As some readers may know, I am working on my next book manuscript, which is part of the reason I’ve been quieter than usual. The following is an essay from the current manuscript. It is adapted from an article I originally wrote for LensWork Magazine under the title, “The Insignificant Moment.”
The world we live in is a succession of fleeting moments, any one of which might say something significant.
Henri Cartier-Bresson described his approach to photography as, “the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event.” For Cartier-Bresson, the photograph serves as testimony to some “decisive moment”—a fleeting event recognized by the photographer as significant (by whatever criteria), and then plucked out of the stream of time to assume a fixed, timeless, existence. Susan Sontag expressed a similar sentiment, writing, “The force of a photograph is that it keeps open to scrutiny instants which the normal flow of time immediately replaces,” which, among other things, led her to conclude that, “To take a picture is to have an interest in things as they are, in the status quo remaining unchanged.”
In reading such accounts, it stood out to me that the characterization of photography solely as a means of commemorating and preserving visual snippets of ephemeral events is remarkably shortsighted and prejudiced. Such a view of photography ignores (or is ignorant of) the fact that non-representational photography has been common and widely accepted for prolonged periods (e.g., the decades in which Pictorialism thrived). Such a view also fails to recognize that photographs, other than just being taken from reality, can also be created such that they enlarge or transcend reality. Put simply, a photograph may be a record of some fact in reality (I’ll sidestep, for the sake of this discussion, the philosophical challenges involved in defining the term); it can also be something nonexistent in present reality until created, at which point the photograph itself becomes a fact in reality.
Photographers, even those adhering to some idea of purity of process, don’t need to limit their expressive powers to views already in existence; they also have the power to bring new views into existence. And, they can even do so by means accepted as being purely photographic.
The characterization of photography as a means of fixing literal appearances at a point in time also implies that photographers can only be reactive, rather than proactive, in their work. But, of course, we know that the photographic medium offers a wide range of means to (paraphrasing Ansel Adams) depart from reality. I propose that even if just one such non-representational photograph exists, it is sufficient to declare that photographs should never be assumed to be representations of reality, unless explicitly presented as such. And I think it would not be an exaggeration to say that millions, if not billions, such photographs already exist, and that every one of us living in the industrial world likely sees at least one, and likely more, of these, every day.
Ansel Adams’s epiphany about visualizing photographs before making an exposure speaks directly to photography’s ability to depart from realistic representation. Implied in the definition of visualization—which is: seeing in the mind’s eye a finished image before making an exposure—is the fact that a visualized image has to be different from a view as-seen (otherwise, why would we need to visualize anything in the mind’s eye?). Visualization is not about seeing what is; it’s about imagining what can be—not just how things might look like to a random observer, but how things can be composed and processed to accomplish an expressive goal of the photographer’s conception.
In limiting photography to decisive moments, photographers become not only dependent on, but slaves to, circumstances: they are expected to wander the world, prepared to reach for the camera in the event that some fleeting significance outside themselves, which by random chance is also pre-expressed in some pre-arranged composition, presents itself. I don’t think even Cartier-Bresson could have characterized his earlier approach as such. The qualification of “earlier” is important, since he later changed his mind—in his later years, he became a painter, and in his words, “photography has never been more than a way into painting, a sort of instant drawing.”
If nothing else, things that can be recognized as significant in a fraction of a second must be simple enough to make such instant recognition possible. The more complex the significance, the longer it takes to recognize it and to consider compositions and processing decisions aimed at expressing it.
Perhaps lost in the discussion so far is the fact that significance is not a fixed quantity, and can be assigned consciously to anything. Why should a creative photographer not be free, as any creative artist is, to assign significance to any moment, for any reason? And who’s to say that significance only comes in moments? Should a photographer just give up on any significance that is not instantaneously recognized, or that persists independent of any decisive moment?
I am a contemplative photographer, in the sense that I consider consciously whatever significance I wish to express in a photograph until I am able to articulate this significance, if only to myself. Other than the initial recognition that a significant photograph may be possible, and some aspects of the mechanics of the photographic medium, nothing in my process happens in a fraction of a second. Once I recognize the opportunity to make a photograph, all the steps that follow are considered consciously, however long it takes. Perhaps this approach makes me miss some opportunities, but so what? I’m in it not just for the photograph, but also—more so—for the experience. Just as important, it also stands to reason that those who only photograph in response to fleeting events, never taking the time to explore a subject intently beyond first impressions, likely miss much more than I do.
When I capture a photograph, it’s not because some serendipitous decisive event presented itself. Rather, it is the random moment when I feel prepared, having spent what time I needed to contemplate whatever called out—sometimes just whispered—to me. The camera doesn’t come into play until I’ve considered what I wish to express; until I’ve studied the scene to my satisfaction and determined the most effective composition, perhaps even returned to the scene several times to examine it at different times of the day (or the year) and under different light and weather conditions. I’m not prepared to capture anything until after I allow myself the time I need to form a clear visualized outcome in my mind (which I may later change), and after I’ve taken whatever time needed to tinker with my camera’s controls. There is nothing special, let alone decisive or significant, about the moment I trip the shutter.
Less obvious, but to me more important than whether a moment is decisive, significant, or just the random time when my preparations are complete, is the difference in attitude between recognizing something “in a fraction of a second,” versus taking whatever time I need to construct a photograph, first in the mind, then in the camera, and later in processing. The former implies the attitude of a hunter-gatherer, always on the lookout, ready to pounce. The latter is a meditative approach—an approach more conducive to mindfulness and flow—a progression of experience that amplifies and builds over time like a musical crescendo. To me, this approach culminates not only in “good” photographs, but also in richer and more memorable experiences that are considerably more rewarding to me than just making a “good” photograph.