Ferns in Alcove
The question mark of the isolated unfurling fern between the hanging ferns in the mountain alcove proved irresistible
Ferns in Alcove
The question mark of the isolated unfurling fern between the hanging ferns in the mountain alcove proved irresistible
Learning Through Photography Workshops and Associates
I BELIEVE APPRENTICESHIP IS ONE OF THE FINEST teaching and learning methods of all time. Unfortunately, in the United States it has largely fallen by the wayside over the years. Today, it is virtually a dead issue. But it shouldn’t be. Who better to learn from than those who are the finest practitioners in their fields? I think this applies to all the major fields: art, science, and business. There is a huge amount to learn from those who practice their craft regularly and do it well, assuming they know how to teach.
Aye, there’s the rub. A lot of people who are good at doing something are not particularly good at teaching it to others. Conversely, there are those who are not top-notch in their field, but are excellent teachers, whose students often go on to outdo the teachers who inspired them along the way. If you had to choose between the two, I’d recommend learning under the good teachers, not the good practitioners. This is certainly true for photographers and photography instructors. But, of course, the best of all are those who are skilled and can teach the subject.
So, how do you determine who are the best photographers and simultaneously the best teachers? The best photographers are those whose work you admire the most. That part should be apparent. Assuming that some of them are still alive, look to them for potential classes or other learning opportunities. But how can you determine if they are good at teaching? That’s far more difficult. If possible, try to contact some of their former students to get their evaluations. They can generally tell you if the instructor conveys information in an understandable or a confused manner, is encouraging or demeaning, treats students with respect or is condescending, makes learning enjoyable or pure drudgery, or any of the other issues that should be of concern to any student.
I’ve been teaching photography workshops of one type or another for over 40 years, so I clearly feel that workshops are a great way to learn. And I believe I can support that built-in bias with solid facts to back it up.
In a workshop there is no set curriculum that has to be followed, so the workshop can proceed at a speed that is based on the initial level of knowledge and pace of learning of the group. Nothing is set in stone for any specific point in time. The student group can alter the basic direction of the class to suit its goals, and in a good workshop, the instructor should be flexible enough to go with the flow. While the instructor may have initial goals for the workshop, if student preferences veer off in a different direction, the workshop can and should accommodate them.
Directed field sessions that allow the instructors and students to work side by side are another great benefit of workshop or apprentice learning. These field sessions give the instructor real-time opportunities to see what a student is composing, what is in the frame, where the camera has been placed, and why the student has chosen the location, the focal length of the lens, and the subject matter. The instructor can also ask how the student plans to work toward the final image—whether they plan to crop the image, what they envision in terms of the overall contrast or color saturation, or what other variables will come into play to create the final image.
On numerous occasions I have looked through a student’s camera only to see a distraction that the student had completely overlooked. Pointing out those distractions sharpens a student’s search through the ground glass, rangefinder, or monitor for such distractions in the future. Other times, I’ve suggested moving the camera—sometimes by mere inches—to improve the relationships within the frame, or I’ve recommended pointing the camera down and to the left a bit to eliminate a dead area in the upper right and pick up a tidbit of interest in the lower left. Of course, I’ve also had the pleasure of looking through the camera at wonderfully well-composed images, allowing the student and I to discuss the real potential of the image.
When instructors and students work together in the field, students also have the opportunity to see how an instructor is composing an image. I usually have my camera with me during field sessions. I work along with the students and invite them to look through my film camera or review the monitor on my digital camera at any time, and they are able to question anything and everything about a photograph I’m planning to make. We discuss what I am planning to do or what I have already done. I have made some of my prized images during workshop field sessions, always open to student questions while doing so, and never ignoring my duties as an instructor in the process (figures 6–1, 6–2, and 6–3). In fact, as students will attest, I have used my own search for images as a valued teaching tool during workshops.
Another great benefit of workshops is that nobody is graded, so you can learn from the instructor without having to please the instructor to get a high grade. In my workshops, we review all student work as a group and make our best recommendations about the work, but it’s up to the student to accept, accept in part, or reject those suggestions. There’s no penalty for any of the three paths, which isn’t the case in any school.
