A "Magic" Filter from Singh-Ray

When I was still in my teens, and just starting to learn photography, I recall two pivotal moments after which whatever doubts I may have had at the time about seriously pursuing photography evaporated, never to be heard from again. I described the first moment in an earlier blog entry; it amounts to seeing Minor White's "abstract expressionist"-like "Capitol Reef" print for the first time. I will not repeat what I wrote before, except to emphasize the spiritual awakening that White's image evoked in me. I realized for the first time that photography could be used to express not just the "objective" world - as it appears here and now, on the "outside" - but also an intensely subjective, private world that describes our very soul and its relationship to the corporeal.

The second moment, which occurred at roughly the same time in my life, took place as I was ponderously reading a rather dry textbook on photography; and is a direct precursor of why I am now so excited (30 years later!) by a magnificent lens filter available from Singh-Ray. Going back to my old self at 17, I remember being curled up in bed one day, while skimming through some pages explaining the basics of exposure. It was all standard material, with equally standard (meaning somewhat "dull") illustrations and photos highlighting the central points of the text. And then I ran across what I, at the time, thought was a stunningly dull photo: an image of an empty highway, taken in broad daylight. No cars, no pedestrians, no birds, nothing but asphalt and concrete. "Wow," I remember thinking, "these guys could use some creativity pills if this is the best they can do to illustrate a text on photography!" But it was a curiously puzzling photo, and strangely mesmerizing in its own way. I couldn't take my eyes off it for some reason. I kept asking myself, "Why aren't there any cars on this long stretch of highway in the middle of the day?" After reading the text more carefully (there was no caption underneath the picture except for the figure number), I had my second epiphanous moment.

The reason the picture showed nothing but an empty highway was because - during the extremely long exposure (about 1 min!) - nothing was in the frame long enough to register on the film! And how did that happen? Because the author was illustrating an effect of attaching a strong neutral density filter to the lens (in addition to using a very small aperture). A neutral density filter (NDF) reduces the intensity of light (at all wavelengths), thereby increasing the effective exposure time as the amount of reduction increases. NDFs are typically rated by the number of "f-stops"-worth of light reduction they impose.

For example, if a "filterless" exposure at f8 is, say, 1/500 sec, then a "2 f-stop" NDF will increase the exposure to 1/125 sec (at the same aperture); and an "4-stop" NDF will further increase it to 1/30 sec. Of course, one has to be sure that the white balance is preserved (so that there are no extraneous color shifts); which in practice simply means that you'll be investing in more expensive brands. I always carry at least two NDFs in my bag, one 3f-stop and one 6f-stop. The range is important, for it allows me to "experiment" with, say, a "frozen" water stream (using a fast exposure), a stream that is delicately blurred (for exposure times between 1/4 - 1 sec), and cloud-like flow "abstractions" (for t>5 sec).

However, despite the aesthetic allure of photos taken with my NDFs, I have often felt overly constrained by being able to reduce my exposure only by a fixed amount, as allowed and defined by a given filter's f-stop rating. Until, that is, a few weeks ago when I stumbled upon a remarkable variable neutral density filter - called a vari-ND - by Singh-Ray.

The vari-ND allows the user to "dial-in" any desired level of light attenuation between two and eight f-stop's worth, simply by rotating a ribbed ring on the filter. Apart from the technical acumen required to make this work, by providing the photographer near instant control over a vast continuous range of effective exposures makes the vari-ND a truly remarkable device.

Well, I've had this magic filter - and it is magic! - for a few weeks, and had a chance to experiment "Seeing" with it; some examples of which you see sprinkled throughout this post. It works precisely as advertised, and is a lesson in elegant design and workmanship. There are two sizes - 77mm and 82 mm - which is not a problem for those (like me) with smaller sized lens, since you can always use a step-up ring to match the filter. Indeed, having a smaller lens is actually an advantage, since you reduce the possibility of vignetting at wider-angles.

Objectively speaking, the vari-ND does not provide anything that a photographer cannot achieve in other ways, using other tools. But oh how magnificently effortless vari-ND renders that work! If the possibility of creating lasting works of art depends, in even small measure, on the artist being unburdened from logistical/technical constraints, then - I say - the vari-ND is truly a magic filter! It is brilliant in conception, flawless in design, and produces stunning images.

If you are a seasoned photographer looking to expand your creative possibilities, have just started exploring the dynamics of light and exposure, or have ever wondered what it would be like to control up to 8 f-stops worth of light with a simple twist of a filter, go here, and order one of these magical devices for yourself. You won't regret it!

A philosophical postscript: I use the word "magic" in the title and in my reference to the vari-ND for two reasons. The first reason has already been hinted at in the text above, and has to do with how this filter "magically" renders effortless the willful imposition of desired exposure time (on a technical level). The second reason, unarticulated explicitly above, is decidedly philosophical. What this filter does, in effect, is to transform our normal, every-day perception of temporal flow - in which the world appears to move in localized snippets of time that last roughly 1/30 to 1/60sec - to glimpses of a supranormal, otherwordly, realm in which time moves at a slower, sometimes significantly slower, pace. It thereby also transforms us into temporally transcendent beings, that temporarily exist outside of time, and are able to marvel at time's own inner rhythms. Who is to say what is "real", and what is not? Is the "real" stream of water the one my eyes provide a visual imprint of?" Or is it the ethereal cloud of vapor that my "temporally transformed" eye glimpses, however briefly, with the aid of the vari-ND? Both are "real", but neither is definitively so, of course. Moreover, I would argue, it is this simple, but profound, realization that we have momentarily stepped "outside the normal flow of perceived time" - along with the even deeper realization that the clearest view of reality can only take place from some vantage point outside of it, on a meta-level - that points the way toward something approaching a "spiritual" enlightenment. Thus, the second reason I use the word "magic" in describing the vari-ND, is that it "magically" reveals a (normally hidden) spiritual realm.

