Monthly Archives: July 2005

Pseuds’ Corner



The English satirical magazine Private Eye has long published a column named Pseuds Corner where pretentious nonsense is reprinted in all its glory. For example:

“The sheer courage of these pieces is breathtaking. The space inside, the gap between the walls, narrows, widens, breathes in and out (if you can speak of massive iron “breathing”, which in Serra’s work you can) and eventually rewards you with an inner chamber, from which you have to follow the same route out each emphasizes the ancient Greek philosopher’s Zen-like adage: hodos ano kato mia kai hote, “the way up and the way down are one and the same.” A maze would be fussy; it would interfere with the stupendous directness and logic of Serra’s spatial language. Robert Hughes on the Richard Serra installation at the Bilbao Guggenheim.

Phew!

Well, I never cease to be amused by the vast volume of Pseuds’ Corner prose that the world of photography attracts. Here are some recent examples – the names of the authors and publications have been suppressed to protect the pretentious.

“After a small quantity of test rolls (about 25 in all), both my regular Tri-X, some Lucky 400 made in China and Fuji Acros my personal feeling is: If you already have a later version of the Summicron 50 (and who doesn’t) or a clean 50DR Summicron you would not see much difference on your negatives (from pictures taken with the lens under review).”

From a a self-proclaimed Leica “expert” whose claim to fame seems to be ownership of dozens, if not hundreds of lenses for his Leicas (such fame is certainly not based on the quality of his photographic output).

“As W became better known, he was forced to try to explain in words matters that he knew could not be explained at all, but that might with luck be demonstrated in pictures.”

From the introduction to a book of photographs of a vastly overrated machine gun shooter whose demise caused many a moist eye in the accounting department at Kodak.

“Dualities have always been a feature in M’s life and work. He speaks of a “dark Manichaean flavor” in his earlier urban subjects, but that is not an element in his landscape work.”

From the notes to a book of M’s landscape photographs which prove without a shadow of a doubt that he should have stuck to street shooting.

“E’s affection for photography began at the time when he was starting a new life of sobriety. It is almost as if photography, with its directness, truth, and poignancy, became symbolic of this new life.”

From the introduction to a book about a manic collector of seemingly every famous photograph under the sun.

“Michael works in a special place; on the edge of darkness and light. His images hold a mirror to each viewer’s soul and conscience.”

From the introduction to a book of photographs by a darling of the collector set who has basically taken the same photograph a thousand times over the past twenty years.

“For his simplicity and his unbridled passion for his art, for all that has gone before and for all kinds of other reasons, a lot of which have nothing to do with photography, but a lot to do with art, and for never knowing when to stop chasing rainbows, B is a hero to his own generation and beyond.”

Introduction to a book of photographs by a famous fashion photographer.

“Technical fetishism also has its theoretical counterpart, namely the art of photographing.”

Introduction to a book of one of the most famous street photographers.

* * * * *

I didn’t make these up. Honest. I just went to the largest photography books in my library. The larger the format of the book the more of this sort of clap-trap is to be found in its pages. That does not mean you should stop buying large format books, only that you should look at the pictures and disregard the turgid prose. And remember – no Pseud ever took a good picture.

There’s nothing quite like mounting.

Years ago when I was serious about monochrome photography (and unable to afford being serious about color), I used to mount my best prints on thick card and matte them for display in frames. The difference between a loose, flimsy print and the finished, framed one was night and day. The mounting press I used was straight out of the tool box favored by the enforcers of the Spanish Inquisition. A massive acme screw on a cantilever placed immense pressure on the print while the hot platen helped melt the adhesive. Heat setting was, well, basic, as in “On” or “Off”. The same press was used to confer high gloss on prints, before the days of RC papers which came with their own, not very good, bluish sheen built in. You squeegeed the print onto a high gloss metal plate, hoping all the air was out, and heated it in the press. The nauseating smell of the formaldehyde which conveyed the gloss is with me to this day. I forget where I got this obscure instrument of torture, but I do recall it cost me all of five British Pounds back in the days before devaluation. That meant $14 in 1973 money, or $67 in today’s (2005) money. Not a lot, in other words, though I had to rewire the thing and generally mess with the wonky switch. But it worked.

This was, by the way, well before the days of Acid Free Boards and Archival Prints. Strange how those ancient monochrome 16″x 20″prints look fine to this day….

The Spanish Press moved on to its eleventh owner when I left the United Kingdom, as the former Colonies neither recognized 220 volts mains power or looked too kindly on a poor immigrant lugging Torquemada’s 50 pound favorite to the shores of the New World. And so it was relegated to the dusty recesses of memory, that foul press and its revolting formaldehyde odor.

