Seeing Slow Photos

afternoon pictures on mild February day at brew pub to emphasize color accent and geometry

One reaction to fast food, instant convenience, and impatience all around is to do the opposite; to praise slow food and things that cannot be rushed. Among the user-groups at the Flickr.com photosharing website is one for Slow Photography. Among hobbyists and professionals who use large-format view cameras, such as Stephen Shore, and NYC documentary photographer of the 1930s, Berenice Abbott, or her inspiration before that, Eugene Atget, the equipment’s size and weight imposes a slower pace of responding to something that catches the photographer’s eye. Instead of point and shoot, the rhythm is more like fetch the cases, erect the tripod, compose the shot and calculate the exposure, wait for the right moment and then make the exposure.

After browsing a retrospective of Shore’s pictures (Selected Works 1973-1981) from the 1970s around the USA – ordinary places and subjects but recorded with great intensity and precision, both in sense of color (accent) and in the overarching geometry, I stepped out of the library into the bright winter light of an unseasonably mild day to see the scenes nearby with equal intensity and deliberateness, snapping a handful of images with a pocket camera (iPod Touch) and selecting two as illustration above. What is it about tempo or velocity of noticing, of recording, and indeed moving through the world that affects the visual experience?

In simplest terms, the vehicle determines what one does or does not see. At 30,000 feet of long-distance altitude and at jet speed only the largest features on the ground stand out. But traveling by motorscooter or on foot (or as newborn crawling) then the world looks altogether different: even small things draw attention – texture, smell, sound, and juxtapositions that can be comical, preposterous, or unexpected. It is not necessarily the hardware for recording photos that leads to intense vision and composition. Once one learns the lessons of slow photography, then it should be possible to convey something like the large-format photography experience on any recording device, digital or film-based. And perhaps all large-format photographers need not always shoot with slow pace, either. After all, before the rise of cassettes of 35mm film, the photojournalists carried 4″x5″ cameras to record news subjects: sports, disasters, and other situations where quick decisions and rapid compositions and exposure calculations were needed. But generally speaking, someone working in a slow technology will therefore see things with greater care and precision no matter if the result is abstract art or it is documentary illustration like the WPA team of photographers, including Walker Evans.

The visual experience of making the photo and also viewing the photo seems to add another dimension to a similar photo taken with less deliberateness. Besides the ordinary dimensions of length, height, and volume (depth), the pictures that make the geometry palpable and the bit of color stand out feel somehow electrified or holographic, practically leaping off the page (or the screen). Even though the collage of two exposures at the top of this article is not as precise or as carefully framed as the ones in the Stephen Shore book, for the purpose of illustration, there is something akin to the 8″x10″ compositions by his hand and eye.

The upshot of this brief excursion into the speed of recording pictures is that clunkier gear by its nature, its form factor, can lead to a habit of seeing (and thinking) that is more intense and made with more consideration than photos snapped off without too much reflection. The same relationship between tempo and resulting ideas may be present outside the world of photographic representation, too. Slow chefs and slow diners may savor their food more; slow readers may indulge in the texture of the syllables more; and slow walkers may notice more of the world around them than speedy commuters. Certainly, speed matters – not just to arriving quickly, but also with regard to the experience along the way.

World without cameras, world less aware

Daily selection by editors at Flickr.com/explore for February 19, 2024

Seeing so many pictures gathered from all levels of photographic skill, location, and subject matter is astonishing in the daily set of picks online at Flickr “Explore.” This screenshot is only the top of a long series of screens to scroll and gives a sampling of what attracts the eyes of people carrying cameras who point and shoot impromptu when a scene presents itself, as well as those purposefully searching for (or creating) a composition. No matter the motivation and circumstances around the making of a given photo that the person chooses to upload for public viewing, what is universally true is that none of the seeing, recording, and communicating would be possible without first having a device to focus and capture light; i.e. camera lens and recording medium.

In order to appreciate the consequences of ubiquitous cameras (and online sharing platforms), perhaps the best way to visualize the effect is to suppose there are no cameras. While early forms of photography began in the middle 1800s (sitting for a tintype recording), it was only with the Kodak Brownie box camera that non-experts could begin to record significant things in their world of people, places, and events. Even in the 1890s, though, the number of households with a Brownie was miniscule. Large numbers of people only began taking pictures in the post-WWII generations as the Baby Boom presented an obvious subject to record at home – the growing up and family events of all those newborns. Cameras got better, cheaper, and more commonly carried. Enthusiasts multiplied. Professionals specialized in many kinds of subject and publication outlets. And then with cellphone cameras reaching similar quality to the cheap film cameras (and then exceeding them), since around 2005 or 2010 the proliferation of cellphones has made pictures of anything and everything possible; at first a novelty, then an expectation to see people snapping stills and video of things momentous or banal. And while having ready access to a camera – most often as part of a cellphone – does not mean the person considers herself or himself an adept visual observer and artist, by force of habit, people are ever more accustomed to taking photos in their own way and seeing their surroundings as “photo opportunities” – not as an afterthought, but in some cases as the main point; what makes the experience real, enjoyable, meaningful, and possible to show others, too.