Concerning the Spiritual in Photography

"The great epoch of the Spiritual which is already beginning, or, in embryonic form ... provides and will provide the soil in which a kind of monumental work of art must come to fashion," so prophesied the great Russian painter, Wassily Kandinsky, in his masterful Concerning the Spiritual in Art, published in 1914. Since then, of course, and to varying degrees, art has been replete with many aspects of the spiritual; indeed, the traditionally religious-centric interpretation of the term has on occasion been considerably expanded by art to include mysticism, ritual and myth, symbolism, the occult, and pure abstraction. A wonderful book - The Spiritual in Art: Abstract Painting 1890-1985 - that chronicles much of the history of spiritual art, and contains many wonderful reproductions of important works, was published in 1985 to highlight an exhibit held at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. A recent Dover reprint of another classic survey - The Spiritual in Twentieth-Century Art - is also available; though it has only a relatively few black and white examples, the scholarship is first-rate.

The impact of the "spiritual" on photography is less clear, and has - sadly - less of a clear history. To be sure, the spiritual has never been far from photography's best practitioners; though not necessarily in overt form. Alfred Steiglitz's "Equivalents" are nothing if not quiet, soulful expressions of an inner reality, and are obviously infused with spirit in the deepest sense. Ansel Adam's portfolio of ostensibly "grand sweeping vistas" filled with Wagnerian-scale drama, are both creative affirmations of everything that is beautiful "out there," beyond the artist behind the lens, and of the poetic soul yearning desperately for a way to better communicate the transcendent beauty it sees on the inside. Adams' quest was a quintessentially spiritual one, much more so than merely aesthetic; a quest that is, regrettably (and profoundly erroneously, in my view), all-too-quickly dismissed by some latter day photographers as a product of "vision-less" Zone-system technobable and attention to irrelevant minutiae of craft. Many of Minor White's best works can be compared to those of Kandinsky, in the sense that both artists (used their respective media to) point a way toward a radically new grammar for spiritual expression. And Carl Chiarenza's visionary explorations of the "inner landscape" have been available for all to "see" for decades.

Still more recently, I've encountered the works of spiritually inclined artists such as Doug Beasley, Nicholas Hlobeczy, John Daido Loori, Deborah Dewit Marchant, and Jerry Wolfe, who each in their own way, pay homage to the spirit of Steiglitz's equivalents, and use their photography to reveal otherwise invisible realms of the soul. (Not surprisingly, Hlobeczy, Loori, and Wolfe all worked with Minor White.)

But, though there are plenty of other contemporary photographer / artists whose work is very spiritual in nature, there is little evidence to suggest that "spiritual photography" (at least in the sense I mean here) is emerging - or has ever emerged, for that matter! - as a bona-fide movement in photography. Indeed, if books such as reGeneration: 50 Photographers of Tomorrow (published, ironically, by Aperture, a magazine founded by Minor White and Ansel Adams!) are true indicators of the direction in which photography is currently "moving," that direction is visibly leading away from, rather than anywhere near, spirit. Deliberately staged images that shock and pound the senses into a surrealistic (and often numbingly ugly) unreality seem to be the norm; pictures that invite a quiet meditation or that simply, but sincerely, ask, "Is this not beautiful?" are rarely seen today - and when they do appear, are routinely scorned by critics as unimportant "pretty pictures" that convey no lasting meaning. (Christopher Alexander has been lamenting a similar spiritual decline in architecture and urban planning for a quarter century.) I hope I am wrong, for to move away from spiritual expression is, in my opinion, to move away from the most meaningful connection we have to the spiritual world - which is our essential wellspring of existence - as physical beings. Severing this connection, even if only implicitly by focusing our collective artistic / photographic energies onto more "sterile" - and spiritually inert - aspects of the world, means we must face the specter of losing ourselves in (or devolving backwards to) the merely physical.

For me, photography, or any other creative art form for that matter, is first and foremost a language of the transcendent; it represents a way for gifted "seers" - otherwise known as "artists" - to remind the rest of us that none of us are merely creatures of the flesh.

A Few Basic Lessons of Fine-Art Photography

A young photographer recently asked me one of those "deceptively difficult" questions one encounters from time to time. While not quite in the unanswerable category that questions such as "So, what is life all about?" fall into, I was nonetheless hard pressed to give a quick respond to this question: "What are the most important lessons you've learned on your way to becoming a fine-art photographer?"

Leaving aside the temptation to reply either that "I'm not quite sure I'm a fine-art photographer yet, so..." or, perhaps, "I have no idea, but when you get a good answer from someone, please come back to share it with me!"...after some sober reflection, I decided that if I have anything of value to impart at all, after 35 or so years of struggling to find my own "eye/I" in photography, the basic lessons are these:

1. Never stop taking pictures. Always take pictures, constantly, even when you dont have a camera with you. Always pretend you have an imaginary lens in front of your eyes, and let them dart back and forth wherever you are; looking, seeing, composing, relating one part of a scene to another, imagining what it may look like with one filter or another, that lens instead of this one, and so forth. Don't let a day go by without at least the mental exercise of picture taking; better yet, wander around with a camera for an hour or two every day and take pictures. Photography is at least as much a lifestyle as it is a craft! If you are passionate about photography, you will photograph; you have to, it's who you are. Whether an interest in photography (or any creative endeavor for that matter) is a passing fancy or a deep passion can easily be determined by noting the extent to which you miss it when circumstances prevent you from practicing it. If the passion is real, you will begin (sometimes very creatively;-) sculpting your time to make sure you always have time for your art. The passion lives to the extent that you provide it with the one thing it needs: taking pictures, always taking pictures.

2. Forget about things and concentrate on feelings. Photography - especially fine-art photography - is the art of using the objective reality that sits squarely before you and your eye, and whatever means are at your disposal (beginning with your choice of where to look and what to leave out of a composition), to try to communicate to someone days, weeks, years later the feeling that came over you the instant you paused and said, to yourself, "Ah, I must take a picture!" This is something that is both very, very hard to explain how to do (indeed, I'm not even attempting to do that here), and will eventually become something that is very, very obvious to you about what you are really "doing" as a fine-art photographer (even if, as in my case, you fail at it much more often than you succeed).