Now my default print size, 8″x 10″ was not too bad when it came to handing prints around and asking “Do you like this one?”. But when I got serious about once more showing my work, or at least giving it away to others in a presentable format, memories of the Torquemada Special came flooding back. (See Really Large Prints where the author standardized on 13″ x 19″ prints for his best efforts, below). So I did a bit of shopping and discovered that the heated press situation is even worse than that for gasoline. The latter provides the consumer with an oligopoly, a few vendors pretending to compete but, realistically, fixing the price in a smoke filled room. By contrast, the photographic heated press world, an altogether smaller economy, has no competition whatsoever. In the United States you buy a press from Seal, aka Bienfang, or you do without. When you come down to it, a heated press is nothing more than a couple of slabs of cast iron, one of which contains a heater element, a foam pad, and yes, you guessed it, a massive lever (the acme thread has finally moved on), a couple of springs, two light bulbs – “On” and “Heating” – a thermostat and a cord and plug. So why does this nineteenth century piece of engineering crudity come with a price tag of $1,100 and up, you ask?

Tried to buy a cheap ladder recently? Same deal. It’s called liability lawyers. The members (a suitable description if ever there was one) of the tort bar have made sure that the finished product sells for four times its intrinsic value. Every time some twit falls off the ladder or burns himself using the mounting press, there go the legal – and product – costs. Add greedy home grown labor which spends its “sick leave” watching aforesaid members of the bar advertising their wares on television, and you have a prescription for an overpriced product.

So I did a bit more research. Seems that the Seal presses made back in the first 80 years of the twentieth century came with asbestos wiring. Now, bad memories of Torquemada’s Special dancing in my mind, I realized I did not particularly want to rewire a Genuine Seal original, attractive as it may be, for lack of full body armor and breathing equipment. So I sniffed around on ePrey, that home from home for liars, cheats and thieves, and determined that the current (as in 30 years old) line of Seal presses, distinguished by the suffix “M” in the model number (don’t ask, it stands for Masterpiece. Can you believe that?) as in 160M, 210M, etc. can be found now and then for under $500. That’s still eight times in today’s money compared to the cost of the Torquemada Original, but it beats paying $1,100 for the original cardboard packaging. So I waited patiently and a 160M joined the household, safely stored out of the way in the workshop some fifty yards from the main home. Cast iron being what it is, the UPS man used a dolly rather than risk a premature hernia. No use in tempting fate. Another $50 saw me as the proud owner of a used Seal tacking iron for attaching the mounting tissue to the print and mount.

So now I’m into this dry mounting exercise for some $450.

So now I’m stuck with mounting the prints and have absolutely no clue or recollection how to do it. I run to the Internet, read fifteen conflicting accounts, only to find definitive instructions in the packet of mounting tissue by …. you guessed it …. Seal/Bienfang. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the lack of competition. Phew! You would think that the guys who make the press and the tissue know their stuff. And indeed they do. Things go without a hitch and three lovely 8″x 10″ prints are even now winging their way to him in time for his exhibition. No question he will win. Two identical prints, one held up with thumb tacks, the other nicely mounted, is no competition.

The moral of this tale? Well there are two. The first is that a properly dry mounted print with a decent mat is THE way to showcase your work. No, not one of those poncy things where you stick one edge to the back of the mat to let it “breathe and expand” only to cockle in two weeks, using the excuse that the “Art” world accepts no less – mainly because the Art world is broke. We are talking heat sealed here.

The second is that you should copy this piece to anyone you know involved in Chinese manufacture of basic equipment and get the price down from $1,100 to $99.99.

All photographers will be in your debt.

The Photographer-Mule migrates up-market.

So you thought the nation with the largest contiguous border with the most successful, the most powerful, nation the world has ever seen, not to mention the most altruistic, had nothing to offer but cheap prescription drugs and cold winters?

Well, think again.

Dialing up the foul eBay the other day in search of a better price on a used LowePro Omni Trekker bag the better with which to carry my magnificent fifty year old Crown Graphic and its many film holders and accessories, I came across a Canadian vendor selling new versions at half the price of the ones available to those of us who count ourselves blessed to be Americans.

So I splashed out my $119 (US) and no less than five days later the new Omni-Trekker, or at least a very good rip off, tags and all, was on my doorstep.

My dog was happy, as it meant a cookie from the UPS man. I was happy as someone from Canada had actually shown some business acumen (we need all the friends we can get) and geopolitics was happy, reassured that maybe those neighbors of ours were not complete losers after all.

The point of this preamble, of course, is that humping the Crown over California’s magnificent landscape, rugged as the camera is, in an old LA Rams gym bag, the Linhof tripod carelessly slung in insouciant manner over the other shoulder, was not a prescription for longevity of either the equipment or the operator.

