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In a few places throughout the Scottish Isles there are large, round, stone towers known as brochs that date back to the iron-age (began around 800 BC). Built without mortar, they are double-walled with a narrow staircase between the walls allowing access to the top. This one at Dun Carloway is best-preserved broch in the Outer Hebrides. The purpose of brochs is uncertain. Possibilities include defense structures and places of refuge, castles of distinction and symbols of power, stately homes and objects of prestige. When I visited this one last summer with Adventure Canada, there was a soft, salty breeze drifting in off the water carrying the calls of gulls and nearby sheep.
It was deeply humbling to spend a few minutes with this apex carnivore of the south polar oceans. I had a zodiac full of Adventure Canada guests as we cruised around the ice flows with their submerged parts making the water appear "swimming-pool-blue". Out of nowhere flowed this huge seal (10 ft long or so and weighing about half a ton) that circled and dove and circled again. Its demeanor suggested curiosity more than anything else. This guy's massive jaws are capable of swallowing a whole penguin so, if it chose to, it could have made quite the rent in our rubber boat. We watched, enchanted for a few minutes, but I decided not to test his mood and motored away sooner rather than later. It is such a great privilege to have a close-up encounter with an animal like this, which lives so comfortably in an environment that would cause us to perish in minutes.
When high winds prevented us (Adventure Canada, Scotland Slowly Expedition, 2019) from reaching our planned landing at Loch Coruisk, we went to "Plan B" and found shelter at the adjacent Camasunary Bay where we had never landed before. The stream-fed glen was beneath the magnificent Black Cuillin Mountains where the highest peak reaches almost 1000 m. In many remote, mountainous areas of Scotland, you will find bothies like this one, small basic structures intended for the free use of hikers.
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This high-speed raptor is the apex, aerial predator of the arctic. Ptarmigan and waterfowl are its main food, but it also hunts small mammals like hares, voles and lemmings, and has even been known to take fish. When I managed Salmonier Nature Park, Newfoundland/Labrador's wildlife rehab centre, two gyrfalcons were confiscated from a European fishing trawler in the late 1970s and delivered to our care. Most likely they had been captured on the Labrador coast and were bound for the Middle East falconry market where they each could have fetched tens of thousands of dollars.
This is the mafia don of the gull world. It is an aggressive predator willing to tackle even larger birds like the northern gannet. I have seen a small group of them dive-bomb a gannet sitting on the water and eventually drown it. When they are nesting on the open pasture and moorlands in the Scottish isles, only the fool-hardy pass close by because a gash to the head is likely as they swoop down at speed. Biologists that study them wear helmets. As well as killing other birds and small mammals, they are very adept pirates. They harass other large seabirds as they return to their nest sites with food causing them to disgorge the hard-earned meal. But when seen against the sky with soft light filtering through its wings, it can be a very fine sight indeed.
This is what it looks like to be dive-bombed by this fellow. These are big, heavy birds capable of doing real damage. I had inadvertently wandered where I was not welcome, but I can guarantee I did not linger.
A tree cookie
Smaller than my wrist
Sawn from a tuckamore
Twisted and bent
Had 300 rings
Each one a narrow year
Slowly added
Harsh places
Make the strongest trees
...and people
A little poem by me.
Just as we like good rhythm in music, we also like it in the visual arts. Chaos is generally unappealing, so patterns that bring order to a scene are engaging. Rhythm is the repetition of line, shape or colour. It is soothing and implies connectedness by creating structure and movement in an image, either bold or subtle. When it is repeated enough, the rhythm becomes a pattern. Sometimes I give myself a conceptual challenge, such as going out and finding subjects that show rhythm, so that I am considering ideas, rather than things. It can cause me to see differently and more creatively.
The little airport terminal was still dark and empty but the doors were eerily open. I looked around for a light switch. Finding it behind one of the airline counters, I switched it on. "You can't do that at JFK," said one of my co-travellers, a journalist from London. We smiled together at how the north was so different in so many ways from our more southern lives.
After more than ten hours of flying, the September green of Ottawa became evident as we descended through the thin cloud. Lush treetops, farmers fields at season's end, networks of busy roads. Normal felt topsy-turvy. These were the conditions in which we lived our day-to-day lives, but they felt strange. We had just spent 11 days in the arctic that was packed with so much adventure that you couldn't possibly imagine cramming it into such a short time. But the wide-open landscapes, the simple austere beauty, the richness of small when you looked down and paid attention to the ground cover, the eye-watering clip of a glacial wind, the unlit dark of night - all this had come to feel normal, in contrast to the movement, the green, the warmth, the neon of the south. Two worlds.