"I do not photograph nature. I photograph my vision." - Man Ray

One day you will look at your own images, or better, look at someone else looking at your pictures, and you'll understand that you've become a photographer, not a snapshooter. You will realize that some image of yours actually made someone else feel pretty much what you felt while taking it. This is the essential core truth of all meaningful art, and is the first real step toward defining yourself as an artist.

3. Do not internalize (or take too seriously) what others tell you about your pictures; take the pictures that are important to you. Use your images as a way of going inward, into your own soul. Photography is first and foremost a process of self-discovery, not an exercise in literal capture of something "out there". Photojournalism aside (since my focus is on fine-art photography), the most timeless images of all are those that somehow capture a few notes of a deep universal rhythm; you know you're close when you see a part of yourself looking back.

“A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face.” – Jorge Luis Borges, Afterword to El Hacedor (aka Dreamtigers), 1960

The paradox is that it is only by looking inward, at who we are, and communicating to the world what we see and feel, that we stand the best chance of capturing a truth (and beauty) that others will recognize as their own. The least promising way to go about this is to take pictures that satisfy someone else's vision. While one may still manage to take technically well executed photographs, chances are slim that they will be infused with any deep meaning.

4. Learn the basics of technique, so that "technique" never again requires your conscious attention. While it's certainly important to develop the necessary skills of any craft, and photography is no exception, learn them well and internalize them, but then quickly move on to the art. It is far easier for a creative spark to emerge out of a sincere (but perhaps technically deficient) soul, than it is for art of any kind to arise in an atmosphere where the technical aspects reign supreme.

"Technique is what you fall back on when you are out of inspiration." - Rudolf Nureyev

If you put a homemade pinhole camera into the hands of a master photographer who has never used one, after a bit of fiddling, he or she is likely to produce the same fine-art caliber of imagery - with exactly the same depth of feeling - that he or she naturally creates. But put a world-class $15,000 Hasselblad in the hands of someone with "a photography degree", who perhaps knows more about what each button and dial does than the designers of the camera, but has little real passion for the art, and all you're likely to get is a snapshot taken with a $15,000 Hasselblad. The focus must always be on the art, and what you're trying to communicate with it; the technical side is there only to support you, and will take care of itself.

5. Never stop learning from the masters, and their photographs. Look at their work, and then again, and again; never stop looking at what other photographers you admire (and don't admire!) have done. I have never known a fine-art photographer that does not have a veritable library of books by other photographers (and I will share some of those in my collection in a later post). These are our teachers. They inspire us, they educate us, they provide us with ideas and stepping stones for us to forge our own path toward self-discovery. Second hand bookstores are a great treasure, as people tend to throw away the "old" uninteresting stuff. What a goldmine of inspiration I say! Keep looking, keep flipping though art books, and don't confine yourself to photography by the way. Art is art, whatever the medium. Everything I learned about composition, tone, form and texture - and, ultimately, about photography itself - I learned simply though watching my dad, who (though not a photographer) was a remarkable artist.

6. Forge your own path (strong form of lesson #3). The most difficult lesson of all, certainly the most difficult to follow, is to know that we will ultimately achieve little of lasting value if our work does not bear the fruit of our own uniqueness. How do you know you're on the right path? As Joseph Campbell wisely reminds us, "If the path before you is clear, you're probably on someone else's." This does not mean that your work cannot be "derivative" (or be labeled as such by others); it does not mean it cannot come "easily" (though only a lucky few ever experience it as such); and it does not mean you must always be "lost in the jungle" to stay away from every well-trodden path you see in the distance. It means only that whatever form your art assumes, that it arises naturally, from within, and sincerely expresses your unique vision. Ineffably, you cannot ask for it. You cannot choose it. You cannot guess it. You cannot will it. You cannot blindly hope it comes to you. But have faith in the humble truth that - if you are an artist, and your soul is pure and true to itself - your "vision" will find you, and when it appears, you will have found yourself.

"Art...comes inevitably as the tree from the root, the branch from the trunk, the blossom from the twig. None of these forget the present in looking backward or forward. They are occupied wholly with the fulfillment of their own existence. The branch does not boast of the relation it bears to its great ancestor the trunk ...because it is engaged in the full play of its own existence, because it is full in its own growth, its fruit is inevitable." - Robert Henri, The Art Spirit

Spirit & Light Portfolio

I am delighted to report that my Spirit & Light portfolio has just been published in Lenswork Extended Issue #71 (Jul - Aug 2007). A few of the published images can be seen here (click on the "Spirit & Light" gallery at the top of the Adobe flash presentation that this link will take you to). 

Here is the accompanying essay: Although I was raised in the Russian Orthodox tradition (and was an “altar boy” into my early teens), somehow – inexplicably - I have never before seriously trained my camera’s “eye” onto the rich aesthetic forms I had so long admired and that adorn most Orthodox churches. It has been quite a while since I’ve been part of a congregation, and I have tended to frown upon organized religion more than I have been attracted to it as I grew into adulthood. My spiritual core nonetheless owes much to my early upbringing. 

 A few years ago, I had an opportunity to participate in a juried exhibition at the Washington National Cathedral, in Washington, DC (and I am proud to have two of my works on permanent display in its upper gallery). As I made my frequent journeys toward one of the city’s and the nation’s best known landmarks, I kept noticing this beautiful Russian Orthodox Church, St. Nicholas Cathedral, standing off to the side. I remember admiring it from afar and making mental reminders to stop by before going home to see what was inside, but was usually so tired after a day of taking pictures at the Cathedral that I never got around to it. Until one day last year, when I finally resolved to make a special visit to St. Nicholas and see what I would find. 

 What I found was both a revelation and an awakening. A revelation, because I had, in some sense, “discovered” what was there in front me all along: an immensely beautiful church that I had essentially ignored in my erstwhile pursuit of the National Cathedral’s more heralded grandeur. An awakening, because it took but one glance at St. Nicholas’s ornate but soulful interior to remind me of my own spiritual roots, and my need to replenish those roots by revisiting them with my camera. And so began a quiet journey over the next few months that took me to several Orthodox Churches in the DC area, and the one closest to my heart (Our Lady of Kazan, Sea Cliff, NY), in my hometown on Long Island.

