander photographed will be unrecognisable in a few years – let alone a few decades. But it is the people who are affected by this time of change who are often the real subjects. Small in the frame and dominated by the manic orgy of construction happening all around, they nevertheless carry on with their lives. An al-fresco lunch in the shadow of a massive flyover, people bathing in the river, hanging out washing, just passing the time of day. It is these vignettes of daily life which give Kander’s photographs warmth and humanity.

Yibin V, Sichan Province, 2007

Yet this is no celebration of beauty. Vibrant colours, dramatic skies, strong perspective, all the elements so beloved of landscape photographers everywhere are wholly absent. Overcast conditions dominate and a yellow pallor gives many of the images an oppressive, humid, almost toxic atmosphere. Unfinished building projects occupy many pages: ghostly, empty, fading into the mist as if in a dream. There is a sense of a dystopia being born, dwarfing and suffocating the very people who are the supposed beneficiaries.

It is a book of stark images which don’t always make for easy viewing but it is the sensitivity and precision of Kander’s compositions that I find so compelling. There is beauty here, even in the face of encroaching urban ugliness, brought to the fore by a formal approach to composition. Kander emphasises the monumental and juxtaposes massive concrete structures with the mundane lives of a people trying to come to terms with change on an inhuman scale. And it is the people who provide the images with the occasional splash of vibrant colour – almost as if they refuse to be cowed by what is happening around them.

Shanghai I, 2006

The book is divided into four sections, each illustrating a different and distinct part of the river. ‘The Mouth’, ‘The Upstream’, ‘The Flooding’ (relating to the highly controversial ‘Three Gorges Dam’ project) and ‘The Upper Reaches’. The first two are concerned with scenes of ‘urban regeneration’ with the odd, and I mean ‘odd’, diversion into Las Vegas kitsch – in one image a steel ‘palm tree’ lies broken in a hotel swimming pool. In another, two new apartment buildings compete for height, their architecture distinctly western with only a slight and rather unconvincing nod to the traditional Chinese aesthetic.

Wu Gorge, Hubei Province, 2007

As we move upriver the images take on a more human scale but here there are only occasional photographs that could conventionally be called ‘beautiful’. These are to be found mostly in the section entitled ‘The Flooding’, where a sense of what has been lost pervades. A classical landscape of the river flowing through the Wu Gorge (the now sedate river at one time a rushing torrent) is ‘tainted’ by the presence of two barges, presumably carrying materials destined for the never-ending construction work. Even close to the source, where one might reasonably expect wild, rugged scenery, there is a sense of unease. A broken bridge crosses a river shot through with the blood-red of natural iron ore deposits (a rather-too-obvious metaphor for what’s happening to China itself?) A misty view of the plain near where the river rises is starkly beautiful in its barren simplicity – yet here, too, there is industry.

Qinghai Province II, 2007

Qinghai Province I, 2007

Quality-wise, the book is first rate and given the pedigree of its publisher, German fine-art house, Hantje-Cantz, I would expect nothing less. With very few exceptions, the images are presented on a single page with just a simple caption facing – a commendable layout which gives each image plenty of room to breathe. Only the most basic of location information is supplied in the captions as it is Kander’s stated intention that the photographs speak for themselves, which they do with magnificent eloquence.

A nice touch, often absent from books of ‘art’ photography, is a section at the end devoted to further information about each image, including anecdotes from the photographer. An introduction by Kofi Anaan, who presented Kander with the Pictet prize, and a foreword by noted economist, Jean-Paul Tchang, round out this impressive and thought-provoking volume. Without a doubt, it is a book which deserves a place on the shelf of every serious photographer.

Chongqing IV (Sunday Picnic), Chongqing Municipality, 2006

Three versions…

Le Gour Bleu, Cascades de l'Hérisson, French Jura

Take a look at the three images in the composite above. Same picture; three different treatments, each separated by about a year. The photograph dates from my first visit to the French Jura in February 2008 and my first attempt to process the original colour negative is the one on the left. Back then, I was concerned with getting punchy colours, minimising the detrimental effect of the burnt-out woodland and removing one or two distracting elements. I was quite happy with this version for a long while, and it picked up favourable comments on image-sharing websites but, as time went on, my tastes changed and my experience of scanning colour negative film grew. It was time to take another look.

In the second version, I didn’t work too hard on toning down the burn-out bits or removing distractions like the protruding branch in front of the flattish boulder, reasoning that they weren’t particularly large parts of the composition in the first place. I consciously took a different line with my choice of colour pallette, going for a darker, moodier ‘feel’.

