Bruce Barnbaum - The Art of Photography - An Approach to Personal Expression

How has this given me insights into printing? I have listened to the same musical composition played by different orchestras, ensembles, or soloists, each with different interpretations of the original score. Often, I have fantasized about making the ultimate recording of any one of these pieces by selecting an opening performed by one group, a closing by another group, a crescendo by still another, and so forth. I have directly translated that concept to printing in the darkroom by optimizing each section of the image for maximum effect. Some parts have to be quieted down so that others can glow with brilliance. There must always be a balance between overall brilliance and the ultimate feeling that I want to convey in the print. In that manner, classical music—particularly chamber music—has given me great insight into my approach to printing.

Relationships between music and photography have long been recognized. Ansel Adams’s famous negative/print analogy—“The negative is the score; the print is the performance”—is but one famous example. Adams was a gifted pianist as a younger man, with enough ability to give public recitals and concerts. Don Worth was a gifted pianist as well, as are Paul Caponigro and Charles Cramer today. It’s no coincidence that such outstanding photographers also have great talent in music. Most photographers who lack talent as musicians can still draw from their interests in music. This is true whether the music is of the classical variety (solo, chamber or orchestral), jazz, electronic, avant garde/experimental, hard rock, county-western, or any other type.

I suspect there are very strong relationships between the type(s) of music you listen to and the photographs you make (or want to make). They may be subconscious relationships, but with effort I believe you can define them and apply them to your photography. Whatever music you find enjoyable, you can probably find some surprising insights in it that can be applied to your photography.

I feel that much of my work in the English cathedrals was heavily influenced by classical music. I saw musical relationships in the interactions of the columns, arches, and ceiling vaults, and with the play of light upon these forms. The relationships changed with every step I took, so that I felt I could control the visual music by the placement of my camera—a half step to the left, up four inches, forward just a bit. Then there were no inharmonious intrusions, no harsh dissonances to mar the score—only a symphonic flow of lines and forms, brilliantly orchestrated by the soft light filtering through the stained glass windows (Figure 18-1). I was as much a conductor as a photographer in the cathedrals, but I must admit I had quite a score with which to work.

At the turn of the last century, photographer Frederick Evans worked with the same score and produced quite a different symphony. Using uncoated lenses that produced flare whenever exposed to a light source, printing on platinum papers, and working in smoke-filled cathedrals (due to candles, rarely used today), he produced prints that let viewers almost experience the air within the space. In fact, it appears that Evans photographed the air between him and the architecture, as well as the light filtering through the air, rather than the architecture itself. His images are quiet, introspective, and thoroughly magical.

It’s possible, perhaps probable, that a different printing of my own negatives would produce yet another interpretation of the cathedrals. I haven’t attempted the project because I can’t see them any other way. But following Ansel’s analogy, several years ago I did spend time in the darkroom attempting various printing results from the same negative. I was spurred on by my encounter with several recorded versions of Schubert’s string quartet #14, titled “Death and the Maiden”. I found that differences in tempo, emphasis, timbre, and dynamics gave each performance a wholly different character, and I wanted to see if the same would hold true of different prints produced from the same negative. Indeed it did, and I was amazed by the different interpretations a single negative could yield.

John Sexton carries this type of experiment further. Prior to a workshop, he sends copies of one of his negatives to more than 10 students, asking them to make a print of it in whatever way they choose. Cropping, burning, dodging, toning—everything is up to the students. The variation in “performances” is quite remarkable. (But of course, none of them were actually at the scene when the photograph was made, so none of them could have gained any idea of how they would have interpreted the scene had they experienced it. So while this exercise is both interesting and instructive, it is also limited.)

Does music evoke mental pictures for you? If the answer is yes, I suspect you have a strong proclivity for drawing photographic insight and inspiration from music. It is unlikely that this will produce new and wonderful photographs for you immediately, but try to open up to the possibilities that music offers. It will prove its worth over time.

Literature is another area from which artists have historically drawn inspiration. Any form of literature can provide it. I have long been fascinated by Japanese haiku, three-line poems with only 17 syllables total. The three lines have five, seven, and five syllables respectively. There are, of course, variations of this basic structure, but all haiku stay close to these rules.

Haiku are designed to evoke imagery. They have an uncanny ability of enticing the reader into conjuring up detailed scenes that fit the concept of the words. It’s apparent that in a poem of only 17 syllables, little can be said. The haiku poet must allude to something without spelling it out in detail. He must build a skeleton structure and allow the reader to fill in the rest. This not only allows for widely varied interpretations, but also allows the reader to become involved in the creative process. If you think about it, that lesson can be applied to photography. Let’s look at several haiku to grasp the meanings better. I urge you to read each one slowly and think about the mental picture it conjures up before going on to the next one.

A lightning flash:

between the forest trees

I have seen water. -- Masaoka Shiki

A man, just one—

also a fly, just one—

in the huge drawing room. -- Issa

Small bird, forgive me,

I’ll hear the end of your song

in some other world. -- Anon

A bitter morning:

sparrows sitting together

without any necks. -- J. W. Hackett

No sky at all;

no earth at all—and still

the snowflakes fall ... -- Hashin

Each of these haiku paints a vivid picture; but when you stop to think about it, you painted the picture. The poem only stimulated your image. It built the structure, and you filled in the details.

How often do your photographs say everything, leaving nothing more for the viewers? If you’ve said it all, taking the creativity away from the viewers, you can only expect a quick glance before they move to the next photograph.

The lesson I received from haiku is to say enough to interest viewers, but to leave enough unsaid to allow creative seeing and interpretation. Let them spend time thinking about it. Let your work excite and stimulate them, but leave them an opening for their own creativity.

Haiku is not the only form of literature that contains profound messages for working photographers. Other forms of poetry, as well as novels, philosophical writings, etc., all offer new ideas. They reside on the pages like fruit on the trees: you just have to find them, pick them off, and incorporate them into your way of seeing.