So on my 140 mile round trip trek to that Top Secret Highway One Location today, the casual observer would have spotted a rather well dressed gent, yes, Harris Tweed cap and all in deference to Her Majesty and our northern neighbors, sporting nothing less than a magnificent LowePro Omni-Trekker bag (or cheap imitation thereof – you decide) in backpack manner with Linhof tripod prominently displayed. Thank goodness for quick release straps.

It has to be said that this huge investment in carrying capacity and function paid dividends. First, in reducing the stress caused by its predecessor, the LowePro earned its keep right there. Second, in spreading the load over the body, sternum and waist, it made a damnable trek into something more resembling sheer bloody hell. A whole lot easier, in other words.

But. most importantly, this Canadian import made it possible to reach places heretofore unknown and that’s what makes for great photographs.

So if you don’t care how you carry your equipment, think again. Canada is not just a haven for those favoring socialized medicine. You can also get cheap camera bags there.

Good Photographs and Car Accidents

Good photographs are like car accidents. Most happen close to home.

At first that sounds trite but a moment of reflection on the simple mathematics of travel discloses that most of our lives are spent close to home. We spend more time in the garage starting the car and waiting for the door to open than at any other point of any journey. Over many trips, a greater percentage of time is spent one mile from home than two. Travel five miles and you have to travel mile one. Travel a thousand and you still travel mile one. And so on. That is why most car accidents occur close to home, because that is where you spend most time.

That, too, is why most good photographic opportunities are close to home. The harried tourist, trying to find his way around Paris with a guide book, poor French and the ever helpful Parisian to guide him, arrives at the Eiffel Tower stressed and late. He is also tired, having lugged his gear a considerable distance in search of that once in a lifetime snap, aware that the chances of revisiting this location are remote. So to add to the newness of the environment are the additional pressures of failure (“I only have one chance to get this right”), time pressures (“Must not miss that flight”) and equipment concerns (“Did I pack that ultra-wide lens?”). The lighting is new, the length of daylight is new, the feel of the place is new. In other words, there are so many environmental changes that the chances of taking a well thought out, skillfully composed photograph are remote. As remote as the location.

Now compare that to the situation back home. You know the area within a five mile radius of your home like the back of your hand. If you don’t, well then you lack the curiosity to be a photographer. You have photographed it often, seeing new things every time, looking through ever more inquiring eyes, varying the time of day and enjoying various weather conditions. It matters not whether home is the Bronx or Brighton, there are as many photographic opportunities close to your home as anywhere else. No, there are more because you have time to see and think, luxuries not available to other than the most affluent tourist who can afford a month’s stay at a remote location of choice.

When I compiled my book Street Smarts, most of whose content is comprised of street shots in London in the mid-1970s, it dawned on me that over ninety percent of those pictures were taken within five miles of home. These were areas I knew and loved and had visited many times. The wonderful words Alan Jay Lerner placed in Henry Higgins’s mouth in My Fair Lady come to mind:

I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face
She almost makes the day begin.
I’ve grown accustomed to the tune
She whistles night and noon.
Her smiles, her frowns,
Her ups, her downs
Are second nature to me now;
Like breathing out and breathing in.
I was serenely independent and content before we met;
Surely I could always be that way again and yet
I’ve grown accustomed to her looks;
Accustomed to her voice;
Accustomed to her face.

And that is exactly how I thought of the London I was photographing. Our relationship was a continuum, having good days and bad, great weather and foul, exhilaration and despair.

And that, whether you love your location or hate it, is how, I suggest, you feel about it too.

So the best pictures are to be found on your doorstep as no one knows it as well as you. The following snap is of an olive tree on my California estate, outside the window on my left as I write. It was taken last November from my front porch, with the photographer splendidly attired in paisley pajamas and that dashing terry cloth robe which gives me the looks of a movie star. A foul morning, foggy and damp. But second nature to me now.

The best photographs are to be found close to home.

Forget Technique

My learning experiences with my newly acquired large format Crown Graphic 4” x 5” camera have reminded me what a bore technique really is when it comes to photography. Or, more accurately, the job of learning a new technique. The most intrusive aspect of this learning experience is that it really gets in the way of taking pictures, and the more I find myself thinking about technique the more distracted my picture taking becomes.

I suppose there are many analogies to the bother that is technique in everyday life. Driving a car smoothly, making a perfect mortise and tenon joint in two pieces of wood, learning your way around some new piece of software. Heck, remember the first time you made love? Your major concern was not enjoyment. It was technique, assuming you were sober enough to remember anything. In these, and innumerable other examples, once technique is mastered, enjoyment begins. So I tend to see technique as an obstacle to enjoyment or, in creative pursuits, to creativity. Which is the same thing.

