Orange dawn and red traffic lights motivate the snapshot, but the eyes see unlike the lens and sensor do.
In his book, Camera Lucida (1981), Roland Barthes (1915-80) distinguishes between what the photographer (the operator) sees, what the camera sees (lens, film, chemical processing), and what the viewer sees. On this early morning drive, stopped at this intersection, two things came to mind. One is the way that the camera’s record of the light (objective vision) differs to what a person sees at the moment (subjective vision). That observation is a separate blog article. The other thing that comes to mind is the many layers of meaning in the scene in the distinctions that Barthes points out. But in addition to his three facets, there are still more. First is the dawn scene itself, regardless of there being any admiring humans or other creatures that notice it. Second is my attention being drawn to it; something about the light, lines, colors and so on makes me recognize wonder or beauty somewhere in the surroundings of those fleeting minutes. Third is my desire to make a photo to ratify this beauty and to share it with others. Fourth is what the camera sees –a skillful photographer could translate the human emotional responses or meanings of the moment into terms that a lens can “write with light.” Fifth is the result of the camera work that then is seen by the viewers of the two-dimensional representation of the fast-changing light of dawn’s early light. Sixth is what the photographer sees secondarily; not by direct vision at the time of recording the scene but now sandwiching those memories with the subsequent experience of handling the printed (color) picture. Seventh is what other viewers see who are removed in time or geography from the original subject and time; for example, people seeing the photo a generation after it was made, or people from a faraway language and culture. Since these latter-day viewers may lack the context to know or appreciate what they are seeing, the viewing experience may differ considerably from what people see who are connected more closely to the place or event.
Layers of meaning pertain not only to pictures made by camera, but also in other life experiences. The story of Macbeth with tellings of events through the eyes of different characters, or the Japanese interpretation in the Kurosawa film, Rashomon, whence the “rashomon effect” of multiple versions of events according to each character’s point of view. The above photo has the seven (or more) lives described above, but that could be said of displays encountered in a museum, advertisements presented in print or on TV, appliances or automobiles (concept, design, production, reviewer, promoter, buyer new and subsequent buyer used, mechanic’s point of view, insurance adjuster point of view, and so on). So while a photo has many lives, so do most parts of one’s experience going through life.
Red stop lights against deep orange dawn light in the purple of the night blend (16 April 2024)
This grab shot of the dawn light is good enough as writing prompt, but as a likeness to the visual experience via eyeball and brain it is a poor representation. Probably a fancier camera and more time to compose the shot, or at least to finesse the exposure, would give a result that is closer to the original feeling of awe and wonder. But even that would be two-dimensional with imposed borders to the viewing area. The raw experience was immersive in three dimensions and with time’s passing to make the colors change and the clouds move. In the original moment there was no picture frame to cut off the adjacent context since the central vision supplied the sharp details and color, while the peripheral vision filled in the surrounding spaces and range of light values. And, of course, at this busy intersection the cross-traffic was streaking past at speed, lending to the sense of surprise at such fine beauty in the distance even as commuters motored along with their minds on the road, the radio or some other audio accompaniment to pass the time, but maybe oblivious of the breaking light of this morning.
By analogy from the experiential gap between image and reality, there is something similar that happens in a larger sense. One’s life experience is filled with things that defy verbal description or maybe exceed one’s power of reasoning, too. Communicating to others inevitably loses something in the translation from raw event to spoken (or written or recorded) words. Unintended meanings may well tag along while other things that felt significant, fail to elicit similar impressions on others who were not present. Thus, it is worth acknowledging this gap between original instance of something and any rendition that is derivative to the source material. For practical or economic purposes the frail and provisional version of the sturdy original might function all right as a place holder, as the basis to begin a discussion, or as something suitable to illustrate a point. So there is value in a sketch, photo, recording, or verbal summary. But there should never be any confusion between the “real thing” and its portrayal later.
Morning scenes at Japanese-style garden in Grand Rapids, Michigan at various distances and detail.
