Grunge

Photographers sometimes pursue the grunge look, using contrasty lighting and software like spices. Call it hyper-reality. I've introduced a dash of that here, in a photo taken last weekend during a live-fire drill. Although, the firefighter was readily capable of creating real grunge, no software needed.

Old Paint

Detail on an old pickup truck, currently in its red phase.

Igneous* Is Bliss

*Igneous is one of the three main rock types—sedimentary and metamorphic are the others.

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In 2007, during my second visit to photograph the rocky landscapes in Arizona and Utah, I met a man from Canada who'd traveled there for the same purpose. I was standing in the rough road near Kodachrome Basin State Park when Stan pulled up beside me in his van. Prior to that, as I'd zigged and zagged around sharp rocks in my rental car, we'd played slow-motion hop-scotch, passing each other several times. A time or two I saw an arm thrust out the driver's side window, camera in hand.

Our conversation hadn't gone a minute when I learned why Stan hadn't been out of the van—he was hampered by MS. A custom rail ran along both sides and the rear, to allow limited movement outside, but he couldn't venture far (and certainly not in the uneven terrain we were in). What he could do was park at odd angles and shoot rocks. And talk about them, too. He said he drove south nearly every year (promising to continue, as he said it, until I'm done), both for photography and a love of learning about geology. I wasn't surprised that he'd been a teacher (lucky kids) but was astounded by the size of his on-board library—dozens of books on geology and photography, all within arm's reach.

I was still taking in the scope of this when he selected one of the books and began expertly explaining what we were surrounded by (if he saw a layman's glaze cover my eyes he was kind not to mention it). Since my closest brush with geology had come years before when I listened to Tangerine Dream's Thru Metamorphic Rocks, this was all too much under a hot sun. One thing he said did stick, however—that was his assertion that we'd enjoy photography more when we knew everything about our subjects—even all those rocks.

I didn't argue that point, and a few minutes later Stan moved up the road to locate a campsite, and I went back to the car. In the buzzing heat of mid-afternoon I let his words circle my mind a time or two, and felt obliged to disagree, however slightly. For him, the important aspects of the landscape boiled down to function, while my attentions were solely on form.

I'll probably never remember their scientific names, and just be satisfied to call them beautiful.

A Good Day For Digging

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather. - John Ruskin

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Today was definitely refreshing, as downpours passed through in the afternoon. Worms and photographers alike rejoiced, each digging heartily into old, softened ground. I unearthed two images from 2007 that had been ignored overlooked until today. Appropriately, both are of rocks, taken in Arizona's White Pocket area.

Wetland In Winter

I traversed the wooden boardwalk at the Jackson-Frazier Wetland on an early January morning, moving like a tortoise (three hours for two-thirds of a mile). My wife lapped me several times, smiling, as I encountered new photographs at every turn.

A complete gallery of photos from the wetland may be found here.

Gyrating

Over several days during autumn in 2005 I drove a loose semi-circle from Gatwick Airport, outside of London, to Edinburgh, Scotland, going first southwest towards Stonehenge, thence north into Wales with its indescribable green hues, before zigzagging towards Manchester through an ancient weave of rural countryside and on, into a secretive Scottish landscape.

I did all of that without any preparation for driving on the wrong Yankee side of the road. None whatsoever. I simply decided to do as the locals did, try not to stand out, and keep Excedrin in the glove box. Foolhardy or brave, the trip lasted nearly a thousand miles and was, gratefully, uneventful. Finding a driveway hidden by hedgerows along a narrow road, on a black night in the rain, under a tailgater's high beams, was the only truly hairy moment. Bumping a few curbs, as I did upon entering a town or two, was to be expected.

The only dread I came to know along the route was the British roundabout. These intersections offer a visiting traveler opportunities to scream loudly and swear vigorously, simultaneously. If you've been in an unfamiliar area, driving twenty miles below the posted speed limit while looking for your destination, all the while feeling the angry glares of other motorists on your neck—magnify that sensation by ten and you begin to understand the nervous adventure awaiting you in a roundabout.

Like their pastries, Great Britain's roundabouts are served in many different sizes. Gluttons will prefer a Magic Roundabout to, say, a trunk road version. More lorries (big trucks) to choose from there. My favorite is the mini-roundabout, comprised of arrows that circle a small powdered painted doughnut hole. Simple, and perfect for narrow streets and small vehicles.

At the conclusion of my British motoring I turned the rental car into the agency, happy to once again be a simple pedestrian loose on the pavement (that's English for sidewalk). As my wife and I trained back to London the following afternoon we enjoyed the passing scenery over lunch (take note Amtrak—linen and silver), and when a busy roadway came into view at one point we saw our last roundabout, choked with gyrating autos, and that was worthy of a bubbly toast.