Figure 6–1: Canyon Aurora, Little Death Hollow
Dried, cracked mud in a narrow side canyon of Utah’s Escalante River pushes up against the side wall. Diagonal patterns of salt, leaching out of the sandstone, create brilliant white patterns against the dark wall. Less distinct horizontal lines on the wall mark levels at which receding waters from the most recent flash flood paused as they slowly receded. I made this image during one of my llama-assisted backpack workshops in the canyons.
Figure 6–2: Lenticular Cloud Over Duck Lake
On a workshop in and around Glacier National Park we had a sunrise field session in the rolling ranch lands east of the park. After we returned to our motel and conference room, I noticed strange clouds forming over the ranch lands, and quickly summoned the students to grab their cameras and head back there with me, for things were getting very interesting. Working alongside them on a gravel road leading down to Duck Lake, I made six successive images as the lenticular cloud built to astounding proportions. This image was from the final negative exposed, when the astounding layered cloud reached its peak.
Grading students presents clear difficulties. I once asked a college photography professor how she graded her students, and after first allowing that it was indeed difficult, she mentioned attendance in class. But that’s part of how you grade kids in elementary school, not in college. Then she mentioned participation in class, and then the quality of work they turned in. So I asked, “What if a student doesn’t show up in class as much as the others, and when she does appear, she fails to participate very much, but she turns in the best work?”
She said, “Ooooh, that’s a tough one.”
It shouldn’t have been tough at all. It strikes me that the student turning in the best work deserves the highest grade. Period. The reclusive, abrasive Vincent van Gogh would have fared poorly in a class based on that professor’s criteria. Hidden here is the fact that the “best” work is still a subjective judgment made by the instructor, so the student has to please the instructor to get a good grade. This strikes me as something akin to commercial client-based work, which I discussed in chapter 3. The student can’t truly pursue his or her own vision, but must produce work that pleases the instructor. That’s not the best way to proceed.
In a workshop, the instructor may not be attracted to a student’s work, and will surely voice appropriate opinions and hopefully make useful suggestions, but it ends there. The student cannot be stigmatized or intimidated by a bad grade.
This brings up another benefit of workshops: because there’s no bell-curve grading system like there is in many university classes, there’s no competition between students; instead there is cooperation. I have seen for years that the more advanced students in my workshops regularly step forward to help those who are less experienced. As a result, less experienced students tend to rocket forward since they are surrounded by willing, eager teachers. The experience is beneficial for everyone.
In addition to serving as an environment in which students and instructors work together in the field, a workshop also allows students to interact with one another and the instructor more informally and personally throughout the day, including at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. This promotes deeper insight into the instructor’s thinking, methods, materials, and overall life philosophy that is generally unseen in an academic setting. You can see if the instructor has a sense of humor or other personal traits that give you insight into how he or she deals with life, not just photography.
Figure 6–3: Wolverine Canyon Alcove
On another backpack workshop, I made this image in Wolverine Canyon, crouched down on the ground with the camera aimed nearly straight up to the magnificently carved sandstone sweeps above my head. Sunlight was reflected into the alcove from the canyon floor just outside of it, providing exquisite lighting for the elegant forms I was working with. I always use field sessions as excellent teaching and learning experiences in my workshops.
A workshop strikes me as the closest thing to apprenticeship in existence today. Nobody in a workshop has to be there; it’s completely voluntary. Each student is learning because he has a desire to learn. He’s not there because he needs to get good grades or obtain a degree that is expected to be helpful for landing a job. Furthermore, the student is learning directly from photographers whose work he is drawn to.
Of course, workshops also have limitations. A workshop is generally a week long—maybe more, maybe less—and it’s not accompanied by any other educational opportunities. In an academic setting, students take other classes in addition to their photography classes, so they’re getting a rounded education that no workshop can match. There’s a balancing act here that any serious student must evaluate to determine which venue serves him best. In general, I feel that a graduating high school student is far better off going to college and getting a good education than taking photography workshops. However, for a person who is already in the workforce, and who already has a good education, a workshop is incomparable. Obviously there are exceptions to this recommendation, proving James Thurber’s statement, “There is no exception to the rule that every rule has an exception.” You have to look at your circumstances to see which would serve you best.