Scale matters in composing a photo, but also when displaying it in print or projected onto a (very) large screen. Bringing the camera in for a close view draws attention to details that would be lost when the composition is an overview or wide-angle look at the subject and its surroundings. But no matter if the picture is taken close in or from a distance, if the image is presented in a way that is too small in scale then the viewer will not readily perceive detail. The reverse is also true: projected onto a 20-foot cinema screen allows a great degree of detail to be studied. Of course the resolving power of the lens and quality of film or digital sensor also determine how much detail can be distinguished – on modest display or on a gigantic one. The extreme case is the Gigapan technique of merging hundreds of exposures into a single composite image that allows magnification much beyond that of a single photo; for example, a luxury car advertisement showing the Golden Gate Bridge and its surroundings, then zooming in to see the featured car, then zooming in to show the brand mark embroidered onto a headrest of the passenger seat, visible through the car window on the bridge surrounded by the headlands and Pacific Ocean.
The limits to seeing because of scale limitations may be true not only of photos but also when it comes to the limits of thinking because of scale limitations. In other words, if the matter being discussed is framed up close then the conversation can go into great detail (at the expense of perceiving the larger patterns and relationships). But even when composed and curated for a close-up view of the subject, if the occasion for expressing the subject is too small or lacks the right amount of free space, then the experience of engaging in the matter could be frustrating. Therefore, in photo compositions and in conversations of intellect and analysis the scale matters: there should be a close enough view to capture needed detail. And there also should be a venue or occasion to display the viewpoint that is big enough to make the existing detail visible.
The frame may affect the way that viewers approach the scene, influencing its perceived emphasis.
Both literally (optically, perceptually, physically) and figuratively (frame as demarcation; context definer) the frame matters. This illustration is a family heirloom from the 1920s or maybe a generation or two before that. So the frame in gold is original to the time and not a modern reinterpretation of the needlepoint art. It is one of three or four landscapes, all framed to match. If the same piece of art were in a modernistic “frameless” mount the viewing experience would be altogether different. Or if it were bordered in velvet, in chrome, or in deep red the art would take on a different complexion and thereby be regarded “in a new light” (physically the light would seem different; psychologically the impression of the scene would be altered somehow, too).
Observers of society in Japan* sometimes comment on the complexity and effort expressed in wrapping and packaging valuable products (and metaphorically ‘wrapping’ of services presented/performed, too; titles granted, seating order and protocol). That is not just a legacy of craftsmanship, a delight in visual, a history of ambient harm (climate, natural disasters and human dangers) to guard against, but it comes also from the effect that framing a thing can have. Careless and absence of wrapping somehow diminishes or obscures the subject matter. Going above and beyond functional, basic boxing, bundling, or wrapping shines a spotlight on the subject matter, heightening attention and value seen in the thing. Jumping to the example of food: some analysts say that half the taste in a meal comes from atmosphere at restaurant, home, or take-out presentation of the food. Portions served from the very same pan or oven can produce different eating experiences in the context of fine-dining in formal attire versus casual at-home eating, or when eaten outdoors at a roadside picnic table. Atmosphere in this food example includes the company of one’s companions, lighting, music, ambient smell, furniture style, table setting, and so on. Skipping now to the “5-star Hotel” rating system, there may be easily seen differences from low star to middle star, but sometimes (apart from the prices) the difference between 3 stars and 4 may come down to the courteous language level of staff, their fine clothing, and the small details of well-chosen furnishings, the service of turning down the bed covers in the evening and placing a small chocolate nearby as a surprise delight.
Returning to the photograph above, the wide margin of the gold frame’s borders seems to say, “this art is highly valuable, equivalent to gold.” But other meanings supported by the look (at time of framing and maybe still today, too) could be “this art is genuine creative work by hand, not casual work of mechanical reproduction.” Or perhaps, “chunky gold frames are the standard in public galleries, so this art belongs with such things.” Beyond these cultural conventions and social standards, there is also the psychological, optical effect when one’s eye sees something surrounded by a particular color, texture, shape and so on. Since the needlepoint picture includes a pale blue sky dotted with clouds, by substituting a matching frame border in blue the eye would tend to jump from the blue frame to the blue portions of the art. Likewise, if the border were substituted in white matching the clouds, then the eye would subtly be drawn to white elements in the art. In other words, adjacent context seems to predispose the eye to seek out that same relationship elsewhere in one’s (central) field of view. In other words, surrounding conditions affect what a viewer applies prominence to or significance in (and the reverse, what is therefore NOT prominent or is muted in comparison).