What happens when more and more people are taking pictures for personal records or to document a subject or to give to others? Without having cameras that enabled cheap, easy, and convenient recording and circulating far and near, the only visual medium to represent 3-dimensional subjects in 2-dimensional form was visual art with brush, pen or pencil, for example. It could be a quick sketch or a detailed representation to scale. But most people lack such hand-eye coordination –the training and experience to see, and to record the lines and textures and colors and play of shadow and light. Instead, the average person would resort to word-images, “painting pictures with words” if they were verbally gifted. Others might buy a tourist postcard or print produced by the eye and hand of an artist to share with friends and family, or to cherish as personal reminder of a time and place.

Now with so many picture-takers, the likeness of a subject can be recorded with a tap or press of a button. Not everyone cares or finds rewarding the careful composition and reflecting on the art of making a picture. Instead it is enough to capture some vestige of a fleeting moment and then rely on storytelling skills to complete the meaning. And yet as more and more people do take pictures routinely and some of them begin to refine their efforts to get better results, such as the gems that Flickr editors showcase each day at flickr.com/explore, then one’s thinking that is paired with one’s seeing and one’s noticing the details of a place and moment also changes. In other words, the habit of going through one’s day and life with a camera in hand or at the back of one’s mind means that things like foreground, juxtaposition, shadow detail (penumbral light), mixed lighting temperatures, and so on begin to stand out more and more. Pre-camera, maybe the things in the thumbnail images, above, might merit a remark or pause to admire before pressing on in one’s day. But now when one’s attention is drawn, it seems natural to frame a composition by choosing a standpoint, and angle of view, and a chosen moment to release the shutter.

A world without cameras is still visually rich, but the integral relationship between seeing and thinking is less readily sharpened without the aid of a camera to produce detailed images for scrutiny, sharing, and reflection that leads to a virtuous cycle for improving one’s seeing and recording. In short, filling the world with cameras makes it easier to pay attention to the visual (and social) environment. One’s sensibilities for light, composition, timing, and so on are amplified so that even on days with no camera at hand, one’s visual experience of a place and time is much richer, filled as it is with possible images to compose. As one’s seeing is heightened, so, too, is one’s thinking developed.

Mixed light of predawn into sunrise makes the world alive

Car camera shows the mixed light of car lights shortly before the sun comes up ahead in the east.

With or without multiple sources of natural and artificial light mixing, the crepuscular light soon after sundown and in the 20 to 30 minutes before daybreak is a peculiar time. Just as interior designers and movie set lighting crews know the emotional effect of lighting on people’s perceptions, outdoors, too, the human eye and brain and heart are greatly touched by lighting conditions. What makes twilight at morning or night feel so strange is the in-between, limbo, sensations of being neither day nor night but somehow both at the same time.

Although this low-quality photo fails to give viewers the full emotional charge of the passing moment, it can be a useful memory aid in writing a few words here. Perhaps the exact proportion of night and day necessary to elicit the viewer’s emotional response will differ slightly for each person, but when that balance tickles the individual’s own sweet spot, then for maybe a minute or two there is a distinct sensation of well-being; of being at the right place at the right time to witness something out of the ordinary. What was unremarkable moments before suddenly comes to life with a vividness that was imperceptible before. And once the balance is lost to the rising daylight or the deepening night, then things return to the feeling of ordinary routine. But in that brief balancing point, everything seems supercharged, somehow more sharply defined, more present, more beautiful, and more filled with meaning than normal. Why this is so may be puzzling and worth wondering about elsewhere, but for the time being it is enough to acknowledge this rare minute or two when all the world within sight (or when all the world with in-sight) seems right, aligned, in its place, standing firm against entropy, defying decay or dread or detraction.