For my latest reworking (on the right), I have gone for a much more muted look. The sombre tones of version 2 gave the impression that the image was made in the dimmer light of evening, rather than at midday in a shady nook, so I brought the brightness up and the saturation right down. Am I happy with it? Well, not entirely but it will do for now.

And the point? Well, there are a couple of points, really. The first is don’t be satisfied with your first version. Come back weeks, months, even years later and have another go starting with a clean slate. In the meantime, your skills will have improved, your tastes will have changed and you will, most likely, have an increased awareness of any previously overlooked imperfections in your work.

And the second is that, if you choose to keep all versions of an image, you have a record of your evolving style – or at the very least something you can look back on to check your progress.

The (current) final version...

“Summertime and the livin’ is easy”

Summer in the Gorges du Doubs

That’s how the famous tune from George Gershwin’s opera, ‘Porgy and Bess’, would have it and how true this is – unless you’re a landscape photographer!

Summertime really does us no favours at all. The sun rises inconveniently early and sets late and in between the light can be harsh and all but useless. Shadows are shortened, skies are often completely blue with perhaps the occasional wispy cirrus cloud – when they’re not grey and drizzly, that is! Trees are a uniform deep shade of chlorophyll-rich green and even the patches of colour offered by spring blooms are mostly gone, save for a few late-flowering plants. Green and blue are the dominant colours with little variation. Small wonder, then, that photographers flock to the coast in the summer. Not to build sandcastles or to baste themselves under the sun but to record rocky outcrops and deserted beaches early in the morning. But the great North European summer is rarely the warm, lazy idyll that nostalgia demands and those hardy souls who get up at 4am for the dawn are often rewarded with grey cloud and rain.

Of course, summer is the time of year when thunderstorms are most prevalent and there are great image-making opportunities to be had if you happen to be in the right place at the right time but, in general, this really isn’t the landscape photographer’s favourite season. The reason isn’t that hard to understand: summer is a static season with little going on in nature. The transition from the bleakness of winter to the excitement of new life and new growth in spring has passed and the natural world is waiting for the next time of transition: autumn. And it’s transitions that landscape photography is all about: the transition between night and day, the transition from the bleakness of winter to the promise of spring or the transformation that autumn brings when the trees start to lose their leaves. Photographers often find themselves at the point where water meets land; where order meets chaos and where the natural world meets that of mankind. Transitions are our stock-in-trade.

It’s often said that landscape photography doesn’t really have an obvious subject and that all those who seek to depict the landscape must find their own meaning in the multiplicity of forms and textures that surround us. This is why transitions are so important. Transitions define the contrasts which lie at the heart of the best landscape compositions and it’s no wonder that the one season which offers the least contrast, summer, is the one most shunned by photographers. In the main, landscapes are at their best when they are going through a transformation.

Perhaps there is an element of metaphor here? Almost for as long as humanity has been on this planet – at least as long as we could communicate and hold to belief-systems – spring has been associated with renewal, rebirth, awakening whilst autumn is the poetic opposite. Autumn is the time when the harvest of summer is gathered in, a time when we prepare ourselves (or used to) for the rigours of winter. For the photographer, the colours of autumn foliage are irresistible with each tree in a different stage of transition. Winter brings its own interest: there’s no need to dwell on the transformation a covering of snow brings to the landscape. But summer is, well, rather boring.

No, all things considered, in summer “the livin’ is easy” just so long as you’re not out and about with a camera….

What lens for landscape photography?

Les Planches Près d'Arbois - moderate wide focal length (35mm)

A question I often see asked in web-forums is ‘what lens do I need for landscape photography?’ and the advice that is usually offered is to use the widest lens you can so that you can ‘get it all in’. I find this advice somewhat strange. To truly ‘get it all in’ would require a camera, lens and tripod setup capable of recording one of those ‘virtual reality’ panoramas which allow nearly unlimited panning via specialised software. These produce images that are fun to play with and can be genuinely useful but as interesting standalone photographs they are somewhat lacking. This is taking things to extremes, of course, but is it so much different from using a lens that offers a near 180° viewing angle? When you do ‘get it all in’ what happens is that you lose any sense of the photographer’s personal viewpoint. The image becomes generic; a scene that could have been taken by almost anybody who happened to show up at that place and time with a wide enough lens.

When giving any sort of advice, it usually helps to try to understand the problem. And here another question reveals itself: ‘what is landscape photography, exactly?’. With portrait work, the subject is clear – and so is the lens choice. A short telephoto gives a flattering perspective as well as a comfortable camera-to-subject distance. Similarly, for wildlife work or sport a long tele is absolutely essential since it’s seldom possible to get as close as you would like to your subject. In fact, most genres dictate the lens choice simply because of considerations of subject matter. But when your subject is the landscape things are not quite so clear-cut. The subject matter quite literally surrounds us. It starts at our feet and continues, unbroken, to the far horizon.

