The Online Photographer

[Ed. note: A day late, but you know what they say: oh well.]

I'm not naturally a color photographer, although I've done plenty of it over the years. Before that, when I was an art student in high school and later in art school at the college level (my only degree is a BFA—betcha didn't know you've been reading an unedgeycated man all these years, didja?), I had a marked preference for pen-and-ink and various monochrome drawing media rather than paint. In paint you have to pick out what colors things have to be, and I never knew. Before that, I noticed when I colored in coloring books as a child that I never knew which Crayola crayon to pick for which area—even though there are only about nine colors in the pack anyway! Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, brown (which is really just dark orange), plus white and black. On the other hand, I'm really good at seeing color casts in color prints, probably the result of years of color photo-printmaking. I can ace color-perception experiments and tests. Go figure. Life is a mystery. But shades of gray—there are thousands of those, and each makes different music set off against another. How can so many others not see it?

So the other day I wrote this about the Shorpy photo of the War Memorial Center, between parentheses no less:

"(And by the way, this picture is a good example of why I tend not to like color. The colors here are just off, polluted with other colors, although they reek of Ektachrome transparencies so much that I almost viscerally sense the substrate as transparent even though that doesn't exist on the screen. I find such not-quite-right colors disturbing, and most color in most color photographs is similarly off. I suspect that's why I've always liked dye transfer prints—the yellows, especially, tend to be unpolluted—and inkjet prints, which can bring relief as well. I've always related this affliction of mine to the way Edgar Degas saw flowers; he found their riotous colors and crowded fractal irregularity disturbing, and I read once, when I was still in my teens, that he only painted a vase of flowers forthrightly one time in his life before reconstituting his aversion to them again. Not sure if that's really true.)"

Fortunately for didactic blog purposes, John Gillooly jumped in and refuted that:

"It's interesting to read about your take on color photographs and the color being 'off.' In my most recent re-engagement with film over the last two to three years, it has been that unique 'offness' of each color film that has drawn me to shoot color film. (When I initially starting shooting film again I intended to shoot almost all B&W.) We are in a different era now and I think the reasons for shooting film have changed. If you want the flexibility to have perfectly accurate colors or to make your color exactly the way you wish, you will use digital. For me, this is the reason to shoot film. To frontload the decisions that will bake in a certain look...and live with it with little to no editing. And the biggest part of baking in a particular look is the unique characteristics of any given film."

I get that, and it's perfectly valid.

It's okay to have strong opinions about your own art. It's okay for others to feel the same way about theirs. It's almost necessary. Artists generally are people who feel aesthetics strongly. They responded to art with ardor and intensity. Choices matter. Words used as common intensifiers actually apply: they love certain things and they hate other things. That goes against enlightened values in many other spheres of thought, where tolerance is encouraged and expected. But aesthetics, except perhaps at certain far fringes, isn't moral or immoral. William James proposed a search for a "moral equivalent of war" in a speech at Stanford in 1906, and art is a good field for the moral equivalent of the baser passions of belief.

The problems of having strong allegiances and stronger aversions is that you might close yourself to the pleasures and joys of what other artists are up to. So here's what I try to do: continually refine, nourish and enhance the territories I've staked out as mine, and what I do for myself, while at the same time striving to be open-minded to what other people are up to. I love what I love, but I can learn more from what I hate. It's foolish to dismiss things altogether. Even in types of art that you don't like, see if you can get to know them well enough that your own tastes begin to emerge. In this way an artist who is earnest and sincere can appreciate camp and satire; an artist who works in abstraction can have likes and dislikes in trompe-l'œil; a B&W photographer can appreciate the color palette of photographers whose main pleasure is colors; a realist can tell the difference between good and not-so-good surrealism. There are a few phrases, however, that are to to art what bleach is to mold: "I like everything" or "I don't really care." Art makes one demand clearly if you hope to practice it: care.