Finally, in keeping this the blog theme of “see to think,” the effects of framing a subject in one way versus another way (the art and science of “reframing” an argument, “recharacterizing” an account of events, or “redirecting” a person’s attention) not only concerns a thing like wall art that hangs in office, gallery, or at home, but also applies to framing a topic or experience. Thus, frames can affect how one emphasizes a standpoint, an experience one is looking forward to or one looked back upon, or to do with (personal) philosophy in general of the world and one’s place in it. Going one step further, it may be instructive to stop and look around the adjacent things and experiences surrounding one’s own person: these framing elements could shape how you see yourself and how others see you, too.
*Wrapping in Japanese life: see Joy Hendry Wrapping Culture: Politeness, Presentation, and Power in Japan and Other Societies (1993). More recently (2021), see Richard Chalfen, Snapping and Wrapping: Personal Photography in Japan (Curating and Interpreting Culture).
Vision shaped by mind which in turn is affected by what one sees
“Attention directs perception just as perception influences attention: the sensory array and its corresponding brain centers are in near-constant communication with one another and signals go both ways.”
While this quote comes from a book about female bodies evolving, and male ones by comparison, this observation about the mutual influence of eye on the mind and the other way around fits well with the blog theme here about seeing things and stepping back to find parallels to thinking about things, too. A familiar folk belief is that the eyes present a window to the person’s soul; that is, sustained gazing at the person, directly in the eye, may offer clues to the innermost person, bypassing the superficial impression created by clothing, hairstyle, speech habits and other status markers. Probably Rob Walker‘s 2019 book, The Art of Noticing, dwells on exercises and examples to improve habits of mind so that more of the surrounding world and one’s experience in it will become more noticeable; powers of observation will grow. But the other side of the relationship may get overlooked on those pages –how the things we note or deem significant can also shape the habits of mind when venturing into the world: GIGO, garbage in garbage out and the reverse, beauty in and beauty out, perhaps.
By extension to all senses, the Aristotelian big five, but also the many other kinds of perceptual system in one’s world, too, perhaps what is on one’s mind affects how things smell, taste, sound, and feel to the touch. And the reverse: perhaps what elements of sound, touch, taste and smell (along with sights) that comprise one’s own particular waking experience also have an affect on what fills one’s mind and the imaginings one foresees (or fails to foresee). If any part of this two-way street is true, then the hopeful interpretation is that striving for a better surrounding experience –by serendipity, mindfulness, or by design– can have a positive result in one’s heart and mind. At the same time, though, a pessimistic consequence of the mutual effects of exterior experience and interior world is that cycles of bad things happening seem to beget more; a kind of “circling the drain” absence of hope once begun in this downward spiral.
Returning to the visual experience of moving through one’s surroundings and a lifetime of days and years, just as photography comes from the words “writing with light,” so too the roots of meaning for visual experience lying in things seen (and therefore thought about) more generally; of one’s eyes and visual cortex to make sense of the colors, textures, geometry and other patterns, along with patterns of light and shadow: seeing one’s world can appear more or less the same for people bringing very different life experiences to the moment. But things can carry very different meanings, too. Some fixate on one thing, others dwell on another. The gaze of some will rest on one subject while others will bounce from subject to subject before arriving at something stirring curiosity, giving relief from unpleasant things, or signifying something meaningful in the eye of that particular person –right now, from long-ago times, or envisioning possible futures there. Like the Rashomon Effect (or Hamlet before that), the same sequence of events can take on different meanings in the eye of one beholder compared to another. Even for the same person, when revisiting a place or a picture from a particular moment, as life experience accumulates the larger meaning of the place or event recorded may look different to its original meaning. Ditto when rereading a book, seeing a movie again, or listening to a song or poem once more. Scriptures (from Bible, for example) are considered a “living” word since the same ink on paper can reveal different meanings or emphasis when a person engages with it early in life, midway, or later on in life.
All together the two-way street of eye to environment to one’s thoughts (identifying, recognizing, tying to memories, or passing over something that once seemed important on another occasion) is a pulsing, living thing. Photowalking demonstrates how different camera friends stop to compose very different records of the day’s perambulating. On the one hand it can be frustrating to admit that a subject or scene is not fixed with meanings all can see. But on the other hand, knowing that one’s own eye and therefore mind can change is a refreshing escape from a prison of interpretation; a cage of verbal bars.