As a traveler, this is one of the things I love about the arctic. It takes you out of yourself and your day-to-day life. You greet each day with new wonder. You suspend your expectations and accept that the coming day will be different from any other of your past. But how, you don't know. You feel close to the elements. You feel humble in a huge land that lacks all sense of scale. A cliff face that at first looks to be 300 feet high looms higher and higher as you inch toward it becoming 3000 feet when you reach its base. Without trees, or people, or cars, or dwellings, you find it impossible to judge height and distance. You are a mere speck in this immense and indifferent land. You matter not in the flow of time and the vastness of this great, silent and beautiful space. But somehow this is good - simple humility in the face of something so grand.
We had travelled from Kuujjuack in Ungava Bay, along the east side of Baffin Island, across Lancaster Sound to the bleakly beautiful and uninhabited Devon Island, touched onshore at Beechey Island where Franklin's lost men lay "frozen in time", and ended at Resolute. I little over a hundred of us were aboard the expedition ship that brings travellers to the Arctic waters from June to September or so, and to Antarctic waters from November to April.
I was working again with Adventure Canada as the photographer/naturalist on board. It's a job I love. I've been doing it since 2002 - three or four trips per year. I've covered a lot of ground and water in this role and the joy of it doesn't seem to fade. I get a chance to practice my craft of making photographs and helping others do the same in some of the earth's most dramatic landscapes. I work with a team of others who, at the top of their game, bring their own expertise in archaeology, marine biology, local culture, geology, music, literature and the visual arts. It's a wonderful mix of personalities all of whom share a passion for the north.
For photographers, these trips afford priceless opportunities. The light is always good in the arctic because its acute angle to the earth casts nice long shadows. As well, it starts early and ends late. The air is crisp and clean. The landscape is stark, empty, and immense. Almost every day there is a heart-stopping sight. Icebergs are common and the glaciers that spawn them wind down through the mountain valleys from the icecap further inland. Northern fulmars, our constant companions at sea, float on the wind currents. On land, you end up staring at the tiny details like the ground-hugging plants or the lichen-covered granite.
So when you arrive home again, it takes a few days to find the new normal as you walk around feeling as though something important has changed, but you can't put your finger on it. After a while, you realize that what has changed is you. The arctic does that.
"What do I need to do to take my photography to the next level?"
"What are five things I can do right now to make great images?"
"How do I make photographs that are full of impact?"
"My photos don't live up to my expectations. What should I do?"
I hear these kinds of questions all the time from people who want instant recipes, like a delicious meal you can just pop into the microwave for 2 minutes. The web is full of these lists that pose as the solutions to your photographic challenges. There can be good ideas among them. I read some of them too. But, the truth is, there is no magic bullet that will make a startling difference in your images. There are, however, hundreds of things you can do incrementally that will add up to significant and lasting improvement. They all require that you apply yourself, suffer through mistakes, give it time, study hard and practice a lot. In other words: work! Great photos and great photographers don't just happen. They evolve. They come from years of learning new skills and then applying them. Anyone can be lucky and make the occasional great shot. But doing it consistently is a whole other thing. So don't expect a magic bullet. I think talent is greatly over-rated and work is seriously under-rated. If you admire my work I am most thankful, but bear in mind that I have been working at it seriously for over 50 years.
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Settlers to Newfoundland/Labrador from Ireland, England and Scotland generally built wooden structures called flakes and stages for processing and drying codfish into salt cod that fed the appetites of Europe, the US, and the Caribbean. The flake is similar to a wharf but mainly provides a platform for drying fish. The stage is a shed, usually at the seaward end of the flake, where the fish is off-loaded cleaned and split. Other buildings in the network of fishery structures include a building for storing gear (usually called the twine loft) and another for salting the fish before its carried onto the flake to sun-dry.
The French settlers dried the fish on large "squares" of bare rocks. These were usually right next to the homestead as shown here on Ile aux Marins, St. Pierre and Miquelon. This was how it was done in Newfoundland too all along what was called the French Shore.
Although I've not seen much evidence of this around Newfoundland island, likely because they are grown over with grasses and bushes, the rocky plots are very evident on Old Ferrolle Island near Plum Point.