Connected

The mill cannot grind with the water that is past. ~Daniel D. Palmer
These impressive gears are part of a head gate at Thompson's Mills, the historic flouring mill I've been photographing since last summer, and the photo proves how a simple image can lead to unexpected knowledge information.

I wanted a quote to accompany it, so I tossed my request into Google and found a seemingly appropriate line to use, from Daniel D. Palmer. Who? That's what I wondered, and how I learned he founded chiropractic in the 1890s. That was also during the time Martin Thompson assumed full ownership of Boston Mills, renaming the facility Boston Rolling Mills. In 1910, after his death, his wife Sophia changed the name again, to Thompson's Flouring Mills.

Tiny Oscillating Bundles of Electromagnetic Energy

The Morning Run

Sedburgh, England, at the base of the Howgill Fells in Yorkshire, is…well, let them tell their story. I've lifted the following verbatim from the town's official Web site:

Sedbergh is a town of about 3,000 people in the Yorkshire Dales National Park in north-west England. An ancient market town, Sedbergh has a famous public school, Sedbergh School, it has a thriving main street of shops, ancient buildings, and is surrounded by moorland hills. Sedbergh is England’s book town.

Smart dogs know it's also a fine place for a morning run.

Still Standing

A stone barn along England's Dales Way footpath, between Dent and Sedburgh.

Lost In The Fog

I went out for a short drive this morning, nothing to do with photography, and there they were—all the sizes and shapes of tattered cloud you'd ever wish for inside a viewfinder, drifting across the rural landscape and mingling with thick fog. Everything appeared to be in motion, the clouds in a fair hurry while the fog crept doggedly over hillsides and woodlots. Passing a familiar barn, its massive roof resembled a black stone perched atop the mists, while the bulky outline of a farm tractor flashed by in a second through the open door. A bit farther along the sun emerged and for a bright minute burned like a soft yellow bulb through white curtains, before it was swallowed again. Everywhere, oak trees became more stately, and mysterious.

I certainly enjoyed those mental pictures, but I can't include them here because I didn't take my camera along. As we said when I was a kid, No Biggie (that's the predecessor of the fatuous No Problem). I'm able to walk and chew gum simultaneously, but sometimes you want to concentrate on a single thing, and that device can get in the way of inspiration. Besides, in the black hole of online images anything I shot would be appreciated for a nanosecond, then disappear as surely as that tractor.

And this morning, it was inspiration I needed. A double-shot of beautiful light to rouse me from the wintertime blues. A reason to keep looking, sans camera, in a world that's shrinking ever faster, sucking up subjects until there's nothing new, nothing worthy of photographing that hasn't already been seen dozens of times.

Mental landscapes, too, become veiled in fog, without familiar landmarks to suggest the right direction (men aren't supposed to ask for those, so we just continue stumbling along). Lucky are those who do stop to ask for assistance, or simply pause to read a sign. These are more numerous than you might imagine, so I'm leaving you with a quartet to contemplate the next time you're caught in a photographic whiteout. Perhaps they'll lead you to explore new and satisfying locations.

—On The Luminous Landscape, Mark Dubovoy's essay Everything Matters explores the small details in photography;
—on The Online Photographer, photographer Ken Tanaka offers his thoughts on photographic self-assessment in Ah, January, good reading in any month;
—on Strobist, David Hobby serves up different ways to use your photography in Giving Back With Your Camera;
—finally, also on The Luminous Landscape, fine art photographer Alain Briot discusses the subject of finding inspiration, in a series of essays called Reflections on Photography & Art.

In A Quiet Room Just Off Main Street

Have you ever wondered, where Spring spends its winter time?

Winter Awakens

Everyone had been talking about how dry our winter was this year, until this week. That's all forgotten now. Like the teenager in the comic strip Zits who oversleeps every day, the Old Man's sound snooze ended this past Monday, when a brief snow storm visited the valley, to be followed by inches of good ol' Oregon rain. It's still falling today, though not as hard. Flood warnings and road closures are numerous.

For the second time this week I went out to shoot the weather shot, and found it right around the corner (speaking rurally), two miles away.

There was no water on this road yesterday.

The Weather Shot

Newspaper photographers shoot all kinds of subjects, but when a slow news day comes along they often turn to a reliable stand-by: the weather shot. Through the cycle of seasons Mother Nature is quite often a photographer's invaluable assistant.