Turning from light, optics, and emotional response to the world of words, thought, and conversations, perhaps there comes a similar rare moment like night and day intersecting briefly in transition from one to the other. The analogy could be at the word level (when one lexical field overlaps its edges with another in some kind of Venn diagram) or at the larger idea level (when one line of reasoning shifts from contradiction to cognitive dissonance, holding competing ideas in mind at the same time). No matter the scale or the medium for thinking – music, science, poetry, craftwork or visual art, in rare intersections of people, context, intention, and opportunity there may be a fleeting balance point (or else “dynamic equilibrium“) when the one position bumps into the other position so that observers and participants witness a sense of “all the world within sight seems right, aligned, in its place,” and so on. In order to experience such transient joys, it helps to look out for them – knowing when conflicting positions or lines of intersecting tensions are in motion so that a moment of balance may arise, if only for the briefest time and perceptible to those with eyes to notice and ears to hear.

Bright light before spring is almost manic

Looking south at lunchtime on February 14 as winter is reduced by Global Warming & El Nino from late 2023. Still winter on the calendar, but mild enough soon to lure the first flower bulbs to venture out.

Even in cities the size of Grand Rapids, Michigan (city boundaries at 200,000; metro area of 1 million) there are fragments of habitat for plants and animals other than homo sapiens sapiens, such as this view at the edge of 3-Mile Road in the northeast quadrant of the city near the district post office. In the light around noon still a month before the spring equinox arrives on March 21, the stronger light and higher angle of the sun, compared to weeks before this, makes the moment seem ready to burst into song and dance in celebration of the diminished winter and the prospect of premature spring days instead. Although the photo quality may not faithfully convey the brightness scale and the intense pleasure of the warm light cutting across the still chilled air from the morning, these sensations make the otherwise uninteresting composition feel electrified, charged with meaning and sensation altogether different to dull light or the conditions closer to the time of winter solstice when days are short, the sun is low, and the amount of light is much less all together. Perhaps the backlit elephant grass in the distance sums up the glowing effect of this place at this captured moment.

Thinking of analogies in the realm of creative or analytical brain work, certainly the light quality bathing a subject does change its complexion and thus the impression gained by onlookers. When a subject of intellectual wrestling and wandering is surrounded by flattering, abundant, and boundless (free) light, then a person feels relaxed and unconstrained by time or circumstances to explore the matter at length. By contrast, stingy light that is weak or indifferent, puts the subject into a situation where a person is much less attracted or keen on discovering at length. So, the lesson of this manic (almost but not quite) spring light for matters of thinking is that the light in which the subject is portrayed will almost certainly affect perceptions, depth of engagement and appetite to know more. Light matters.

Smooth treetop branches reflect the February noon light brightly as if glazed in ice.

Frames that amplify attention

Magnet for eyes is the bright center surrounded by dark, and the doorway frame centered on distant boulder

On this bright Sunday morning in early February at the Japanese-style garden within Meijer Gardens and Sculpture Park the gate for the wall that surrounds the Zen-style raked dry stone garden presents a square frame for the one boulder that is visible from this standpoint. Imagining the composition cropped to the inside of the frame, thus making visible only the boulder and surrounding gravel, the power of the frame to amplify the viewer’s attention is much reduced. In the same way that a funnel directs the flowing liquid into a narrower passage, so does the frame separate the framed subject from the adjacent context, thus directing the attention of the viewer into a narrower space.

A framing device can come in various ways: a dark border to the central subject, a textured or colored border that separates subject from surrounding milieu, or geometry that stands outside the subject and cuts it off from nearby things. In each case, though, the viewer’s attention is streamlined and sharply focused on the main subject itself. Perhaps, by logic, the reverse visual experience obtains, too: by removing, downplaying, or muting the sense of separation, thus the viewer’s focus on the central subject will also blur and attention can more easily wander to adjacent parts of the scene. In effect, unframing the subject does the opposite to amplifying attention. A subject with framing elements absent now is able to communicate seamlessly with its context; no longer on a pedestal or spotlighted by powerful beam, now it rests on the ground, barely distinguishable from its surroundings.

Perhaps the same visual phenomenon also applies outside the world of optics and principles of composition. When a person, place, or thing is framed, boxed, packaged, or put onto a pedestal, then it stands out; literally, it is outstanding. And the opposite is just as true: taking the subject of conversation, the line of sight, or the artifact in question away from its frame or pedestal, then it loses some of its mystery, lustre, or elevated status. Somehow, it becomes much more ordinary and hardly remarkable from neighboring matters, whether intangible things like ideas and tastes or more physical things like landscapes, workspaces, or locations of recreation and play. Thus, a guest presenter who just stands up from the audience and begins to speak (lacking a framing device) is much less impressive that one who is introduced by someone notable or by a person whose own halo of status glows enough to bathe the featured presenter in reflected glory.