Photographically Speaking

FOR THE LAST FEW YEARS, I’ve been a little hung up on the role of intent or vision in the making of photographs. I’ve written thousands upon thousands of words about what vision is, why it matters, and how we identify it, tap into it to guide our process, and create images that have, at the heart of their creation, a thought or feeling around which they are built. Those people who have my previous books will be surprised not to see the word vision in the title or subtitle of this one. For
some, that’s a welcome relief, for others a cause for concern. For those for whom that causes concern: this is not a departure from my teaching about vision-driven photography; it’s a progression. Don’t panic; I’m still drinking the KoolAid. For those of you who bought the book because I finally gave up on the whole “vision thing,” you’re going to be disappointed, because not only am I still drinking the KoolAid, I’m still serving it.
Ultimately, this book is about what makes a good photograph—if we can agree on a common definition—and we’ll discuss that at greater length in the coming chapter. But that’s the extent to which we’ll talk in those terms. For the most part, we’ll look at what photographs say, and how they say those things.
Whether it is good, or even art, is for the critics to discuss; that’s a discussion I’m not sure I have much interest in, given how vague, subjective, and ever-changing the criteria are. Instead, we’ll talk more in terms of successful images. This book assumes that a significant part of what makes a photograph successful is the communication of some key thought or feeling, whether that’s
something deep and ponderous and meaning-of-lifeish, or a simple statement about the laughter of a child (which I would argue is still pretty close to being meaning-of-lifeish).
The notions of communication and expression are key to this book. If in the past I’ve overused the word vision, this book might, I think, run the risk of overusing the word expression. As important as our intent for a photograph is, it remains only inside, unrealized, until it is externalized. Poets, songwriters, painters, dancers, jazz pianists, comics, and countless others all have their own ways
of getting the inner stuff out. We have the photograph. Not the camera. The photograph. The camera is merely the tool. The photograph is the very expression of that inner thing bursting to get out. How we make that photograph with the tools at our disposal, and how close it comes to expressing what we hope, determines how successful that image is. To do that well, we turn to the language
spoken by the photograph.
It’s like this with all art. The cellist uses the cello, but it’s only her tool. Her language is music, with which she expresses herself, through the skilled use of the instrument. The mournful adagio echoes in our soul and brings us to tears because she knows the language of music so well that she can wield it with the nuance and subtlety needed to strike our deepest parts. She knows what she wants to say (vision/intent) and the music lets her do that right up to the limits of her own ability to wield her tool. The poet uses language in the same way; the broader his vocabulary, the greater command he has over grammar, and the more creative he is in arranging one word with another to create new meanings and implications, the more clearly he can express himself.


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