Somewhere along the way I also rediscovered myself.

Blackberry Picking and Abstracts

What does picking blackberries have to do with abstracts? Perhaps a better title (certainly more informative;-) would be, "How to bring home some abstract photos by listening to your wife!" Hot on the heels of my last Blog entry (which also credits my wonderful wife with getting me into position to get some shots despite myself by insisting I take my camera, when I professed "lack of muse", and didn't want to bother), my wife is to be credited with again reminding me what every photographer (except this stubborn one!) knows; namely, that photographs are everywhere.

The context for this latest denouement (i.e., and my embarrassing inability to learn this one basic lesson) was a simple, lazy Saturday. The sun was bright, the kids were anxious for something to do outside, and my wife was full of interesting ideas. "Let's go blackberry picking!" she suggested, something we had actually never done before. I was delighted to tag along; indeed, because of the horrible "photographer's weather" (i.e., bright sun, few clouds makes for ugly contrast-ridden shots; at least in general), I had already consigned the day to be "photo free" and braced myself for an onslaught of the obligatory photographer's lament and pouting about "another day lost". However, as always, my wife was far wiser than I: "Hun, you never know what you could find. Isn't that what you always tell me? Why not take your camera." As on our recent trip to Florida, I relunctantly grabbed my camera bag, but was inwardly smiling with the thought, "Yeah, I'll take it, but I won't be getting any shots today!"

So we went berry picking, my wife and kids loved every minute of it, and we now have more berries than we know what to do with. As for me, I knew I was in a photographer's Shangrila the moment our minivan sauntered into the dirt parking lot of a local organic farm. While my wife and kids were gazing out toward the berry patches, my eye was drawn to old tractors, farmhouses, dilapited storage bins, deserted cars and trucks, vine-entangled old windows and beat-up farm equipment. "I'm so glad I decided to take my camera along!", I thought (Ahem!;-)

All told, we spent two hours or so at the farm; my wife and kids picking berries, and with me prowling around looking for whatever might catch the eye. The owners were very nice, and gave me permission to roam their property at will. They were a bit puzzled, though, about my subject matter. While I took a few stray shots of tractors and some closeups of hay, I spent far more time admiring one particular section of a half-ajar door (full of other-worldly realms of peeling paint and other mysteries) to a trailer just off to the side from where the owners set up a small table to greet all incoming berry-pickers.

My wife mercifully came to my rescue as the owners' quizzical glances soon turned to outright panic that perhaps the strange man bobbing his head up and down and contorting his body in odd angles while keeping his nose barely three inches from the door is, after all, just a bit deranged. "Please don't be alarmed," she jumped in to explain, "My husband just delights in finding interesting patterns and textures. He lives for doors like this!" (She could have rightly added: "Of, course, he can only do this when he remembers to take his camera, even if it looks like it's a 'horrible' day for photography!";-)

"Chance Favors the Prepared Mind"

"Chance favors the prepared mind," Ansel Adams was fond of saying (though the original quote comes from Louis Pasteur). I was reminded of the wisdom of this aphorism during a recent trip my family and I took to Coral Gables, Florida. Armed, as usual, with my camera-bag's worth of equipment, I had a carefully preconceived plan in place to visit some of my favorite "photo-safari" haunts. I know the area well from my many visits, and places such as Fairchild Gardens and Vizcaya were firmly at the top of my list. While they didn't disappoint (they never do), and each offers delightful compositional opportunities, through no fault of theirs - since I was the one who deliberately chose them for my photo-safari - my muse was unfortunately struggling to stay awake.

There is a feeling, roughly analogous to the common dream of running through molasses, that overcomes all photographers at some point when they've prepared too much. Everything is "right", all the equipment works, the lenses are clean, the camera bag has exactly what you need, the light is right, the location is right, beautiful vistas are all around you, and ... nothing happens. There is no magic. No spark. You lift your (strangely, much heavier-than-normal) camera to your eye, and - maybe - at some point click its shutter more to alleviate the growing boredom than because of anything that strikes your aesthetic eye as "interesting." And yet, everything, objectively speaking, is perfect. How can that possibly be?, you wonder Everything is just right. All photographers - all artists - know exactly what I'm writing about.

Now, skip ahead to the last day of my family's trip. The rain starts to fall in the morning, and is unrelenting; and with it, so I think, wash away my last hopes of savoring an "Aha!" moment at Fairchild or Vizcaya. Finally, the sky clears, it is late in the day, and my kids want to go feed the pelicans at a nearby park (Matheson Hammock Park Beach). Sulking from my trip-long funk, I want to leave my camera behind (something I almost never do). My wife (as she always does;-) reminds me that I almost never do that, and gently urges me to bring it along, which I do, reluctantly (and expect nothing more than to get some quick grabs of the kids feeding their pelicans, if even that). Which is, indeed, exactly what happens. No muse, no sparks, just that same monotonous, lifeless "clicks" as before...and then the magic happens!... just as the kids finish feeding their pelicans and everyone starts walking back toward our car.

While putting away my camera, my trip-long, nearly comatose "photographer's eye/intuition" finally awakens, and forces me to glance over my shoulder...and I am absolutely transfixed by the magnificent cacophony of lines, shadows and light playing on the rapidly darkening, and by now deserted, marina. Literally breathlessly, I reset my tripod, rifle through my bag for a 3-stop ND filter (to get at least a 15 sec exposure to blur the small waves), compose more on instinct than design, and take one shot. At which time my wife and kids are already getting antsy, and remind me that dinner is waiting and that they're all hungry. And the magic goes Poof!

But what a moment. While my one shot - reproduced at the top of this blog entry - may not be an award winner, it is by far my best shot of the whole trip. It is also the one shot I didn't plan on taking at all; though I was prepared!

I hope I'll remember this little lesson in humility, though I recall saying those same words to myself countless times before, and such experiences still obviously take me by surprise when they happen. Although I almost always "plan" on going to certain places (that's my style), and always have at least some idea of what I'm "after" when I get there (in concept, if not detail), I also always try to be prepared for when chance decides to pay me a quick visit. Indeed, as a photographer, I live for these moments!