It’s hard for me to discuss the art education system without addressing an academic incident that I found to be revealing and absurd, and that gets to the heart of a deep-seated conviction of mine, which is that today’s colleges and museums, above all other institutions, are at the forefront of misdirected thinking in the arts. The incident took place at Arizona State University. It is a true story, which I heard about directly from the person involved, as well as from the late Bill Jay, a good friend of mine and a noted history of photography professor at ASU. Other names are withheld to protect the innocent.
The person in question was a student in the Master of Fine Arts (MFA) program at ASU. He had completed all of the classroom work for the MFA and had to propose a final photographic project to the MFA advisory board for approval. An advisory board may be comprised of a single professor or a small group of professors involved in the program. Once the project is approved, the subsequent work must be submitted to the same committee and deemed worthy, after which the student receives the MFA degree.
The MFA candidate proposed a project that involved the landscape and it was rejected by the MFA committee. I do not know the details of the proposal, but let’s set that aside for the moment. At the same time the landscape proposal was rejected, a fellow MFA student submitted a proposal in which he outlined his plans to make a set of 36 photographs, arranged in a 6×6 grid, of his own fecal matter in the toilet, with a list below each image detailing everything he had eaten in the previous 24 hours. This proposal was accepted.
Now, my only question about this incident is this: How bad could the original landscape proposal have been? (To complete the story, the person in question submitted an alternative proposal, which was accepted and ultimately approved, so both students received their MFA.)
As improbable as I find this story to be, it’s true. It happened. Beyond its startling absurdity, I feel that it brings up a very deep philosophical issue regarding trends in current art education methodologies. I believe many important skills can be learned by emulating the past masters. This is true in the visual arts, as well as in musical composition, literature, and every other art form. Students can draw upon these skills as they attempt to pursue new realms of creativity. However, some art institutions eschew this view, and seem to believe that trying to emulate a past master is little more than copying, and is ultimately worthless. It is my understanding that this is largely a Western cultural bias, whereas in Eastern cultures (China, Japan, perhaps India), learning by emulating past masters is looked upon very favorably. Go back to chapter 2 and reread the story of the newspaper review and critique of my first major exhibit, and then the subsequent review. The critic initially called my work shallow because he viewed it as an attempt to copy the work of Ansel Adams.
Apparently, the MFA committee at ASU viewed the landscape proposal as old stuff, tired subject matter not worthy of consideration, whereas the subject matter of the second proposal was new and different, and therefore worthy. This assessment ignores the possibility that you can dig into old subject matter and uncover new insights without having to turn to outlandish subjects that have never been explored before. It ignores the real possibility of depth over breadth. Portraits, landscapes, nudes, still lives, and all variety of subject matter have been painted, sculpted, drawn, and photographed for centuries, and new insights are still constantly being uncovered. Yet in our contemporary culture, it seems to me that colleges and museums have become the strongest purveyors of breadth without depth. The episode that played out in the MFA debacle at ASU brings this syndrome to its apex.
I recognize that this is a single incident. It cannot be assumed that this is representative of the thinking at all colleges and museums. But other events and evidence of such thinking were leading me to develop a distinct negative opinion of colleges and museums long before I heard about this incident. So, while isolated and singular, this event falls into the framework of other such thinking that I believe dominates the teaching and displaying of art in those institutions, which influences the art world greatly. We seem to be caught in a web where shock value trumps deeper insight, and where the very concept of beauty is to be avoided at all costs. To me, this is unfortunate.
Figure 6–4: Abstract Sunset, Skrova
Skrova is a tiny island off the Norwegian coast, north of the Arctic Circle, and is a center for Arctic cod fishing. I found an abandoned metal locker near one of the fishing boat docks and photographed the welded interior corner of it. Then I turned the image 90° to make it look like an abstract painting of a brilliant sunset scene. I think beauty and elegance can be found anywhere, even in an abandoned metal cabinet.
Pierre Auguste Renoir said, “For me a picture should be something likable, joyous, and pretty ... yes pretty. There are enough ugly things in life for us not to add to them.” Edouard Boubat, a notable French photographer, shared a similar sentiment when he said, “There are certain pictures I can never take. We turn on the TV and are smothered with cruelty and I don’t need to add to the suffering. So I just photograph peaceful things...a vase of flowers, a beautiful girl. Sometimes through a peaceful face I can bring something important to the world.”