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Yellow-eyed Penguin (Megadyptes antipodes), Otago Peninsula, South Island, NewZealand
Endemic to New Zealand, the hoiho or yellow-eyed penguin is the rarest penguin on earth. Like so many other wild species that are dependent on the sea, these guys are suffering a significant population decline as well. Commercial net fisheries on top of disease, habitat loss and introduced predators are the main factors causing their decline. It is the most "at risk" penguin in the world with about 3400 or so remaining as of 2017.
A geologist, ecologist and photographer walk into a bar... On the wall they see this photo of a magnificent cliff face on Disko Island, Greenland. The geologist looks at it and speaks of its age and stratification and explains the pink blush in terms of mineral content and more. The ecologist's eye is drawn to the large orange patch on the lower left and knows that this is a result of xanthoria or sunburst lichen that likes to grow on calcium-rich sites. The calcium is almost certainly from bird poop, so the bright orange tells her that this is a bird colony, probably kittiwakes, even though there were no birds to be seen. The photographer is drawn to the layers of texture and colour and the small human figures that contrast with the vastness of the wild landscape and concludes it is all about humility. We each have our own way of looking at the world and interpreting what we see.
It was 1972 when I first found this gully in the centre of Salmonier Nature Park. I had been hired as the first manager of the place and had been handed over this completely wild and wonderful representation of the central Avalon landscape to work with. I was using map and compass (no GPS then) to find my way through dense woods, wetlands, brooks and ponds to establish a trail system and animal enclosures for the rehabilitation of orphaned and injured wildlife and for educating folks about the natural systems of Newfoundland/Labrador. My overriding concern was to preserve the natural system that was there while allowing visitors to have an intimate experience with it. The stakes were high because I knew it would be easy to do a bad job, and hard to do a good one. When I reached this spot I felt reverence for the place and wondered, as took it in, "How can thousands of people per year experience this without harming it?" Well, this photo was taken 43 years later after hundreds of thousands have walked these trails and I still feel the reverence. That's satisfying.]]>
"The Torngats speak to me. Their scale is overwhelming. Jagged peaks nearly a mile high surge up from royal fjords that bring the cold rich Labrador sea deep inland. Even in July, snow and ice cling to the deeply shadowed northern faces. It is a spiritual place. A person has no choice but to feel small here. The transience of human life is palpable. If the mountains could talk, I’m sure they would tell us that we humans really don’t matter very much, that they will still be here in cold silence long after we have gone. But while we are here together, mountains and people, we would do well to understand from them that they are the essence of wildness, a tonic for those lucky enough to be in their midst."
Extract from my book, "Labrador, The Big Land"
I also work as a photographer and naturalist on small ship expeditions in the Arctic. I've been doing this every year since 2002. On most of these trips we encounter polar bears. Most times they are on the ice floes in very remote locations. I've even seen them swimming in the open sea more than 50 km from any coast or ice pack.
The bear in this photo was just waking up on a crisp morning in November. It went through quite a few contortions before finally standing and ambling away. You can tell he is totally unfazed by our presence.
Note the sweet morning light that creates a lovely halo in the furry fringe outlining the contours of bear. That, combined with the antics of the bear itself, make for an unforgetable moment in Arctic life.
I'm very worried about the future of these amazing animals. Global warming is already having an impact on them. It's likely that ours is the last generation to be graced by their presence. I hope I'm wrong about this, but fear that I'm right.
I'll write more about these masters of the north in future blogs.
Perhaps a photographer's most important ability is to take notice, to pay attention. Simple, but profoundly important. No camera or lens provides this. Looking is what we do passively all day long to negotiate our way through our lives. Some things we notice, and we may linger a moment in that noticing, but most things we don't notice. The cinema of scenes in our lives, and the things that make them, barely enter our consciousness.
Active, mindful seeing takes you deeper. It is thoughtful and reflective. It is a state of energized stillness. You take much greater notice of how light gives shape and colour to things, how shapes relate to each other and create areas of contrast or the lack of it. With living things you notice what they are doing and anticipate what they are going to do. You look at the signals of gesture, body posture, expression. You are patient. You take in the environmental context and interpret how it either contributes or distracts.
In short, you pay attention. Do you do it all the time? No. That would be too exhausting. But when you are shooting, you shift into gear and step of the gas. You get in "the zone".