Verticals and horizontals impose some order, or at a least prominent pattern, to this view; order, not chaos.
Known for strong geometric arrangements in his “decisive moment” photographs, Henri Cartier-Bresson had a strong interest in geometry long before he held his first camera as a child. Many living photographers capture pictures strong on geometry, too: patterns of line, intersecting planes, masses of color or texture that establish a prominent pattern, and so on. This photo of the side of a convenience store has electrical conduit pipes attached to the wall. In between scattered clouds, the bright light at low morning angle shines like the beam of a spotlight onto the east-facing sides of the vertical conduit segments, making it stand out from the flat expanse of the wall even more than usual. It is worth asking why perpendiculars and angles of all sorts should attract the viewer’s eye, though.
One explanation could be the sometimes dramatic tension between forces of order and disorder; between entropy spiraling out of control and decay versus neg-entropy tending toward structure and growth. By this logic, a composition (music, visual art, or another form of creative expression) with prominent skeleton, foundation, or another dominant organizing structure presents something that the audience can readily fasten onto – attaching meaning, emotion, memory, or aspiration to the event or composition. By comparison, an example lacking in strong geometry may be harder to recognize significance, meaning, purpose, or pattern to relate to. In this abstract way of thinking, strong geometry “makes sense,” but vague or non-apparent patterns in a composition do not “make sense,” at least not right away.
This same dramatic tension between forces of focus versus blur, growth versus decay, clarity versus dissolution can be found outside the realm of optics and composition. It also applies to thinking and to communicating an idea with words, too. After all, a strong pattern, easy-to-follow series of logical statements, and convincing conclusion will be easier for a person to latch onto or follow the line of reasoning. By contrast, unclear structure or obscured pattern and lack of definite shape can detract from the person’s effort to engage in the subject. Whether it is the strong geometry of a visual composition or the bold design in a philosophical statement, patterns with clear structure allow readers or viewers to “make sense” of the matter most readily and to maximum satisfaction.
That “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” is widely accepted and experienced, too. So when it comes to a photo of something of beauty, the finished picture can do justice to the original subject’s own wondrous form or instead the picture can fail to communicate the feelings one might have in the direct experience of being there. If photography is a pane of glass and its frame to see a person, place, or thing, then is it perfectly transparent or does it add some enhancement; does it remove or obscure something; or both – much like a translation from one language to another inevitably involves surplus meaning layered into connotations and also the reverse, deficit meaning that fails to come across in the new language. In other words, in the relationship between lens and subject, photographer and field location, how much of the resulting picture’s effectiveness comes from the photographer’s treatment and interpretation and how much is inherent in the subject, regardless of who points their equipment at the thing? Put another way, when there is an artistic masterpiece to photograph, will all pictures be equally artful? Can a masterful photographer make a meaningful picture with inferior gear or by approaching any subject, no matter how ordinary, with an artful eye?
This photo comes from a toy camera with very limited ability to record wide-ranging light values (fixed aperture) and locked focus, rudimentary framing window, and tiny photo sensor. The giant bronze statue is a work of art to be seen from all angles and in all seasons, inviting the visitors to the sculpture park to engage with its many facets by walking under and around, viewing from near and from a distance. The viewing experience in person is altogether different to seeing any number of portraits of it from various angles, cameras, and lighting conditions. One experience is in real time as clouds come and go, the wind sighs, and the hub-bub of others drifts on the air. The other experience is silent and two-dimensional as a frozen moment. Recording the subject as video — either from a fixed spot on a tripod as time passes, or by walking around the sculpture to convey its many sides — is something like the in-person experience since the sense of time passing and the audio channel is included. But the question remains about the visual experience: how much of the impression on one’s mind is inherent in the subject and how much comes from the way a photographer communicates this subject’s beauty; a reporter of the event rather than the raw, unprocessed, non-articulated event itself. Put another way, is a well-done photo of a beloved painting purely a facsimile to the real thing; a derivative echo of the source? Or can the photo, somehow, be equal to or better than being there in front of the actual artistic subject?
Beauty of rose, of window light, of frame that isolates subject from surroundings – which is primary?