Figure 6–5: Diptych Wood Swirls
I had photographed a section of a bristlecone pine tree in the White Mountains of California and a portion of a juniper in Utah, both with 4×5 film. While poring over contact proofs of various images I was considering for future printing, I noticed that these two images, which were photographed at different times and 500 miles from one another, worked together in a completely unexpected way. I printed them both and mounted them side by side on a single mount board as a diptych, seeing the combination of the two images as even more interesting than if either one was displayed individually. I had never done this previously, but why not try new things once in a while?
These two quotes come closer to my view of art than the view that I feel is projected by today’s colleges and museums. I do not mean to impose my thinking on the reader or the prospective or working photographer, but I do wish to express my thoughts. You have to determine what works for you and what doesn’t.
You can learn a tremendous amount from the people with whom you choose to photograph. Your photography companions are of great importance to your photographic education and development, and you can and should have a lot of fun with them as well. Of course, there are those photographers who have secrets—secret spots, methods, or materials, or anything else that they hold close to the vest. I’ve heard of people like this, and I’ve run across one or two in my lifetime; they are the ones to avoid under all circumstances. They are people who view you as a rival, not a friend or collaborator. It’s a waste of your time to spend time with people with that attitude.
Don Kirby was initially a student at several of my workshops, then an assistant, and ultimately a co-instructor on numerous workshops. We also spent many wonderful weeks together camping, hiking, and photographing in the wilderness areas of Utah, the most remarkable landscape on earth (yes, Utah is #1; next you’ll find #14) (figure 6–6). Neither of us ever had a thought that the other was a rival or that one of us would “steal” an idea or image from the other. In fact, we realized that if we were to expose two identical negatives with the same camera and lens set atop a tripod, and each of us took one home, we would develop and print them differently because we see differently and we think differently. That’s true of any two photographers. So there’s no sense in getting hung up on the issue of your partner stealing anything you may be doing.
One day I was hiking with Don in Surprise Canyon on the east side of Capitol Reef National Park, and I noticed him ahead of me looking up at an immense wall at a turn in the canyon. I looked at the wall and saw some wonderful pastel turquoise, pink, and orange colors, but little of photographic value. Don kept staring, and then he started to set up his tripod. Jokingly, I said there was nothing to photograph, but Don seemed determined, so I continued up the canyon, wondering why he had ignored my sage advice.
Months later, I saw the image he produced (figure 6–7). It’s now one of the prized prints in my collection of work by other photographers. While I saw little but pleasant colors on that wall, Don envisioned a battle between the forces of good and evil in which the outcome was uncertain. That immediately became clear to me upon seeing his photograph. It needed no explanation. But back in Surprise Canyon, when both of us were looking at the same section of that wall, Don saw something important while I saw nothing. That’s the reason it is beneficial to work with people who are supportive and cooperative, because no two people see the same way.
I have a similar friendship with Canadian photographer Craig Richards, my co-instructor for many workshops in Canada, Mexico, Italy, and the United States. We have headed out into the mountains many times to photograph together, and to enjoy camaraderie, laughter, and discussions about photography. We point out interesting things to one another; we don’t hide them from one another or ever think that the other one would “steal” any ideas. This holds true for any of the other photographers I’ve worked with over the years. We all share ideas and help one another. I suspect that writers, painters, composers, and those in all artistic fields get together periodically to share thoughts and ideas. Scientists regularly collaborate, often on a worldwide basis. I think I’m correct in saying that such collaborations may not be the same in the business world, where rivalry seems to rule, but my knowledge of that world is admittedly limited.
Figure 6–6: Gothic Fall, 40-Mile Canyon
While Don Kirby and I were scouting for a future workshop in Utah, we came across this elegant waterfall in 40-Mile Canyon. Throughout the 1990s, while we conducted a series of camping workshops along backcountry roads in Utah, we often drove, hiked, ate, and photographed together, always having fun, always helping one another, and never worrying that one would “steal” an image from the other.