When I set off down the driveway last Monday morning, after a light overnight snowfall, I was looking for my own weather picture. I've made the same circuit in other years, and in deeper snows—down to the road to check an old apple tree and various grasses, then back uphill, through mixed woods and pasture, oaks and scattered Ponderosa pines, before hiking up the largest hill opposite our house, its flank covered by ferns, more oak and stout firs, and all manner of woody debris.

What I discovered on my short ramble was accents. The snowfall had barely penetrated the densest portions of the woods, and where it had had left subtle traces.

A pine lost its grip on the saturated soil, adding a new feature to a pasture trail.

A hint of snowfall on an evergreen.

Ferns shone against the dull forest floor on a hillside.

A well-traveled deer trail in the lower pasture. By the time I completed my circuit walk, all the snow had melted.

Dodge & Burn, Without A Coat Hanger

Snow flurries and sunshine are alternating today as a storm passes through the valley. There's only a slight chance (so far) that a snow day will keep anyone home tomorrow—the temperature is too warm for snow to stick. Still, the light dusting does rekindle memories from past winters, of snow shovels, tire chains, and wood stoves, and an entire week of school lost to an unexpected storm.

As I was reminiscing about the weather my thoughts wandered to photography, to what I was doing during those times, and though there are prominent black holes in that history this is what came to mind.

I've mentioned in other posts that my first rolls of film, taken forty-odd years ago, were black and white. Kodak's Plus-X mostly, finer-grained Panatomic-X later on when I affected some Zone System artiness. It was the cheap way to practice—I didn't give a thought to color those first couple of years.

When Kodachrome became my film-of-choice in the mid-'70s I still shot B&W when I freelanced for a local magazine. The publisher was a quirky guy whose well-to-do mother kept the thin bimonthly (and him) afloat, and I made enough money to buy a new camera body, though pay (like the assignments) was erratic. I enjoyed feeling journalistic, though, and the best part of the deal was, I shot what I wanted—their budget was non-existent tight, stories were loose, the art director was the publisher's girlfriend, she liked my pictures, and it was fun while it lasted.

That has been my only sustained experience working in a wet darkroom. I lived in a townhouse then, where my bedroom featured a spacious closet plus extra space inside that—it was a little room all its own. It was also mildly claustrophobic and exactly the dimensions required for a Beseler 23C enlarger and yours truly. My workflow was simple: I'd expose a dozen sheets of paper, stow them in a light-tight processing drum, and escape through a wall of clothes to the bathroom, where the developer/stop bath/fixer trays waited on the counter. Of necessity I became adept at getting everything right the first time.

Although it's been decades since I've printed from negatives, an important technique from that technology lives on in today's digital darkroom. (There's a term sure to boil a film purist's blood—especially as there's nothing dark about it. Adobe Systems got it right when they introduced Lightroom for digital editing.) I've rediscovered its importance recently—it's still called Burning and Dodging, except now you don't need quick reflexes—or a short piece of wire—to use it. (Back in the day, fast hands and small bits of paper taped to a wire were the tools used to alter light striking the enlarging paper. Sounds almost prehistoric, doesn't it?)

Digital RAW files are often called digital negatives because, like their film counterparts, they require processing to bring out the best attributes of the photo. They need to be manipulated. And though seeming magic can be accomplished within Photoshop, using specialized Actions or third-party plug-ins, there's still (thankfully) a place for simple adjustments like burning and dodging. The control over what's lightened or darkened, however, is beyond anything film photographers dreamt of. Tiny areas of an image can be magnified and worked to perfection with sizable brushes. The amount of dodging or burning can be set in 1% increments (no guessing). The effects can be targeted to the shadows, mid-tones, or highlights. And since it's digital, if you don't like the look—simply go back a step or two and try again. I don't miss a wet garbage can, either.

The shot I've included here, of an old vice in the shop at Thompson's Mills, is nearly monochromatic on its own—I chose to leave it in color because of the subtle blue tones. The early afternoon side lighting comes from a window to the left. The image is a combination of 15 separate shots—the focus point was moved slightly in each before Helicon Focus rendered the final version (a small aperture wouldn't have given the depth-of-field I desired in this instance, especially at a focal length of 116mm). After adjustments during shooting and post-processing in Photoshop, I did one final thing to the picture, dodging the highlights (at a 10% setting) to give it an edge I thought it lacked.

Sparked

Yesterday I was admiring photographs of Oregon's Painted Hills (part of the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument) taken by fellow Eugenean Zeph Van Allen, and posted here on 500px. He visited the Hills last week and returned home with several sunrise keepers.

