Take or Make

Take or Make
Peter Shikli
22 Oct 2015

We say we take a piss, but we don't really take it anywhere. We make it and leave it behind. This conundrum is even more perplexing with photography.

We do take pictures, carry them off, and keep them. For most of my life, that was enough. Photography was a way to document, but the real work would always come later when my memory had to make something of the pictures. Friends and family lined up before a waterfall, and with luck, the adventure and feelings not pictured would flood in years later.

Making a picture begins with a haphazard conversion into a hunter. Instead of just looking, we begin to see, and then to search because we learn to recognize what we want to see. Sometimes a sunset epiphany, but more often just some pleasing leaf colors. These are feelings that sneak up on us, and we grow interested in understanding how the leaf came to have such colors. Or we watch chipmunk antics long enough to see patterns to their behavior. That is all part of seeing instead of just looking.

Time slows down as we look around more carefully, and we grow useless as a hiking buddy. A 10-mile march turns into a 1-mile, 3-hour rambling inspection, annoying the crap out of anyone who had plans to reach a destination. Although time slows down for our bored observers, it speeds up for the photographer. What we see flows into what we wish to see and takes shape, actually many shapes flying around in our heads, what shutterbugs call compositions.

Composing has its rules. Basic stuff, like the "Rule of Thirds" which tells us that we should move the subject from the center toward the picture's corner. Another suggests diagonal lines in the picture should go toward a corner. Even the pro's don't know why we find these things pleasing, but we do.

We learn from our compatriots, for example, one gal taught me the beauty of a minimalist shot, where I leave the subject, say a lone flower, surrounded by lots of sand. We grow to understand why we find that pleasing, because of the thoughts and emotions it evokes. We see the flower's struggle to live in a harsh world, and we touch the struggles of our loved ones, maybe even our own. Or we see the valiant struggle of all living things, wax poetic, and then realize we are intruding on the artist community, the folks who take nothing and make everything worth making.

With that, we have completed our transition. We no longer take a picture to record the waterfall, but to highlight its subtle rivulets, to drink deeply from its power, to capture its beauty as the basis for our own art that we add to.

Finally, we discover our own path, something mysterious inside us that we yearn to make. In my case, it was the search for contrasts that brought me to the dark, the place where a subtle light stands out in stark defiance. My motto became "don't fear the dark". I prowled the night with my bear spray, developing my night vision like a forgotten muscle. I grew to feel part of the sleeping forest, silently watching fearful tourists bumble by with their flashlights. I thought of how much fun I could have with a deep-throated growl, unless they also carried bear spray.

We imagine, we design, we create -- often only to be brought back to what is possible with the scene we're presented, our camera, and our skills. Back to the drawing board, maybe walk around and circle our prey a bit more to empathize with it better. This gets us past even seeing to listening. If we're artists, we paint with light, and light follows its rules, not ours.

Post-processing falls in step with making. A good Photoshop driver, for example, will take pictures with an eye to what post-processing will come next. We take several shots forming a panorama, for example, because we plan to stitch them together later.

The same computer that annoys us with urgent emails transforms into a creativity tool, empowering our muse. My passion for the dark found expression with gradient filters and contrast settings. Numeric color coding overcame my color blindness, or at least allowed me to drift toward the colors my eyes enjoyed.

A dance evolves between taking a picture (what is possible) and making a picture (what is in our heads, what our soul desires). The drift from taking to making happens over time as we perfect our craft, as we grow experience converting what we imagine into what we capture and sculpt to the voice of a muse who was hidden all our lives -- until we learn to make.

Purists

Purist photographers refuse to do post-processing, maintaining that a good photograph shows the world as it really is. Of course we all have our opinions, but a conversation I overheard put things in perspective.

The purist pointed at a photo and said, "This is what the camera saw. This is real."

"Hm," said the other fellow, "where did you find a guy who is only 2 inches tall?"

My personal feeling is that such purists remain picture takers, and can get very good at it, but they miss out on the creative epiphanies that can happen when making a picture.

Rejecting their approach, however, is a mistake. We have much to learn from someone who can reach to the edge of a camera's capability. Michelangelo started by knowing well what paint could do and could not do.

More ramblings like this: www.shikli.com/blog

Peter Shikli is CEO of Bizware Online Applications. You can view his bio and contact him at pshikli@bizware.com.