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

This multipurpose room had served as an elementary school cafeteria, auditorium, and gymnasium. Caked, cracked mud covered every horizontal surface and stained the walls almost to the ceiling. None of the photographs I made following Hurricane Katrina was a pleasure to make. But I felt they had to be made .

Figure 18-5. Multipurpose Room, Hardin School, New Orleans

When you do find a photographic possibility, work with it for a long time. Make a project of it. Study it. Photograph it in every way that has meaning to you—at different times, under a variety of lighting conditions, with an assortment of lenses, and anything else that may produce interesting and meaningful images. Don’t just make one or two photographs and drop it. Keep going back to search for new possibilities. You may be amazed at how fascinating the process proves to be.

Too many people shoot randomly, snapping whatever happens to strike their fancy and failing to look deeply into any specific subject. It turns out that going deeper into a subject can be an exhilarating experience. It’s a form of personal research, personal involvement, personal dedication, and above all, love. By the time you complete your project (if, indeed, you ever complete it), you’ll know it so well—more than anyone else—that you’ll truly love it. I feel the best work always springs from that level of personal involvement.

As you expand your possibilities, you also more accurately define your expressive approach. My own approach is well defined. I like both the art and the craft of photography. I prefer—almost demand—that my prints be sharp and clear. The exceptional rendering power of photography, continuously improved by better lenses and technologies, is one of its chief assets. I like to take advantage of that inherent strength.

I find little appeal in the muddy, out-of-focus creations of the Diana camera with its plastic lens. Yet I don’t make this preference an absolute rule. On occasion, I’ve produced unsharp images with limited focus because they seemed warranted and effective. Even with my strong feelings about sharpness, I try to maintain flexible thinking rather than rigid rules. The photographs of “Darkness and Despair” have very limited sharpness, especially in their original 16″ × 20″ size, as they were made with a medium format camera using extension tubes for extreme closeups. I blacked out some of the most out-of-focus areas during printing. Others are visible, but they help create the macabre imagery that I sought.

Sometimes out-of-focus images can be pleasantly appealing, though generally not to me if everything is out of focus. You’ll have to be the judge of what works best for you, and how much can go out of focus (Figure 3-15).

Limitations of Photography

Somewhere in your thinking about how much can be done through photography, there must be the recognition that it can’t do everything. It has limits, just like painting, sculpture, music, and literature, as well as science and technology. None of them can say everything, solve all problems, or reveal all truths. The fact is that photography may not always be up to the task of expressing your feelings, no matter how experienced you become. I still can’t think of a way to express my political views photographically. I feel that an understanding of photography’s limitations is as important as an understanding of its potential.

In 1986, I spent three consecutive days cross-country skiing and photographing in the Canadian Rockies with fellow photographer Craig Richards who lives near Banff National Park, Canada. One day we awakened with the first light of dawn, grabbed a few bites of breakfast, and departed Assiniboine Lodge for a day of exploration and photography before any of the other guests were out of bed. The first hour was drudgery as we laboriously skied uphill through dense forest toward Wonder Pass, several miles away. It was bitterly cold and bleak under a heavy blanket of clouds, and we had constant problems with our skis.

Suddenly, the most remarkable transformation occurred. We broke through the trees into more open country just as the clouds began to part overhead. Wonder Pass lay straight ahead, still a couple of miles away, but visible for the first time. Within seconds the immense wall of mountains to our right opened up, then the slopes and distant peaks to our left. From that moment on the weather became a constantly changing kaleidoscope of calm periods alternating with blizzard-like winds that pushed walls of windblown snow before them. Several times I stood facing the onslaught, only to turn, crouch, and cover my face at the last moment before the blast hit. A minute later it all passed, and I’d stand there cheering with my arms upraised and fists clenched by the exhilaration of it all. Periods of dense fog followed those of crystal clarity. Every moment was special; every vista was extraordinary. It was a day of magic.

At one point I looked uphill toward Wonder Pass for a possible photograph, liked what I saw, but looked to my right before setting down my tripod. What I saw there looked even better, so I skied a few feet to the side to position myself. Again I looked to my right, and again found something better! Within moments it happened several more times. Suddenly I realized that I had skied a full 360 degree circle—everything looked better than everything else! It was sensory overload of the highest order. I photographed until I ran out of film. So did Craig. By mid-afternoon we returned to the lodge and sauna, physically exhausted but emotionally charged.

Several weeks later, from my home near Los Angeles, I phoned Craig and asked if he had come away with any particularly strong photographs. There was a period of silence, punctuated by several stutters and stammers, but no words (and Craig is not the quiet type!). I broke the silence by saying, “I’m not sure I got anything, but I don’t really care. It was the day that was so incredible.” “Exactly!” Craig blurted out. “That’s exactly how I feel. I just couldn’t quite find the right words! It was ... unbelievable! I don’t think I got anything, either, but it doesn’t matter. What a day!”

We both recognized that we were unable to show through our photography what we had experienced. There was too much going on, too fast. No single thing could have been isolated from the ever-changing panorama. It was nature at its most spectacular. Now, if either of us had been equipped with a 35mm camera or a digital SLR, which didn’t exist back then, we might have been able to make the photographs that were skipping past us so quickly. This proves that every camera format has its place, its value. None are better than any other one. Each is a tool. You just have to use your tools as best you can for the task at hand. We had the wrong tools for that kind of day.

I have no regrets that the day yielded no outstanding photographs. The memories are sufficient. Even if I could, I would never trade the experience of that day for a fine photograph—or even several fine photographs. If I had to make a choice between nature and my photography, I would choose nature every time. It’s important to keep things in perspective. To a large extent, my photography is a product of nature; but nature is not a product of my photography.

There are times when the magnificence of nature—or any other subject—can be conveyed with success. There are times when it can be enhanced. Perhaps it could have been on that March day near Wonder Pass, but only by someone who could have maintained his photographic sensibilities better than Craig or I did under those conditions. Perhaps, but I doubt it. There are limits to photography. It’s not always possible to distill so much sensory input into a two-dimensional picture.