Whats Your Book? Contest

Back in the autumn of last year, The British Black & White Photography magazine (GMC Publications) announced their "What's Your Book?" contest. It was an open call to all amateurs and professionals, with the entry requirements being (1) an idea for a book ;-), (2) title, (3) strapline, and (4) a 75 word summary of what the book will be about. The winner receives an all-expenses-paid 200-copy limited edition run of a book of photographs.

Since (by coincidence) I was at that time already heavily immersed in studying my Borgesian-labyrinth-like hard-drive's-worth of photographs (while working on a portfolio, "Spirit & Light", that I only recently learned will be published in next month's Lenswork Extended CD issue #71), I decided it was an opportune time to mail in a submission to the book contest as well. Having done so in early September, and knowing the contest deadline was a long time away at the end of the year, I also knew I wouldn't hear back from the judges for quite a while; so I soon put the contest out of mind (and honestly didn't expect to hear back anything at all!).

Until, that is, I got a wonderfully unexpected email in early April informing me that I made the shortlist of seven finalists. I was of course delighted, and soon turned my attention to stage two of the contest: providing the judges with 20 additional fine-art prints (essentially to show that there's a bit of "meat" behind the basic idea). Not really expecting to go any farther in the contest, I nonetheless, and somewhat reluctantly (though with some much needed warm encouragement from my wonderful wife), put aside a planned "photo safari" in a local park to focus my attention on preparing new prints.

Shoot forward a few more months, and I'm rather shocked to find my name on a shortlist of three finalists! Only this time, the final round of "decisions" belongs not to the judges, but to the readers/viewers of B&W Photography.

There is a voting site set up that describes the contest, shows previews of the finalists' submissions (including a slide show), and provides a link to an Adobe pdf version of the six page spread summarizing the contests and finalists' entries in the July issue of the B&W Photography magazine. There is also a separate (and clearly marked) voting page.

In truth, I am thrilled beyond measure at just seeing my name on this shortlist of three finalists. Indeed, the other two finalists are both quite obviously fine artists, and each has a gifted photographers' "eye" (and poetic soul). Their images (and book ideas) are both beautiful and eloquent, and it is easy to see why the judges voted for their work. It is a sincere honor to share the temporary spotlight with them. And, also in truth (since whether I win or lose this particular contest, my images are my own and I see them every day;-) I would look forward to purchasing the book of either of my "competitors".

So, what's my book idea? All I can do from my humble perch, on this Blog, is to suggest that, if interested, you click ***here*** to find out, and (even if you choose not to vote) enjoy an interesting write-up about the contest, read the editors' impressions of all three entries, and enjoy some fine images (by all three finalists).

Toward an Aesthetic Grammar: Part I

A few years ago, I gave an invited presentation at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, DC, entitled Nature's Way: The Art of Seeing Complexity. My lecture was part of a multiweek workshop sponsored jointly by the Washington Center for Complexity & Public Policy and the Resident Associate Program of the Smithsonian Institution.

The ambitious goal I set out to accomplish with my talk - which, in hindsight I ought to have known would be impossible to achieve in the short time I had to achieve it (about two hours) - was to use the soul-searching inner musings of a physicist as photographer as a springboard toward forging a possible conceptual bridge between art and science; one that is defined by an aesthetic grammar, and hints at an even deeper aesthetic physics (two phrases that I promise to define more carefully below). As I diligently plowed through my slides, and talked through a few I had prepared especially to explain these subtle points, I could tell from the many blank stares and questioning smirks, that my skeletal new art-science "aesthetics theory" was destined to fall far short of my intended goal that day.

"The division of the perceived universe into parts and wholes is convenient and may be necessary, but no necessity determines how it shall be done." - Gregory Bateson (anthropologist, 1904 - 1980)

So, for another, slightly expanded attempt at communicating some soul-searching inner musings of a physicist as photographer...let me begin - in Part I of a multipart series of essays I intend posting in the coming weeks on the same topic as my Smithsonian talk, but retitled Towards an Aesthetic Grammar - by introducing a provocative theorem that I will first make a cautionary meta-claim about: please be forewarned that the theorem I am about to state will likely strike you either as obvious (at best) or idiotically vacuous (at worst). However, I will immediately argue that not only does the truth (of its interpretation) lie nowhere near these two extremes, but that the theorem is deceptively subtle and points to a universal "core truth" that underlies all cognitive, scientific and creative endeavors!

What is this remarkable theorem? It is called the "Ugly-Duck Theorem" (named after the well-known story by Hans Christian Andersen), and was proposed and proven by statistician Satosi Watanabe in 1969 (who was then at the University of Hawaii).

Suppose that the number of predicates that are simultaneously satisfied by two nonidentical objects of a system, A and B, is a fixed constant, P. The Ugly Duck theorem asserts that the number of predicates that are simultaneously satisfied by neither A nor B and the number of predicates that are satisfied by A but not by B are both also equal to P. While this assertion is easy to prove, and certainly appears innocuous at first glance - indeed, you would be forgiven to think it entirely "meaningless" since it is merely restating an obvious combinatorial fact about the set of possible predicates - it has rather significant philosophical and conceptual consequences.

"Thought is creating divisions out of itself and then saying that they are there naturally." - David Bohm

For example, suppose that there are only three objects in the world, arbitrarily labeled (@,@,#). An obvious interpretation is that this describes two kinds of objects: two @s and one #. But there are other ways of partitioning this set. For example, line them up explicitly this way: @ @ #. An implicit new organizing property seems to emerge: the leftmost @ and the rightmost # share the property that they are "not in the middle". We are free to label this property using the symbol @, and the property of being in the middle, #. Now, substituting the new property for each of the original objects, we have @ @ # -> @ # @.

Had we sorted these three objects according to the new property (that discriminates according to spatial position), we would again have two kinds of objects, but in this case they would have been different ones. Obviously, we can play this game repeatedly, since there are endless number of possible properties that can arbitrarily be called @ and #. That is the point. Unless there is an objective measure by which one set of properties can be distinguished from any of the others, there is no objective way to assert that any subset of objects is better than, or different from, any other.