An old distinction from Biblical studies is between the Greek love for analytical divisions, such as Form and Content, on the one hand, and the ancient Jewish refusal to abstract the form and its content. In other words, this view says that form only exists when there is content; content only exist when there is form. Separating one from the other may be intellectually stimulating and the basis for hypothesis-testing, but in a relational sense, you only can know the thing by embracing it all together, not in layers of distilled abstraction. So perhaps this discussion of the photographer’s value added to subjects that are complete artworks on their own runs along similar lines: rather than to tease apart the visual experience of a photo to record an artwork (or a subject of naturally occurring beauty, like an ungilded lily or a sunset free from postprocessing enhancement), perhaps the viewing experience has to be taken at face value, as an object of visual engagement all of its own, no matter what appears in the viewfinder. This echoes the quote attributed to Garry Winogrand about his motivation for taking so many exposures in his street photography, ‘I photograph things to see what the picture will look like as a photo’ [paraphrase]. In other words, regardless of the original subject and any technique the photographer may apply, it is the printout in the end that matters: a two-dimensional representation to be mounted for display or to fly around the small screens of social media around the world. By this reasoning, the subject –a sculpture or painting, or performance arts; a random beam of sun on a street scene, or the shadows falling on one’s kitchen table– is the raw ingredient for the photographer to handle by choice of standpoint (subject, juxtaposition, context, frame of inclusion or exclusion), exposure, moment of shutter release, and so on.
Jumping to another metaphor, in the world of music there is separate credit given to composer, performer, and any particular (recording made of) performance. The same composition will sound differently depending on what orchestra performs it. And that orchestra will give a different effect when led by one conductor’s interpretation versus another’s. Even the same conductor and orchestra will have slight variation when performing on one occasion versus another; one venue versus another. From the point of view of audience, the music is the music. Unless they have multiple listening experiences to compare, this one engagement with the performing art will be the only source of stimulation to elate or dampen their spirits. The analytical distinction of composer, orchestra and conductor, performing venue and overall spiritedness for a particular iteration of the composition will be beside the point. To the audience, the experience will be a whole; a complete meal; a totalizing sensory experience.
The question about source subject (the composition and the circumstances of history and personality going into the composer’s work) versus interpretive nuance affecting the end result would be useless and unproductive to ask. Thus for a photograph as object of its own two-dimensional value, the criticism persists: that taking a picture of an artwork or a natural wonder is a futile exercise that should not “gild the lily” and that may well not do justice to the original subject. If photos of beautiful subjects (ad absurdum: for photos of great pictures made by self or others, historically or today) can only aspire to show the subject to simulate the direct experience of being there, then no credit is given to the judgement of the photographer to select best lighting, framing, focal length, and so on.
By way of summing up, let us return to the title of this article, beauty that is raw and beauty that is cooked; beauty that is found in the wild and beauty that is boxed and clearly labeled “this is a work of art.” Whether the photographer notices something beautiful about light, texture, color pattern, geometry, or moment of juxtaposition —all or any of these can motivate the person to record the scene for others to see or for one’s own recognition of significance in the occasion. The moment could arise by serendipity out in the wild of hustle and bustle or surrounding by natural quietude. Or the moment could arise by purposefully attending a gallery of 2-D and 3-D creations acknowledged to be expressing beauty. In both cases, planned or unplanned, it is the photographer’s visual experience of the subject that leads to a translation from the moment into pictures frozen in time for others to see at that time or lifetimes later on. By sticking to the end product, a flat representation made by optics and electrons or chemicals, the subject can be regarded as nothing more than the raw material about which the photographer spots an opportunity, develops the idea into a composition by considering various approaches, and finally releases the end result. In this way, it is not too important to worry that a picture of a piece of art is categorically of no lasting value because the subject itself is inherently beautiful. A bad photographer certainly can spoil the viewing experience by making an unflattering interpretation. A good photograph, though, successfully conveys something of the direct experience of encountering the art subject (or a natural wonder out in the world).
In conclusion, even though it is complicated (maybe futile or misguided) to disentangle the artful contribution of photographer to a subject of inherent beauty or wonder, surely that eye and hand of the photographer are present in the resulting print. Just as the ineffable lens art mostly involves invisibility of light and air and standpoint, so also does the role of the photographer involve ephemeral inputs like decisions about exposure, timing to release the shutter, choice of viewpoint and foreground and context framed. The medium is about transparency but also the art of the photographer is mostly invisible. The subject for composition can be made by artists in galleries or it can be made by geology and conditions of weather and nature’s rhythms. Either way, it is the photographer who puts the subject matter into a frame for all to appreciate.