"The zone" is where most other thought processes are pushed away and you are fully engaged in shooting. You are mindful of the pulse of life, both internally and externally. It is a kind of meditative state. Worries disappear. You release tension. You slow down. Time seems to vanish. You are open, accepting and non-judgemental. You are fully awake, in a state of high alert. Your radar is on. Everything is a potential subject.
The zone is joyful place. To me, it embraces attitudes such as acceptance, patience, gratitude, humility, compassion and curiosity.
Active, mindful and creative seeing can be blocked or hampered many things. Stress and deadlines are at the top of the list. Mindful seeing is also hampered by the mundane cascade of thoughts and dialogues we have with ourselves that can cut us off from openly experiencing the external world. These mental barriers are caused by many things such as our concerns about our relationships ("did I say the wrong thing"), or by the need to get the car fixed, or what to make for dinner, or the unending flow of disturbing news on the media, and so on. This background noise can prevent you from getting in the zone. Instead of seeing the beauty of the raindrops we think more about the downside. “I don't want to go out in this. I hope it clears up for the weekend.” Being mindful and fully present is the opposite of this. Perhaps it is not possible to stop the chatter in your head (especially for some of us) but you can make it quieter as you engage in mindful seeing and enter the zone.
So next time you are out and about with your camera, I invite you to shift from passive looking to active, mindful seeing. When you do, your experience deepens and the images you create will inspire.
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A group of fellow photographers were challenged to pick one photo that illustrated what they believed to be their style. It got me thinking about the topic.
Cl​early all visual artists, musicians and writers can develop an identifiable personal style over time with practice and dedication. It's rare or never that we start out with one. As it develops others might recognize it before we are aware of it ourselves. Sometimes it finds the artist rather than vice versa.
Style is an expression of our vision, our personal way of seeing. Usually this is based on a deep and enduring interest, dare I say passion, for something. For me it is the natural world, which I studied and then became a wildlife biologist before pursuing photography as a profession. Style is shaped by our history and culture, our up-bringing, our sense of place, our family and friends and so much more. Developing a style requires that you make something tangible based on your vision. There is no style if it’s only in your head. It comes from the photographer not the subject matter. Style is not simply the "look" of a few images. It becomes apparent across a body of work.
The keyword here is "work". It takes investment and struggle and perseverance and practice pushed along by a strong work ethic. There is no free lunch here. I like Malcolm Galdwell's idea (at least that's who I discovered it from) that it takes roughly 10,000 hours to develop a serious level of expertise in anything. Eventually, given the work and creativity, an artist's style develops, expands, matures and becomes unique. There are no short-cuts.
I'll end this little piece with a quotation from Alain Briot, "Achieving a personal style does not mean creating photographs that are outlandish, that rely on theatrics to be created, or that solely depend on bizarre content to be interesting. Style is relying on solid values and concepts. Style is creating a firm foundation from which you will create your work."
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While shooting in the Galapagos Islands a few years ago, a friend said to me, "Dennis, you shoot from the heart." We had been travelling together for several days by then and this was the beginning of one of many conversations we had about photography. Although I had not thought much about that idea until then, I was touched by his observation and I have thought more about it since. "Shooting from the heart", what does it really mean?
He did not mean that I was oblivious to the technical side of photography, but rather that I was not a slave to it. He also meant that I was deeply engaged in truly seeing what was going on around me. I know this because we talked about it. He, on the other hand, admitted that he did feel a bit enslaved by the technical aspects of shooting. Don't get me wrong, the know-how is absolutely necessary, but a photograph that only has technical merit is almost always flat and uninteresting, at least to me. I strive for something deeper, more meaningful - something to spark an emotional reaction, first in myself, then later, in others. In striving, I occasionally succeed and when that happens it is most joyful and satisfying.
Like writing, photography is usually an isolated pursuit. Although it can be a social time for some, it rarely is for me, unless I am teaching. My best work emerges when I am alone. Part of the reason for this is that I need to be in touch with myself, while also being open to the moment. I turn inward and outward at the same time. When this happens well, and it doesn't always, the imagination meets the environment and creativity is the product.
I think the idea means that the best images should evoke feelings and express something about the photographer. As Freeman Patterson says, "the camera points both ways." It means that in addition to the subject, a strong image should capture mood and atmosphere, action and gesture, compelling light and colour. It should also show what the photographer cares about. All these things need to come together in a composition that communicates quickly and clearly. Strong photographs should reveal something about the places where we live and travel. They should shed light on them as well as on the photographer who made the images.