Viewing others' work is one way of becoming inspired—in this instance, I was moved to scribble plans for a trip to central Oregon on my mental list, then dig through shots I'd taken in 2005 at the Hills (coincidentally another sunrise), which had never (it turned out) been given a decent vetting.

Sometimes, there's too much to see, let alone keep track of, and I'm glad I found this one. Thanks for the spark, Zeph.

Sunday Afternoon

I catnap now and then, but I think while I nap, so it's not a waste of time. ~Martha Stewart (actress)

Infinity

I could wander sandstone country with a single lens
and never, not once in a lifetime, point it at the horizon.

Don't Call It A List

Three days into the new year and it's begging for a List of Resolutions. Dieting, bad habits to overcome (these categories are often seen traveling together), finances, projects, anything. Just sit down and start writing! But I'm not going to oblige. A marginal optimist I am, but 2011 was like quicksand—plans and wishes, and friends, gone much too quickly. So 2012 is on its own.

Yet, since I harbor a slight list-making urge (another bad habit?), I'm going to satisfy it by creating a mental document, which is far easier to rewrite (or discard) later on. And I'm limiting it to photography—those things I do, or should, new ideas (that are old to others)—in other words, the usual work in progress. It's entirely personal, but I'm putting part of it out here for your inspection. If nothing else, it underscores the fact that photography is an evolving process—and, yes, it does check the box next to "list done." From the top:

1. Simplify Your Tools—Software

I recently downloaded a trial of Adobe Lightroom 3 to compare against two programs I own, Aperture 3 (from Apple) and Phase One's Capture One LE. I was also curious how it would feel in use next to Photoshop. The RAW conversions I've made over the last 2-3 years have been through CS4 (I used CS2 before that, going all the way back to Photoshop 4). Lately, I'd dabbled with file conversions in Aperture. But I felt I was doing too much bouncing around, and Lightroom seemed a possible one-and-done solution.

The first difference (my perception) was a noticeable (and pleasant) increase in sharpness, straight out of the box. Samples processed through Lightroom just looked better, and I also preferred its default colors. I went back and forth with several photographs and each time the results favored LR. My finger was momentarily poised above the BUY button.

BUT. There's always a but, isn't there? While I was evaluating the program I watched a tutorial on The Luminous Landscape, Michael Reichmann's comprehensive photography site, and midway through it he commented on how photographers often juggle several programs to do the same things, instead of choosing one and mastering it. DING! That sounded eerily familiar to another photographic truth—carrying less equipment frees one to shoot better photographs. One camera/one lens. OK, two lenses, but that's it. And suddenly his observation solved my software conundrum.

In short order I uninstalled the Lightroom trial (it worked well, but isn't my style), retired both Aperture and Capture One from the iMac's dock, and updated Photoshop CS4 to CS5—the new version does everything (and more) that I need. I'm comfortable with its interface. And for the way I work the combination of Photo Mechanic (IN box) and Photoshop (OUT box) is the most efficient, satisfying work-up I could ask for.

2. Become Familiar With Software Features You Don't Normally Use

When manufacturers stopped including printed manuals with their products it became easier than ever to just jump in and begin working, rightly or wrongly, with hard- and software. When all else failed we could download a PDF version of the instructions, and cherry-pick only the sections we really needed. Auto exposure bracketing? Selectable focus points? When would I ever use those features?

Software works the same way. Among photo-editing programs Photoshop is the ultimate Swiss-army knife—learning how it works can take years of practice—but studying articles and video tutorials, and practicing (including things I probably will never use) has inspired me to delve more deeply into the program's interrelated features, and moved me closer to perfecting my images. I do a little more each day.

3. Don't Believe Everything You Think

This isn't an original thought—I saw it on a bumper sticker recently. But it speaks to most of what I could add here. Opinions, mostly, certainly not gospel. Photographers as a group seem to crave arguments, but are often unwilling or unable to move from long-help positions—they know they're correct, is all. This year I've resolved (there it is!) to listen a bit longer to what everyone's saying—maybe I'll discover something(s) that changes my outlook, perhaps not. But I'll certainly open my eyes a bit wider, and that can't help but improve the view.

Stuffed

It's The Lost Week, that disjointed period between Christmas Day and January One when this year finally runs aground, when everyone is finishing up vacations or waiting for a bowl game. Or simply for things to return to normal.

In our house the cats' beds are again in their rightful places, the noble little fir sits outside on the burn pile, and all traces of gift wrap and cupcakes have vanished (although there's an ample supply of leftover ham in the fridge).