The theorem demonstrates that there is no a priori objective way to ascribe a measure of similarity (or dissimilarity) between any two randomly chosen subsets of a given set. (Or, stated more whimsically, the theorem states that, all things being equal, an ugly duck is just as similar to a swan as two swans are to each other!) More technically speaking, we see that asymmetries within a system (i.e., differences) can be induced only either via some externally imposed “aesthetic” measure, or generated from within.

"Of course" ... you might be saying ... "that is obvious! But why is this important?" It is important because it demonstrates that - fundamentally - all of our perceptions of the world, precisely because they are demonstrably not all uniform, appear as sets of different things interrelated in a myriad of ways because of an internal aesthetic (or internal grammar, or physics!) that we automatically impose on what we perceive (doing so mostly unconsciously). The problem is to find a way to characterize and articulate what such a grammar might actually look like!

We "see" rocks and chairs and people primarily because nature has evolved an immeasurably powerful sensory-cognitive processing mechanism that rapidly "tags" for us (for our "I") the patterns in our environment that we will most likely be interacting with repeatedly throughout our lifetime. These objects are not visible to us (as "things") because the universe has labeled them "objectively meaningful" in a global sense (I doubt whether the universe really cares whether a particular transient pattern of atoms is called a "chair", a "collection of wooden planks" or "an exemplar of post-modern, neo-minimalist drivel"); rather, they appear to us as "meaningful" only because they are meaningful to us locally, in terms of the natural aesthetics we were born with (and evolve for ourselves as we interact with our perceptions and experiences) that determine what objects we can see, and the degree to which we can distinguish one object from another.

Who we are - our "I" - is defined and shaped most strongly by our internal aesthetic; which, I shall argue shortly, does not just describe "what we happen to think is beautiful at the moment" but molds our entire conception of the world, with all of the artistic, scientific, philosophical and spiritual depths that entails.

When I use the phrase "conceptual grammar" (or "aesthetic grammar") I mean - no more and no less - the set of aesthetic-weights we use (mostly unconsciously) to ascribe more or less "thingness" to an object A compared to another object B. According to the Ugly Duck theorem, we would expect the components of this set of weights to all be equal and therefore completely undiscerning in a rigorously objective world. Our conceptual grammar, understood in this way, therefore also constitutes the backbone of a primitive "local physics" we all use to describe our world; where by "physics" I mean a set of "organizing principles" that describe the underlying patterns of what our aesthetics "permit" us to recognize as existing.

Thus, when I write "grammar", I am thinking of primitive building blocks of "things" that (we imagine and/or perceive to) populate our (aesthetically generated asymmetric) local world, and the ways in which things may be "combined" to yield other things. And when I write "physics", I am thinking of the primitive building blocks of "patterns" that connect the things.

"Man tries to make for himself in the fashion that suits him best a simplified and intelligent picture of the world; he then tries to some extent to substitute this cosmos of his for the world of experiences, and thus to overcome it. This is what the painter, the poet, the speculative philosopher, and the natural scientist do, each in his own fashion." - Albert Einstein

I will discuss some important consequences of the Ugly Duck theorem, and suggest how it might be used to generalize what we (think we) know about our "scientific aesthetics" to begin probing what an (objectively artful) "aesthetic grammar" may look like, in Part II (stay tuned....) Speculations on what all of this has to do with complexity, photography, the "art of seeing", and using art to find one's "I", will also appear in forthcoming essays.

Technical Note: The Ugly Duck Theorem complements another well-known theorem called the No Free Lunch theorem, proven by Wolpert and Macready in 1996. The No Free Lunch theorem asserts that the performance of all search algorithms, when averaged over all possible cost functions (i.e., problems), is exactly the same. In other words, no search algorithm is better, or worse, on average than blind guessing. Algorithms must be tailored to specific problems, which therefore effectively serve as the external aesthetic by which certain algorithms are identified as being better than others. Technical proofs of Watanabe's theorem appear in his books Knowing and Guessing and Pattern Recognition (both of which are, sadly, out of print).

Amazing New Resource for Photographers & Students of Photography

Focal Press (i.e., the Media Technology component of Elsevier Publishing) has just published a "book" (a pristine copy of which I have been happily browsing through after it had - literally - landed on my doorstep with a loud THUD!; I put the word "book" in quotes because, as I will describe below, to call this massive cinder-block of a reference work a "book" is roughly equivalent to calling a fresh uneaten loaf of bread a "crumb";-) that has all the tell-tale signs of being a classic scholarly reference for photographers and students of photography for years to come: The Focal Encyclopedia of Photography, Fourth Edition, edited by Michael R. Peres (also available from Amazon).

The encyclopedia is a significant update of its predecessor volumes, with a massive amount of new material. The first edition, a classic in its time when it was published in 1956, has been long out of print and is obviously extremely dated given all of the advances in photographic science, engineering and art that have occurred since then. The third edition (edited by Richard D. Zakia and Leslie Stroebel), which I own and love, is only a decade old but has very little on the burgeoning field of digital photography. However, it still contains a veritable storehouse of useful information and, though it is also out of print, is available in some used book stores (given the hefty price of the new volume, some students on a budget may want to instead consider the third edition).

The new fourth edition has 880 pages in all, over 400 images, covers all major (and minor) areas of photography (ranging from photography and art / society / commerce, museums, the science of photography, galleries, workshops, education, publishing, history, theory, practice, criticism, and short biographies of selected photographers in the 20th Century), and comes with a CD-ROM that contains the entire (and fully searchable) text + images in the book (this one surprising, and most welcome, addition is alone worth the "price of admission").

The book is very handsomely produced, with strong, thick covers and thick, semi-glossy pages that give the volume a "classy feel" and give the overall impression that the editors designed it to be well thumbed and used, and to last a long, long while (which I pray it does since most of my photo books, particularly reference works, tend to become tattered and grow nested dog-ears in no time, as I repeatedly dive in for the shear pleasure of discovering some morsel of photographic delight).