I started taking pictures and being serious about it – meaning I wanted to produce good work – when I got my first Leica at the age of eighteen. Up to then picture taking had been nothing more than dilettante dabbling. In realizing that fewer variables made for less to worry about, I standardized on one lens (well, it’s all I had in any case), one make of film (TriX) and one developer (D76). Over-exposure, I quickly learned, was the death knell of definition, underexposure playing havoc with shadow detail and dynamic range (though we didn’t call it that in those days). So the first technical lesson was to get the exposure more or less right. Then memorizing which direction the controls had to be turned to focus and adjust exposure was critical. As my avocation was street shooting, no time could be spent thinking about these. Finally, the chemical darkroom (ugh!) required learning how to black the room out properly, get the foul, smelly chemicals at the right temperature (68F in frigid London was not always that easy) and then exposing the paper properly. Of course, unlike modern digital back ends, making two identical prints was more a case of luck than judgement, but after a while, and not a few sheets of wasted paper, 8”x10” prints started to roll off the old Gamer enlarger like GM makes cars, if maybe not as quickly. At least the quality was better than Detroit’s.

It really showed in the negatives. A few years ago when I got my first decent negative scanner and printer I could see how the early monochrome work got consistently better, the success rate higher, after the first few dozen rolls of film. In those days you submitted pictures for publication as prints in the mail, so they had to be good prints. A good print, it seemed, put you in the 10% pile immediately – the non-rejects. Those many years later, learning ’darkroom’ technique again, as applied to those old TriX negatives, was trivial compared to what the chemical darkroom called for. You could scan at high or low definition but a simple, high resolution unmanipulated scan allowed you maximum flexibility in Photoshop. Sadly, the scanning software could not apply its dust and scratch reduction to the silver based originals, reminding me how bad my drying technique for film had been all those years ago. At least retouching was now a one-off prospect, and not something to be done on each print. Can you imagine a worse use of your time than retouching dust and scratches? I cannot.

I have not had a chemical darkroom for over 25 years now. First, I realized that I was adding no value to my pictures by developing my own film. So I let labs do it. Their volumes assured consistency and the better ones guaranteed quality. Never mind black and white, think of the complexities added when you process color. There is simply no earthly justification for processing your own film. Period. In other words, I delegated that aspect of technique to those more competent than I. And as my time saved was worth more to me than the incremental cost of delegating the task, I made money into the bargain. Not bad.

Then in the 1980s through the mid-1990s, before scanners and printers became affordable, I delegated all my printing to labs also. Same reasons. Just a question of finding one you liked. No one, but no one, has ever asked me whether I printed a picture myself or whether a lab did it. Except, that is, for equipment geeks, whom I try to avoid at all costs. truth be told, something was lacking in the prints however, for dodging and burning was not something easily delegated. But mostly the results were good enough.

Then, when really good printers and scanners became available for home use, I could recapture the creative side by doing my own scanning and printing using Photoshop with just those tweaks to the image I wanted. After learning the technique (if, indeed, anyone can ever claim to have learned Photoshop), control was reestablished over the creative process. For some, back end manipulation is 90% of the creative process. Ansel Adams for example. Mediocre photographer, great darkroom technician. For others, back-end technique is 10% of the process. I’m at the 10% end, mostly. But the point is that the technique, once learned, is subsumed to the creative process. The technique, in other words, becomes invisible and ceases to be an obstacle, as it has become second nature.

When I got my first wide carriage printer, I set the simple technical goal that any scanned original – whether 35mm or medium format, and now large format – would yield a sharp, 13” x 19” print of broad dynamic range, by default. Not by accident.

So as I find myself struggling to master the new aspects of technique of large format photography, I am making strenuous efforts to make these techniques second nature. Some are trivial. It is, for example, very difficult not to take a very sharp picture. A 4” x 5” negative does not need much enlarging! Anyone can make huge, crisp prints from large format originals. Hardly something to set as a goal. But loading those blamed film holders, packing that heavy gear, messing with swings and tilts and clumsy controls, and not letting all that process get in the way of seeing, that takes some learning.

So my advice to you is the same that I follow – work hard, work fast to get that technique down so that it becomes second nature, then forget about it and get on with the creative side. Your pictures will immediately be better and it will show. And don’t let anyone tell you it takes years to learn this or that aspect of technique. It does not. Those who would tell you otherwise are trying to safeguard their not so precious secrets. Avoid them.

My second 4″ x 5″ photograph. Technique is getting there….