For Christmas gift-giving to each other my wife and I limited it to stockings-only, but as Kathy noted, because something is in a large decorative sock doesn't mean it's cheap small.

And sure enough, there it was, in the stubby toe of hers—a pink iPod Shuffle.

After three decades of Christmases past I would never guess that item would be on her wish list—she likes pencils and pads, not gizmos! Uh-oh. When hints first surfaced I shot the idea down as too expensive—and immediately began an earnest search for one, only to discover they are immensely popular. Uh-oh #2. My last stop was the local Mac store, where I should have started and where the last Shuffle in town sat on a shelf, waiting, in the color I wanted. Thanks, Santa.

My Shuffle helps me tune out background noise when I'm on a treadmill at the gym, so I expect we'll make a great tandem (she'll cruise along with Sam Cooke, while I'll chase Eric Clapton). I'm amazed at the amount of technology Apple's put into this tiny device, and also by the packaging. Easy to open, stylish, and small. Very small. That's becoming important to me—I want my (our) possessions to be manageable. When you have more than you can keep track of, it's like having a party that's spun out of control.

A couple of times each year I play George Carlin's famous routine on Stuff, to keep that in perspective. You can view a 1986 performance at this YouTube link.
The language is mild by today's standards, but at a time when millions of children live in cars while heated storage units proliferate, his point(s) get stronger by the day.

I'm going to go clean off a shelf now, and wish you the Happiest of New Years.

A Healthier Photographer

Delicious baked treats—a variety of cookies, chewy brownies, and mini cheesecakes—appear out of thin air in our kitchen during the Christmas holiday. It happened again this week, as my wife moved deftly among ingredients, magic wand measuring spoons in hand. In past years the laws of supply and demand required a quick pace to maintain an equitable balance between the two—the shelf life of chocolate snaps, fruit drops, and snickerdoodles could be measured in minutes, not days.

But not this year.

The brownies, obviously baffled, stared at me from their colorful holiday plate, dwindling in number until only a single crumbling morsel remained. I didn't see it go. The little cheesecakes? Huddled in the refrigerator under wrap, waiting for Christmas Eve. AND ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE, NOT A COOKIE IN SIGHT. What happened here?

I've given myself a gift of better health.

Most of us try, a time or two, to improve our diets, exercise regularly, and avoid foods* we know are bad for our health. But none of that comes easily—it takes time to be healthy, and we're in a hurry. And there's so much information to digest. Over- whelmed, we retreat toward convenience, especially at mealtimes. I've done that, too. But three months ago, after reading a book on nutrition and disease, I decided to try something different—I eliminated wheat from my diet.

Ever wonder why Santa Claus is a jolly round fellow?

Dr. William Davis will tell you—it's because of all those cookies! And bread, bagels, cakes, cereals, pasta—anything (and everything) made from "healthy whole grains." Wheat, in a word. There are other culprits that damage our health, he advises, but wheat is The Big One, genetically modified beyond count and never tested on humans to see how it might affect their health. Oops.

A cardiologist, Davis wrote Wheat Belly, 228 pages chronicling his experiences with wheat, the effects it has on our bodies, and real-life case stories drawn from the thousands of patients he's treated. His bias towards real food is evident (he points out the many healthy foods available that don't include wheat), but his tone isn't evangelical. I'll admit, I bogged down near the middle as he explained some of the body's intricate workings, but by then I was convinced of the truth of his arguments—and ready to experiment. What could I lose?

As it's happened: fifteen pounds. Frequent, insistent cravings. The subtle aching in my knees (after only ten days.) Yawning fits. The list goes on. In the process I've regained a sense of taste—an enjoyment for what I eat. Minus the aches, my gym workouts (moderate weights and cardio) are fresher and more productive. I wasn't significantly overweight when I removed wheat from my personal menu (although I didn't care for the view in my mirror), but the pounds came off quickly. I was, and am, amazed.

If you're looking for a great book for your favorite photographer I heartily recommend Wheat Belly. Here's a link to Amazon (the Kindle version is now out), or patronize your local  bookseller or library.
 

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*As a kid I loved the taste of Twinkies and that creamy center—we all did. But there wasn't any cream in it (it's white vegetable shortening). Here's a partial list of the other ingredients—enriched wheat flour, sugar, corn syrup, high fructose corn syrup, vegetable and/or animal shortening (containing one or more of partially hydrogenated soybean, cottonseed or canola oil, and beef fat), dextrose, whole eggs, modified corn starch, salt, cornstarch, wheat gluten, natural and artificial flavors, caramel color, Yellow #5, and Red #40. Mmmm.