Figure 6–7: Surprise Canyon (courtesy of Don Kirby)
Don and I were together when he saw this pattern on a turn in the wall of Surprise Canyon. I saw a set of wonderful pastel colors; Don saw an entire story in black and white. No two people think or see alike. We both recognized that. That’s why we worked together so compatibly and cooperatively.
A clear benefit of photographing with another person (aside from basic companionship, fun along the way, and actually learning from one another, which all of my photographic colleagues and I have experienced in abundance) is the issue of safety. It’s a whole lot safer to have someone nearby in a place where you can fall and injure yourself, get lost, or run into a variety of unexpected problems. I’ve gone out by myself many times, but I think it’s always better to head out into the landscape with others—except, perhaps, on sand dunes, where your companion’s footprints can ruin your next photograph.
Another beneficial aspect of working with a companion is the opportunity to honestly review one another’s work. However, this can also prove to be a barrier when working with others. The problem is that some people are overly sensitive to any form of criticism, and some people are overly hesitant about what they should say to others. There can always be the underlying fear of “you better not say anything bad about my photographs or I’ll do the same about yours.” How do you get around that type of personal fear and retribution?
This is exactly the same problem an instructor has to overcome when reviewing student work in a workshop or classroom. The problem is often exacerbated in a traditional classroom because the instructor gives a final grade to the student. No such final word exists in a workshop where there is no grade. However, despite the lack of a grading system in workshops, students still shudder in fear when thinking about having their work reviewed.
I have tried to overcome this issue in my workshops in two ways. First, I never refer to the print review sessions as critique sessions, which seems to imply something very negative and destructive. I try not to even refer to them as print review sessions. Instead, I call them idea sessions, based on the thought that when you present your work for others to look at, you will hear ideas from fellow students and instructors about that work. You’ll remember all of those comments and ideas because you’re very awake and alert when your work is being reviewed. The real critique takes place later, when you take the photographs back home with you and, with your goals firmly in mind, decide which comments to ignore, which to accept in part, and which to accept in full.
Second, in order to make these idea sessions work successfully, my approach is to have everyone silently study the student’s work that has been put up for review. I ask the students to form their own impressions, likes and dislikes, and basic suggestions without discussing these ideas with anyone else in the room. Then, before we start our discussion of the imagery, I ask the photographer whose work is being reviewed to express his or her overall goals for the work displayed—not image by image, but overall. After looking at the work and hearing the photographer’s basic goals, I ask everyone to make useful comments that will help the photographer achieve those stated goals more successfully. I point out to the photographer that it’s important to hear as many comments and ideas as possible because this will give him or her more things to consider when conducting the final evaluation at home.
I have found that while students still have some apprehension about showing their own work, they are far more open to comments than they were before I took this approach. I request that students give everyone the respect and attention that they would want from others when their work is being reviewed. Everyone stays focused, and these sessions are tremendously informative.
It’s necessary to get periodic reviews of your work. If you don’t, you can inadvertently fall into deep holes that you don’t fully recognize. It’s also necessary to take any seemingly negative comment as a good clue of what to do next, not as a personal affront. (Recall my story from chapter 2 of when Ansel Adams told me to stop shooting black-and-white.)
When I was a student in the 1970 Ansel Adams workshop, I had a print review session with Al Weber, one of the workshop’s several co-instructors—a fine photographer and wonderful fellow, still doing his work in Carmel, California. He looked over my prints without a word for at least five minutes, or so it seemed to me at the time. I felt that he was quite impressed with the images I had put up.
Then, breaking the silence, he turned to me and asked, “Do you have a condenser enlarger?”
“Yes,” I replied.
He said, “Maybe that’s the problem!”
If you think I was surprised, maybe shocked, you’re right. I was taken aback. I thought he was impressed, but apparently he was not. Instead he was deep in thought about the shortcomings of my images. So I asked, “What’s the problem?”
He said that the images were all too high in contrast. They surely seemed perfect to me, but I had to take his advice seriously. After all, he had shown really wonderful personal work, and he was the instructor; I was the student. So I asked, “What’s the solution?”
He recommended a diffusion enlarger, an alternative light source that softens contrast compared to that of the condenser enlarger. I inquired where I could get that type of light source, and he recommended a place near me in Los Angeles. Following the workshop I took his advice, bought the new light source, and installed it into my enlarger. The newly reprinted negatives were, indeed, improved.