The only lens that can easily cover this vast range is, of course, a superwide so this must obviously be the lens to use. But is it really? Superwides are actually quite difficult to work with and tend to limit compositional options. They take in such a large field of view that filling the frame in an interesting way is quite a challenge, which is why near/far – the oft-derided ‘rock-in-the-corner’ – compositions  are so often employed. But if this is the only lens you use then all your pictures will end up looking very similar. Having a ‘one size fits all’ approach to composition is a very quick way to lose the interest of your audience.

Château-Chalon - medium telephoto (100mm equivalent)

So what focal length should you use for landscape photography? Actually, it doesn’t really matter. The important thing is to consider what compositional options a given lens offers, since compositional variety is the key to interesting images. So, my advice is to avoid extremes at either end of the scale and go for a range of options from medium wide to medium tele. For example, when I shoot with my full-frame DSLR my most used lens is a 24-70 zoom and for large format work (where movements allow greater compositional flexibility) I tend to select 120mm, 150mm or 210mm (approximate 35mm equivalents: 35mm, 50mm and 70mm) more often than other focal lengths.

In conclusion, think ‘happy medium’ and leave superwides for those rare occasions when you actually need that extra field of view. This way you will give yourself the greatest flexibility when it comes to framing up interesting parts of the greater landscape.

‘Improvisational photography’ in practice

Last Resting Place - © Julian Barkway, 2008

Last time I wrote a bit about ‘improvisational photography’ without ever really saying why this is different from simply wandering around and photographing whatever takes your fancy. In essence, it’s not very different at all. It is, however, much more directed and controlled. It’s not about shooting anything and everything; it is about looking at and understanding the lighting conditions, understanding yourself and your response to the landscape, setting some goals and then choosing your subjects accordingly.

Take the image that heads this piece, for example. It was made whilst at the small coastal community of Achnahaird in Wester Ross, Scotland during a Light&Land  workshop, led by Joe Cornish and David Ward, and I was very much aware of, and a little in awe of, the great images both leaders had produced from this exact same location. So no pressure, then! Overcast conditions do not make for great scenics so my first thought was to head for the beach, looking for patterns in the sand or run-off channels. I used my digital compact to ‘jot down’ some ideas but there was nothing to persuade me that the effort of unpacking the large-format gear would be rewarded so I wandered over to the nearby salt marsh and quickly found the small pool that forms the subject of this customarily enigmatic and beautiful image from David Ward:

Achnahaird Salt Flats - © David Ward, 2007

There was no point in repeating David’s composition and, in any case, the conditions weren’t right so I settled instead for an average monochrome abstract of the same pool. OK, but not really what I was after. And then I saw the dead sheep. Other members of the group were shying away from it but I found it fascinating. Why? Because it told a story. Not only that, the carcass neatly illustrated the harshness of the environment and how tough you need to be in order to thrive here.

But how to approach it photographically? I could go in close and concentrate on the head with its empty eye-sockets but that seemed unnecessarily voyeuristic to me. Or I could make the sheep the exclusive subject. Well, yes, but a bland documentary shot would miss so much of the bigger picture. Finally, I could place the carcass in context, tell a story and thereby give the image more than one layer of meaning – clearly the best option. Knowing what I wanted the image to be about before I even unpacked the camera meant I could then concentrate on assembling the required elements in an aesthetic manner. I walked all around the dead animal considering how the sky was looking in each direction and how the features of the wider landscape would play against the main subject. Obviously, providing a sense of location would help set the scene and the unmistakeable outline of Stac Polaidh (extreme left) could therefore not be omitted and this more-or-less determined where I should place the tripod. Then I needed to decide whether to shoot from eye-level, looking down or to use a lower viewpoint – another easy decision since I wanted to clearly place the carcass in context; so eye-level it was.

With the camera set up, I was then able to concern myself with placing the horizon. The all-over cloud cover was starting to break up and I felt the sky had enough interest to justify taking up a reasonable proportion of the frame so I fitted a moderate wide-angle lens and proceeded to fine-tune the composition. The subject needed to be placed on the centre-line in the lower third, I felt – a very strong position in a vertical image – and, fortunately, everything else seemed to naturally fall into place. Aside from technical considerations of metering and filtration (2-stop grad over the sky; exposure read from carcass + 1.5 stops) the only remaining question, since I was using film, was colour or monochrome? Again, something of a no-brainer. It was clear that the visceral colour of the flesh where it had been gnawed by carrion-eaters was an important part of the story so, after waiting a short while for the clouds to align themselves in an attractive way, I confidently exposed two sheets of Velvia.