The encyclopedia does have one unfortunate, but arguably unavoidable, drawback: it is so big and heavy that it is impossible to just "whip it out" on your lap and sink into (a flimsy chair) for some leisurely reading; you have to plan on when and where you will be reading this monster! ... and, God forbid, don't even think of taking it to an upstairs room to read in bed: if the staircase doesn't collapse from the weight before you get there, your bed surely will! ;-)

Kudos to Focal Press' editorial board for producing such a fine masterwork. It will likely become the "standard" such reference for all current and future generations of students of photography (and, I suspect, quite a few working professionals as well).

Wonderful Collection of Essays on Photography

Bill Jay is likely familiar to many photographers (and certainly to readers of Lenswork magazine).

Among his many accomplishments, he was the first Director of Photography at the Institute of Contemporary Arts, the first Editor/Director of Creative Camera and Album magazines, and the founder of the Program of Photographic Studies at The University of Arizona, where he has taught for over 25 years. He has published over 400 articles and authored more than 20 books on the history and criticism of photography (see, for example, On Being a Photographer, co-authored with David Hurn, and available either from Lenswork or Amazon). He also writes the delightful Endnotes for Lenswork each month, earmarked with his uniquely witty, and sardonic style.

Mr. Jay has generously posted a rich sampling of his essays and portraits on his website. To suggest that (after you click on the first essay and just start reading) you will be "staying a while" on his site is a profound understatement; plan on spending at least a few hours, and then make time for more later! Thank you Mr. Jay!

Fleeting Glimpse of Uber-Genius

Every once in a while, one runs across a work that is so powerfully moving, so visionary, that it is as though the spiritual cosmos itself has briefly transformed into (or, with a wink to itself, escaped into) corporeal existence; the artist that serves as channel for this wondrous interpenetration of spirit and matter can only be described as an Uber-artist, or more simply, an Uber genius. Allow me to introduce you to a candidate for such an honor...

"...Humanity owes its progress to geniuses...[but] humanity is not want to deal kindly with its geniuses..." (Stanislaw Lem, "Odysseus of Ithaca", Non Servium)

In the April 2007 issue of the fine-art B&W photography magazine (issue #50), I ran across the work of photographer Jerry Wolfe, the front cover of whose extraordinary book - Beginner's Mind - is reproduced at the top of this Blog entry; and was awe-struck by the intensity of spiritual depth captured, and radiated, by his mesmerizing images. The last image of the published series, in particular, titled Cave Detail (page 99, B&W issue #50), triggered a spiritual odyssey - in me - with echoes of visions my youthful self had of what was possible with photography (when in the right eyes and hands) when I first glanced at Minor White's visionary Capitol Reef.

"...First come your run-of-the-mill and middling geniuses, that is of the third order, whose minds are unable to go much beyond the horizon of their times. These, relatively speaking, are threatened the least; they are often recognized and even come into money and fame..." (Stanislaw Lem, "Odysseus of Ithaca", Non Servium)

Mr. Wolfe has been a photographer for over 30 years, gracefully combining his preturnaturally gifted eye for beauty with his lifelong spiritual practice of mindfulness and Buddhist meditation. All of his images are subtlety charged with a quiet grace; as though they are earthly imprints of a mysterious, ethereal spiritual grammar. Their meaning shifts, even as you observe them; and observe them you will, for while, objectively speaking, they are (as are all prints) nothing more than "flat, two-dimensional worlds", they reveal worlds - and worlds of meaning - far beyond the limitations of the page they live on, and sometimes point to even vaster, more mysterious worlds within.

"...The geniuses of the second order are already too difficult for their contemporaries and therefore fare worse...recognition awaits the geniuses of the second order, in the form of a triumph beyond the grave..." (Stanislaw Lem, "Odysseus of Ithaca", Non Servium)

Mr. Wolfe's Beginner's Mind is an extraordinary work of art, with an emphasis on extra-ordinary, for it transcends even (otherwise conventionally) symbolic levels of meaning, achieving visual/spiritual tones rarely attained by even the most "gifted" of artists. How does he do this? I have no idea, nor could I, except to embrace the idea that all of us are humble channels for nature's own creative powers.

"...The intermediate types [beyond second but below first order] are discovered either by the succeeding generation or by some later one..." (Stanislaw Lem, "Odysseus of Ithaca", Non Servium)

Condider just one small part of Mr. Wolfe's Opus, his Buddhist Expressions Series (#1 - #12, pages 20-43 in Beginner's Mind), which Mr. Wolfe (humbly, poetically and very appropriately) opens with ...

Each Moment
Fresh and original.
Where's the "I"
Experiencing this?

To which, after seeing these wondrous prints, I can only say that they are among the finest abstracts I have ever seen. Not because they are merely "beautiful abstracts" (which they surely are), but because they embody the core Kandinsky-like essence of what a true "abstract" represents: a portal to other, higher, worlds and realities.

"...the geniuses of the first order are never known - not by anyone, not in life, not after death. For they are creators of truth so unprecedented, purveyors of proposals so revolutionary, that not a soul is capable of making head or tail of them..." (Stanislaw Lem, "Odysseus of Ithaca", Non Servium)

Mr. Wolfe is certainly not threatened by obscurity, for he is already a well known artist, teacher and author. But he represents a small class of profoundly gifted visionaries that - for whatever reason (perhaps simply the vagaries of life's currents) - are not much better known than they are!

I urge all fine-art photographers, particularly those with a penchant for using their art for spiritual exploration, to experience Mr. Wolfe's Beginner's Mind for themselves (you can also order it from Amazon). Who knows what paths a simple click of a mouse might take you?

Transitory Impermanence

The Merriam-Webster on-line dictionary informs us that the word "transitory" comes from the Middle English word transitorie (and from Anglo-French, from Late Latin transitorius; from Latin, of or allowing passage, from transire); and means tending to pass away; not persistent (or of brief duration). Yet, as with most things (and particularly processes) in this world, even this seemingly iron-clad "definition" is not without some ambiguity and a sense of mystery.

