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).