"Hate" doesn't have to be hostile, though. There's a hilarious passage in Fredrik Backman's A Man Called Ove about two best friends warring over which Swedish car is best: one drives a Saab and the other a Volvo. Neither can understand the other's poor choice and obstinacy (and actually, in the book, the car feud does contribute to sundering the friendship). At a photo show once, long ago, I witnessed two rotund and balding middle-aged men, both wearing three-piece suits, both chomping on cigars, and both carrying gigantic 6x7cm medium-format rigs hanging from their necks, each camera tricked out with every correct accessory including giant potato-masher flashes with hard metal reflectors. But one was a Mamiya while the other was a Bronica. Each of them was denigrating the other's choice of camera brand (and cigar brand, and tailor) in a practiced, easy manner, and every now and then they would laugh together when one or the other of them got off some particularly vicious and inventive insult. They were obviously old friends, and this was routine.

Never shy away from strong feelings when it comes to your choices in art. No matter how passionate, it's harmless, and unless you feel strongly about what you love, how will you find the energy to pursue it? John and I might have opposite positions about color film palettes, but at least we both have worked it out for ourselves, know where we stand, and can articulate and defend our choices. If you and someone else fall on opposite sides of a fence, it doesn't hurt either of you or anyone else. And who knows, you might even be able to do it and still be friends.

Mike

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Featured Comments from:

JOHN GILLOOLY: "Thanks for considering my comment! I also think it's worth noting that for me at least, these tastes and opinions are constantly evolving. For the first 10 years of digital we were constantly debating if digital was 'better' than film. In every objective way, we no longer have to have that debate—digital is 'better.'

"What I find very interesting at the moment is that my feelings towards film have shifted a great deal over the last two to three years as digital technology has reached near perfection in almost every technical area. Digital has over-delivered almost everything that I could have asked as a photographer.

"And yet, while roaming the exhibitions at Paris Photo last month, it was almost always images made with film that I was drawn to most. In a photography world of perfection and virtually no limitations, there is a certain beauty to be found in the imperfection of film. I feel an appreciation for the process that the photographer navigated to make an image. And there is certain creativity that is often the byproduct of the many limitations imposed on us by using film.

"So right now, at this moment in my photography evolution, I sort of like the 'off' color palette that various films render in a true, chemical way. (Two years ago or from now, my answer will likely change.)

"Apparently the world is obsessed with these 'looks' as well—hundreds of millions of images each day are treated with a 'filter' in order to 'im-perfect' their iPhone image and sprinkle it with some character-dust!"

XK50: "Sad to say, I’m no Steve Curry. The most convincing colour (Brit!) I’ve obtained in 40 years of personal film photography, and a lot of subsequent digital images, has come, only recently, from Photoshop’s 'colorizing' routine. The results from a good B&W image can be simply stunning—especially, skin tones. (OK, let’s say 85% of the time, and I accept YMMV). The results I’m getting are more than just coloured images. The sense of 'presence' is astonishing. Something deeply psychological is going on with the addition of colour. My teenage friends are there, in front of me, young again. Those departed appear to live, once more. Incredible."

J. Paul Thomas: "The first 50 years or so of my life were the film years. My retirement on a limited income coincided with the advent of digital, which was a Godsend for me as it is much more economical than film. After some trials I settled on Fujifilm cameras. I totally agree with the concept that film imposes a limit on flexibility and perfection; and, consequently, is somehow more satisfying.

"Now I have found my solution. Fujifilm offers beautiful film simulations built into their cameras, and Richie Roesh on his blog, Fuji X Weekly, offers wonderful fine tuning of these simulations. Now I shoot in JPEG only, accept the results and avoid hours processing RAW files . For me this is an economical alternative to film which I find most satisfying."

Richard Tugwell: "I love that when you zoom in 100% on (scanned) film it's all fuzzy and grainy, and when you look at the print at normal viewing distance it's magically sharp!"

Benjamin Wilkes: "(Off topic, I suppose:) In my garage sits a 1984 Saab that I keep for mostly nostalgic reasons. Back when it was my daily ride, it was maintained by a kindly Swede in Santa Monica named—what else?—Ove. He was one half of a partnership that serviced Swedish cars, with Ove being the Saab expert and his partner focused more on the Volvos. Back then, Saabs were aerodynamic and front-wheel drive, and Volvos were rectilinear and mostly rear-wheel drive. In the late '90s, just as I was getting ready to acquire a newer car, Ove and his partner had a feud that split up their business (and, I imagine, their friendship). I brought the Saab with me to Pasadena, but it hasn't run since. So what do I drive now, with Saab long defunct? A Volvo, naturally."