Two ways to see things – on the surface and beneath the surface
The foundation for this blog project is that ‘see’ and ‘know’ (or thinking) often parallel each other; to ‘see’ something from my point of view is to understand the standpoint I am using to look at an issue. But maybe the parallels flow back in the other direction, too; when talking about knowledge, understanding, and thinking the same terms could well also apply to the habits of composing images and noticing relationships of color, texture, or geometry, for instance. Digging deeper into the terrain of knowing and thinking, many languages distinguish two types of knowing by using completely different verbs: I know that person – shared experience and other context for personally being well acquainted versus I “know” the person you are talking about -as in a piece of knowledge to fill in the blank; not anything to do with social relationship or shared history. For example, in Spanish there is “yo conozco” to mean you have a personal connection to the person or subject. But then there is “yo se” to mean you know the answer or an isolated bit of knowledge. By contrast in English the verb ‘to know’ is all-purpose, no matter if it is knowledge or social connection you refer to. When the two senses of the word are clearly separated, then perhaps a person has a more finely-tuned awareness of the separation in arenas: one for personal relationship and one for knowledge-building.
When glancing at a news story, watching a movie, or attending a lecture you can do both kinds of knowing: you can follow the logic or the line of the plot [knowing about a thing] but you can also get to know the characters or the presenter little by little to gain some familiarity with their personality, habits of speech or thinking, style of doing things and so on. Now consider these two ways of knowing and jump metaphorically into two ways of seeing. One way is on the surface and can quickly trigger a spark of recognition or an idea or a reaction. For example, you (fore)see that a speeding car will soon be in a position that adds a nice accent to the otherwise static composition. This is ‘surface seeing’ and tells you something about the superficial properties of a subject; no personal emotions or history needs to be touched in the process. Another kind of seeing, perhaps akin to poetry, is “really seeing” a person or a place, noticing something more than the initial surface qualities and instead seeing something deeper about the subject’s past, present, or perhaps its future. This deeper vision may or may not include a personal aspiration, individual memories, or meaning that is not necessarily widely shared by other observers. In other words, this kind of seeing corresponds to the “personally knowing” distinction at the top of this article.
The 2023 book by David Brooks, How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen discusses this deeper kind of seeing particularly between self and those around the person. But equally this “knowing” a person can also apply to knowing a place; “seeing” a person, but also seeing a place in full dimension, both visible and intangible. This distinction between seeing on the surface and seeing more than the surface is not only true of one person’s mind, but the distinction can be illustrated for how well a person knows a cultural landscape, whether it is city block or an entire river valley far from city streets. Local knowledge and native experience makes a place alive with stories, personalities, aspirations and past outcomes. Without such rich vision a visitor just passing through (or fly-over traveler) or a newcomer at the beginning stages of getting to know landmark spots and past events cannot truly know a place. And even among locals, some more than others have a deeper well of knowledge, social connections, history and curiosity to know more.
Arranging the power of seeing deeply on a scale from deepest to more superficial, there is probably a very wide range in powers of observation; capacity for knowing the place. As well, insiders and outsiders tend to pay attention to different things: outlanders may be fascinated by things that insiders consider immaterial (predominant color of houses or cars, shape of keyholes, size of bowls). And what seems really significant to locals may be oblivious to the outsiders. As a result, seeing in both senses – surface and subsurface – affects what the person frames, records with a camera, and discusses with others. In this way not only does the practice of seeing shed light on the process of thinking, but flip-flopping the relationship, it seems that the twin ways of knowing also has a counterpart for seeing in two ways, too.
Daily selection at Flickr.com/explore viewed on March 14, 2024 -screenshot-1
Of the 100 or 200 images featured today at the Flickr photosharing website, these screenshots sample only a fraction. But they may well be representative of the range in lighting, subject matter, color patterns, and geometry that gives shape to the images. Each viewer browses for different purposes and brings different responses to the world they know –and by extension to this pool of reality glimpses. So the photos that seem remarkable to one person often differ to another’s responses. Rather than to discuss individual compositions or to speak of the totality of dimensions that go into the “frozen moment” when an exposure is recorded, consider light as it defines and gives character to the diverse scenes in these two groups of photos on Flickr today.