The point I want to get across with this little story, as well as with Ansel’s recommendation to me, is that instead of spiraling into a depression in the face of a negative comment by an instructor, or even a fellow student or friend, it’s best to simply consider the suggestion and decide what to do about it.
If you attempt to create a group to mutually review one another’s efforts openly and honestly, it’s important to discuss and agree upon a set of “rules of engagement” at the start. It’s necessary to openly discuss how to give and receive comments, which are usually given as constructive suggestions but often received as personal affronts, insults, or attacks. You’ll have to surmount this trap by discussing it and even reviewing your group’s rules or agreements periodically because it’s easy to slowly work your way back into that trap, even if you avoided it at the start.
It’s difficult to establish a group in which the members can and will honestly discuss each other’s work. It’s equally difficult, perhaps even more difficult, to keep it going. We tend to be both arrogant and overly sensitive at the same time. But, of course, we never see those qualities in ourselves, or really admit them to ourselves if we do, right? But if you can find the right group of people, your work will benefit from regular constructive feedback.
It has been my observation that beginning photographers are rarely trying to find the right person to associate with photographically, and are simply looking for anyone with similar interests. At my workshops, students regularly tell me “there are no other photographers in my area.” Well, there are, but you need to find them.
There are some established photographic groups that are part of nationwide networks, but many such groups are more social than photographic in nature. Many tend to promote photography contests. In my opinion, a photography contest is about as useful as pitting Rembrandt against van Gogh and asking who is better. The question is useless. No art form is contestable. Worse yet, to have contests, there have to be rules—and in this case, rules of composition, which are even more absurd than the contests themselves. I refer you to The Art of Photography, specifically chapters 2 and 3, for a detailed explanation of why rules of composition are not only useless, but stifling. If you’re drawn to the idea of a local photography club, first check to see where it stands on issues like competitions and rules of composition. I suggest avoiding groups that promote either of those.
I’d recommend using various social networks, such as Twitter or Facebook, or doing other online searches that could put you in touch with photographers in your area who share your photographic interests. Try any other networking you can think of. For example, your classmates or fellow workshop students may know of photographers in your area that you are unaware of. It’s always worth asking around.
One of the things that awed me as a student in the Ansel Adams workshop I attended 45 years ago was his total openness about every aspect of his photography. In one particularly notable exchange I had with him toward the end of the workshop, I asked him about the printing of a portion of his marvelous photograph Clearing Winter Storm, Yosemite. I was amazed by the brilliance of light on and around Bridalveil Fall on the right side of the image, and asked him if he had dodged (lightened) that area in the printing.
I fully expected him to say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t really discuss how I print any of my images.” I would have understood, and would have simply apologized for the inappropriate question.
That’s not what happened. Instead, he quickly said that the light was so brilliant in the area that he actually had to burn (darken) the region to bring out the necessary detail. That astonished me. I didn’t really expect to get an answer to my question. But then he really floored me by going through the entire image and telling me where he burned, dodged, or did anything else to produce the final image.
I simply couldn’t believe it. He not only answered the one question I didn’t think he would be willing to answer, but he answered a number of other questions I never asked, and never would have had the courage to ask. All of the other instructors in that workshop were equally open and willing, even eager, to explain any aspect of their photographic art.
These are generous people who have no hidden doubts about their photographic work, and they want to share it. They all have the philosophy that if their ideas, methods, or choice of materials are picked up by their students, they will have the pleasure of seeing great images produced by their students.
I was so impressed by Ansel’s response that I vowed then and there that if I were ever in his position as an instructor, I would do exactly the same. There would be no secrets, with one exception: sometimes I will not say what the subject matter is in a very abstract photograph to keep the mystery of it alive. Or, in the case of Kelso Dunes, I don’t divulge which orientation is correct (figure 3–6). I pride myself on being honest, but I don’t have to blurt out everything.
Over the years I have worked with a number of co-instructors in my workshops, and every one of them has the same philosophy, though most of them blurt out anything and everything. So I’ve never had to enforce that approach; it has come naturally for everyone I’ve worked with over the years. These are the people I love to work with, and the type of people I suggest you associate with. You’ll learn from each other and enjoy each other’s company.