So how do you do this?
Well, first you must be comfortable. If you are cold and wet, strong images are unlikely to happen.
You need to know your gear - what combination of lens and settings will do the best job. But you cannot be so preoccupied with these choices that you let the camera rule you instead of the reverse. You need to familiarize yourself with the essential controls much like driving a car. If you are thinking too much about the car's controls, you will not be paying enough attention to the road ahead of you. You gain familiarity with your gear by shooting, studying your results, and shooting some more. In other words, you practice. Then practice more. If significant time has lapsed since you last shot, you will feel rusty when you resume. Time to practice some more. It never stops.
You need to be free of fear and anxiety. You cannot be worried about looking foolish, being judged by others or about failing to meet your own expectations. Fear paralyses.
Pay attention. If you are thinking about personal worries, relationships, what you have to do tomorrow or last night's movie, you are not "in the moment". You are not engaged by the place and what you are doing. Better to immerse yourself in the process and let everything else fall away.
Follow your instincts and emotions. If something catches your eye, stop and process what it is and why it caught your attention. Chances are there is a photograph there. As I have written before, we are capable of discerning a great deal of visual information in a very short time - as Malcolm Gladwell says, "in the blink of an eye". Learn to trust that and use it to make stronger images. The subconscious is a powerful tool.
Play. Don't make the process arduous. Be a child. Let yourself go. Open yourself to discovery. Once you make a discovery, then photograph it. Make mistakes, laugh at them, learn from them and make some more. If you are not making mistakes, you are doing nothing new. You are working only within your comfort zone and not pushing yourself.
Put the experience first and the results (strong images) second. In other words, enjoy where you are and what you are doing and the images will arise more easily than if you are fretting about "getting the shot".
Shoot close to home. We sometimes think we have to go to exotic places to make good photos - the lure of the exotic. But if you are from Kenya, then Canada is exotic. Good photographs can be made anywhere. So try to look upon your home area with fresh eyes, as though you are a tourist. Exercise your sense of wonder about what you see in your everyday life. You have an advantage over the tourist because you can go back to a scene as often as you like. As an assignment, try to make one meaningful photo in your home area every week for a year. Or, once a month walk around your home area and make 10 new images. Younes Bounhar said, "new subjects can definitely breathe some creativity and freshness into your work, [but] a deep knowledge of your subject can put your images over the top."
Learn as much as you reasonably can about your subject. There is a reason that some of the best wildlife photography is done by those who have spent time, often years, studying the animals. Learning about your subject informs you on what to shoot, how to shoot and when to shoot. You have a better idea what stories to tell through your images, what nuance or behaviour is critical, what light provides the best mood. Also the more you know, the more you will care. That care you feel within yourself as you are engaged with your subject will also be evident in your images. This is the "heart part".
These are just some of the notions that come to mind when I contemplate the idea of "shooting from the heart". As the great wildlife photographer Moose Peterson said when quoting a wise man: "A good photographer makes an image by holding the camera to his eye, but the great photographer makes an image by holding the camera to his heart!”
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It’s beautiful, glowing stuff. The light bends around its edges and in places appears to be coming from within. On the underside it is a gorgeous aquamarine. Many people curse it because it makes a long winter feel even longer. But if you choose your moment when the light is soft, or low in the sky, it is nature at its most radiant.
This is sea ice (also known as pack ice or drift ice) that forms in arctic waters and drifts south on the cold Labrador current each spring. It envelopes the coast of Labrador and the northeast coast of Newfoundland extending as much as 200 miles offshore. It is frozen sea water in contrast to icebergs which are frozen freshwater from the land. Newly formed sea ice is indeed salty but over time the salt leaches out and what remains is fresh enough to put in a rum and coke, my preferred winter libation.
Although many people have the impression that salt water doesn’t freeze, clearly it does but at a lower temperature than freshwater - about -2C or 29F. So sea ice develops in the winter months and melts in the summer months. Some of it in the high arctic may not completely melt before the onset of winter again. This is known as multi-year ice and it can grow to considerable thickness.