At first sight, what we see here is the very epitome of transitory reality: water, flowing over monolithic rock. The effervescent fluid is full of life and energy, and is demonstrably and obviously impermanent. The boulders are classic symbols of stability and permanence. But is either element really such a stalwart exemplar of the class of being that it purports to be?


Are not the rocks, if viewed in their natural context, more of an impermanent reality than the water, as they slowly, but inevitably, succumb to the rushing water's punishing power? Is not the flow of water (rather than its substance), in fact, a much longer living entity; one destined to outlive even the strongest of rocks? How many years had the "rocks" that are no longer part of the Grand Canyon withstood the inexorable onslaught of the Colorado River's persistent flow?...


...and what is the analog, I wonder, of the "rushing water" to our seemingly permanent (but, in truth, merely transitory) "reality" as living, sentient, and soulful creatures? How many years will go by before life itself becomes a distant memory? ...before it turns into an organically eroded gorge, carved into oblivion by the methodical, uncaring flow of time?

This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds
To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the movements of a dance.
A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky,
Rushing by, like a torrent down a steep mountain. - Buddha

Rejuvenating Metapatterns

It has been quite some time since I've posted any new images; indeed, it has been quite some time since I've captured any. While an unqualified virtue of being a devout "amateur" photographer is that I am (for the most part) able to focus my attention on the kind of photographs I like to take (rather than shoot for clients and cater to their needs); the downside is that my "day job" always has priority; and the past few months have been particularly busy.


So, what does this amateur photographer do when he finally finds a few precious moments to prowl around with his camera? He ventures off in search of the primitive metapatterns (identified a few years ago by my then 6yo son as forming the core of his dad's "eye"): rocks, leaves and water.


Of course, these metapatterns both arise and persist mostly due to happenstance as I can travel only so far from home for my "safaris" and usually wind up taking short nature walks at local parks. On the other hand, these metapatterns are also almost always (as noted by my son) those that I turn to first after a long period of relative inactivity. I have learned from experience that these simple, timeless, themes rejuvenate my soul, and refocus my mind from equations, computer code and technical reports to more artful pursuits.


What is fascinating to me is how much "rust" I always find in the artful part of my brain, even after what (objectively speaking) is only a relatively short time "away" from the camera. Photographers (likely all artists!) know precisely what I mean by this. It is not that I have forgotten the technical aspects of my craft (f-stops and such); it is simply that what is usually an effortless act of unconscious composition, is, for a time at least, anything but effortless. I feel the process, as though my eye/I is moving through molasses. The same is true for any craft, of course (even physics: though I find that I must be away from that for a considerably longer time to feel the same degree of "rust"). But there is something subjectively different about art; in that the artist's rust seems to appear virtually simultaneously with the artist losing his/her engagement and total immersion.


A less convoluted way of saying the same thing, I suppose, is that our muse simply wanders off when we lose attention. Hardly a surprise in hindsight, and something I always relearn as I try to reconnect with my muse.

The Four-Dimensional Photographer

Stephen Shore, the well known photographer (and teacher; who, among other things, was the first living photographer to have a one-man show at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NY) has recently updated his classic meditation on the Nature of Photographs. Recommended to all aspiring (and working) photographers, the beauty of this book is the density of its distilled wisdom.

You will not find anything here on f-stops, film speeds and lenses, nothing on the darkroom (analog or digital), nothing on the raging "debate" whether to pick up an 8 megapixel DSLR or a 10, and no instructions - at least explicit ones - on how to take "better" pictures. What you will find is the crystalline essence of Shore's lifetime's worth of thinking about the nature of the photograph. His short, Zen-like prose-poem musings pierce the proverbial bullseye like an archer's arrow; and leave the reader both enchanted and haunted by their eloquence and wisdom.

Shore reminds us that amidst the infinity of potential images, both real and imagined, the photographer has four - and only four - formal tools for defining a picture's content and organization: vantage point, frame, focus and time. Stop and think about that for a moment. With all the wonderful technology underneath our thumb as we prepare to press the shutter, with all the different ways in which we can image ourselves "taking" a shot, and all the different images that can conceivably exist, the photographer really only has these four fundamental "creative dimensions" with which to work, and no more! Where do I position myself; what do I put in the picture and what do I leave out; where should I focus my attention; and how much of a slice of time do I want to include?

Every picture that has ever been taken, and every photograph yet to be captured - from Adams' shots of Yosemite, to Cartier-Bresson's visual etudes on the "Decisive Moment," to visual realities created by some future technologies - is "reality" as aesthetically transformed by the four-dimensional human creative filter!

Yet somehow, miraculously even, this suffices to provide (however brief) glimpses of an infinite dimensional world of meaning and beauty. That is the magic of photography!

2006 Portfolio (Draft)

Here is a draft portfolio of some of my favorite recent images (most captured in 2006). There are five galleries in all, each consisting of 12 photos: Hawaii, Sudden Stillness, Entropic Melodies, Spirit & Light, and Ethereal Abstracts. (For an "uncluttered" look, thumbnails are not shown; individual images are revealed by choosing one of the five galleries listed across the top, and clicking on any of the numbers 1-12 that appear at the top left)

More Fog

Here is a shot I have some fond memories of, from about a year ago; taken (as are almost all of my shots) in a local park (Lake Accotink), this time while on a "fog break" from work.

What I remember vividly about this shot is that it was a complete fluke...I was focusing all of my attention on some driftwood much closer to my feet (and not visible in the photo here), and actually made quite a few (in hindsight, unsuccessful) exposures, when I heard a flock of geese overhead. Without taking my eye off my camera's eyepiece, I swiveled the camera on its tripod (and went as wide as I could on my lens) to see if I could get a glimpse of the flock...and got off a single shot. While I was delighted in seeing the geese, I did not expect anything to come of my rapid swivel- tilt- press-shutter action, and I immediately went back to shooting the driftwood.

Well, its not quite a Cartier-Bresson, but it turned out to be the only keeper of the day that day! ;-) I was lucky enough to have it published in the British Black & White Photography magazine (issue #45, April 2005).