Daily selection at Flickr.com/explore viewed on March 14, 2024 -screenshot-2
Before picking apart the images seated side by side by reason of editorial choices and not by theme, location, maker, technique, or tools used, consider only the many ways that light is present in each frame. In some the light is the main point, but in others the light is less dominant than the drama of the moment or the lines that structure the scene or the bold color patterns. In all cases, though, light (and its absence) is what makes a photographic process possible. After all, the name is Photo+Graphos, ‘writing with light’. Other visual art is also named by its medium: charcoal, oil, acrylic, pen, graphite, and so on. By savoring the many kinds of light in the screenshot thumbnails a new appreciation arises for light itself as the medium for artfully expressing a composition.
There are ways to distill general observations about this light-based way to see the world, to record and share sights with fellow viewers, and thereby to interpret the subject in the first instance, but also by reflection to know something about one’s own self according to the reactions (or lack of response) to the pictures. Either by marking up the thumbnails in the screenshot into categories, or by printing and then taking scissors to cut them into pieces for sorting, there should be a few things to say about the nature of Writing With Light. The following snapshot is one way to group the clippings made from the thumbnails combined into a single collage.
Grouping the earlier screenshot images into color-first, light-first, and muted color/light
This exercise with scissors and table for sorting could have created sets of images based on any denominator alone or in combination: monochromes, rectilinear geometry or curves, night and low-light, human-interest, interior or exterior, and so on. But for the purpose of this look into the heart of “Writing With Light” (literally, Photo+Graphy), the first set is color dominant – no matter what other elements go into the composition. The next set is light as the subject; the actual shapes that the warm or cool light, abundant or scant light falls onto is less important than the presence and quality of light itself. Light is the real subject for this second group. Pleasure derives in thrilling one’s visual cortex, that large proportion of gray matter at the back of one’s skull.
In the much smaller third set, the images are much less dominant about color elements or light for its own sake. Instead the color and/or the light is muted and plays a supporting rather than starring role in the resulting photograph. What becomes evident by sorting the sample of pictures from today’s Flickr.com/explore webpage is the large proportion of pictures featuring light for its own sake, and color for its own pleasure. A small sample size like this collection is not enough to make a general statement about the nature of photography and its foundational pleasure using light as the means to record color patterns and relationships, and also light as the subject all by itself, never mind what it shines on. But at least this small exercise makes it easy to appreciate the beauty of light, not just to write with, but to admire even without the aid of a lens and medium for recording and distributing to others.
Leaping from the world of optics and composition to the land of thinking and comprehension, the foregoing hymn of admiration for Writing With Light is analogous to the wonders and pleasures of imagining, reflecting, and reconsidering the mental activity in a good argument or keen curiosity unfettered and free to roam. In other words, just as photographers can derive happy moments in the light that is instrumental to recording a subject, so too can philosophers derive happy moments in the thinking experience that is instrumental to articulating a subject.
Looking up from the living room chair, the framed picture by chance reflected the reading light’s bright lampshade and nearby reference globe. Since lens, wall art, and the room lamp formed a perfect alignment, the effect is to put the lamp and globe into the golden picture frame. A different relationship of the three parts would give different results. The ghostly image might be out of the frame in part or altogether. So this happy coincidence of composition leads to the observation that borrowed frames, reflected subjects not actually located in front of the lens, and carefully juxtaposed compositions can produce a kind of serendipity; lending a feeling of amplified significance and turning an ordinary view into something more than that, possibly looking extraordinary for a moment.
By analogy to the experience of thinking and seeing the world or solving problems that come to one’s notice, perhaps there is a similar process of amplifying ordinary situations into something out of the ordinary. It could be one or more of these same properties – planned or serendipitous: fortunate alignment of elements to suggest a meaningful relationship (e.g. ‘halo effect‘ when juxtaposing A with B), or the increased attention that comes from a frame placed around the subject to detach it from the surrounding context, or it could be the effect of reflecting the matter from the nominal subject being discussed or wrestled with. In each case, alone or in combination, as in the illustration above, the result can be unexpectedly pleasing.
see2think 