This is what the improvisational approach is all about for me: understanding what it is you are trying to say and then being in a state of mind where you can take advantage of whatever subjects and conditions are offered to you. It’s about letting your surroundings, as well as the prevailing weather-conditions, be your inspiration – not blindly shooting away with no real purpose. Finally, it’s about making a scene your own. It’s to this end that I included David Ward’s image. Not because I think my lowly effort can bear comparison but because it’s a great illustration of the advantages of this approach to photography. David’s image uses different weather and a different time of day to present a view of much the same area that is entirely dissimilar to mine. More abstract, mysterious and open-ended whereas I was concerned with presenting a narrative. Two very personal takes on the same place, if you like.

The other reason I included David’s image is that his work and teaching forms much of the basis for my own exploration of photography. He and Joe Cornish are not only great advocates of the improvisational approach but also great teachers and I would recommend their courses and workshops to any serious photographer.

Improvisational landscape photography

This image wasn't planned. I saw the light in the trees, set up my 5x4 camera, and realised the potential for a composition.

Some landscape photographers like to arrive at a location with a very firm idea of the image they want to make. They will have checked the weather forecast, the sun position and will have previously reconnoitred to find a precise viewpoint. If their calculations work out, they will probably go home with an amazing shot – or, at the very least, the one they set out to take.

This can work really well – for some photographers – but whenever I’ve tried this approach, more often than not, a particularly recalcitrant cloudbank has conspired against me by obscuring the sun at the crucial moment. Or it’s raining. Or a farmer is busily muck-spreading somewhere in my field of vision. Or worse. I get to my chosen viewpoint well before dawn and it’s already overrun by a gaggle of photographers with precisely the same idea as me. Perhaps it’s because I’m fundamentally antisocial, but I feel it’s important that it’s just me and the landscape having a one-to-one dialogue. It’s better, I find, than having an angry argument with essentially inanimate landscape features then storming off in frustration whilst uttering choice profanities. That just looks silly. So, rather than come away without an image, these days I improvise.

A fleeting and ephemeral subject - a bit like improvisation itself.

Now, in some circles, improvisation has got itself a bit of a bad name – think self-indulgent guitar solos or ‘free’ jazz – so let’s talk about improvised comedy, not music. I’ve always admired comedians who can instantaneously produce arcs of sheer comedic genius based on the simplest of audience suggestions. What is their secret? Practice and preparation, of course. And rehearsal. If you want to appear spontaneous, you really have to work at it. The point is, in order to be confident at working ‘off the cuff’, you need to have a good understanding of the nuts and bolts of what you do. So musicians endlessly practise scales and chord progressions and comedians build up a repertoire of humorous ‘riffs’ on a variety of topics, honing their delivery and timing. Essentially, you have to learn the building blocks and how they fit together so completely that in performance you can take those blocks and combine them in surprising ways to build absolutely anything you want. But what, exactly, does all this have to do with landscape photography? Well, quite a lot as it happens…

‘Performance’ in this context, with due deference to Ansel Adams’ oft-quoted maxim that the print is the performance, is when you are out in the field utilising your skills. Practice is taken up with acquiring compositional solutions to a variety of conditions and understanding what types of subject respond well to which types of illumination. Armed with this knowledge, you can then go to a location and…. relax. There’s no need to stress about getting to a precise viewpoint by a predetermined time. No need to swear at the weather gods for not responding to the goat you so generously sacrificed the night before. No need to worry that the 42mm thingummy so essential to this one image currently lies, inexplicably, at the bottom of your sock-drawer and not in its accustomed place in your camera bag. No. Just relax and take in your surroundings. Walk a little. Observe the weather and cloud-patterns. Think about the multitude of possible subjects surrounding you. What’s looking particularly tempting today? Are the conditions right for a vista or perhaps intimate compositions might work better? That’s a beautifully-shaped tree over there! Oh, and look at that rock! Such amazing patterns. And that little stream. I wonder if there’s anything interesting there? One discovery leads to another. Not all result in worthwhile photographs, of course, but quite a few will.

Look for forms and connections...

I’ve heard some photographers refer to this as ‘working’ an area. I dislike this term. It makes something that is so absorbing and fun sound laborious. It’s not work! It’s about getting ‘tuned in’ to your environment so that you not only start seeing shape, form and texture instead of trees and rocks and rivers but also the relationships and connections between things. Once you start to think in terms of the abstractions of form and connections it becomes easier to build compelling and surprising compositions. First, though, you need that spark of curiosity that an improvisational approach promotes. You need that feeling of not knowing what you might find because, let’s face it, if you’re surprised by something unexpected then your audience probably will be, too.

Next time: a couple of practical examples.