Sea ice is most prevalent in areas with cold ocean currents. Therefore, the east side of the Atlantic, which is influenced by the warm Gulf Stream, has almost no sea ice at latitudes that are much further north than those on the west side where sea ice is an annual event. Therefore shipping along the coast of Norway remains open throughout the winter whereas that along the coast of Labrador and the eastern Canadian arctic must shut down.
Ecologically sea ice is very important because it is the hunting platform for polar bears and the whelping surface for millions of harp seals. It also has a tremendous influence on the world’s climate. Because it has a bright, light surface, it reflects most solar radiation back into space thus keeping northern latitudes cold. Global warming trends are significantly reducing arctic ice cover exposing areas of darker water that absorb solar radiation. Hence the warming escalates. This is one of the reasons why the polar regions are the most sensitive to the global warming phenomenon.
For me as a photographer sea ice is a delight. I look forward to this time of year when the ice pushes into our inshore waters near my home. I like to walk slowly around its edges frequently changing my angle of view to see the effect of light. Exposure can be tricky since the mostly white surfaces will cause light meters, which want to render tones to a medium gray, to under-expose. If I’m trying to get a single image with an acceptable exposure, I’ll over-expose between 0.5 and 1.0 stops. But when I’m looking for good exposures in both dark and light areas (the background and water areas as well as the ice) I will bracket and then blend images together in a treatment called high dynamic range (HDR) processing. Sea ice and HDR make a very good marriage of subject and technique. Another great marriage is sea ice and rum...but I already said that.
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| Chinstrap Penguin Colony, Deception Island, Antarctica |
We see a world with depth because our two, forward-looking eyes each perceive a slightly different picture. Our brains merge them together to form a three-dimensional interpretation. It is the amount of overlapping information that each eye perceives that is the secret to our depth perception. It would not work nearly as well if our eyes were placed more on the sides of our head, say, like a horse, which has traded strong depth perception for a much broader, wide-angle view. However, an animal with forward-looking eyes, like an owl, has excellent depth perception.
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| The strong foreground serves as a stepping stone into the image. |
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| Our dog, Thule, imparts a sense of scale to frame. |
Objects look smaller the further they are away, right? But our minds know that they are not actually smaller. So when we place an object of known size in a scene, say a car or a human figure, it immediately helps the camera to simulate depth. We know roughly how large a human figure is, so if it is tiny in the frame, we know it is far away, large and it’s near. Wide-angle lenses exaggerate depth since foreground objects appear so much bigger than background objects. Telephoto lenses, like binoculars, tend to bring the background forward and appear to compress an image from front to back. They reduce the sense of depth in a scene. A strong telephoto lens can make the background appear as though it looms over the foreground almost eliminating depth altogether.
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| The use of a 400 mm telephoto lens causes the distant mountain to be "pulled forward" reducing the sense of depth. |
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| The grasses and the planks in the boardwalk serve as repeating shapes that grow smaller as they recede. |
Think of the dashed lines on a highway. Those near you look much longer than those in the distance. Also those in the distance tend to run together while those near you are clearly separated one from the next. There is an illusion that the distance between distant objects appears smaller the further they are away. Apply this idea to photography by using patterns of similar objects, (planks on a wharf, pebbles on a beach) so that the elements of the pattern appear smaller as it recedes into the distance. Our minds interpret this as depth. Once again, a wide angle lens can exaggerate the effect and a telephoto will reduce it.
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| A strong sense of depth is created by the converging lines. |
Photograph a path or a road from the side and it will appear as a horizontal or diagonal line. Do the same from a position in the middle of the path or road and the sides converge imparting a stronger sense of depth that leads you forward into the image. The optical principle here is that parallel lines appear to converge in the distance to a point where they seem to merge: the vanishing point. You can use this principle to impart a sense of depth. Your lens choice matters once again since wide-angle lenses exaggerate convergence. If you include the vanishing point you get a stronger sense of depth; eliminating the vanishing point gives you a weaker sense of depth. So next time you are in a large building, look for converging lines to create a sense of depth. It matters where you stand.
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| The overlapping shapes as well as the atmospheric perspective imply depth. |
We know that near objects are in front of far objects. Therefore overlapping shapes imply depth. So when you are setting yourself up for a shot and want to create a stronger sense of depth, move around looking for overlapping shapes.
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| The depth here is created by the warmer more saturated foreground and the bluer less saturated background. |
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| The boats serve as objects of known size as well as repeated patterns decreasing in size as they recede. The distant human figure adds another indication of scale. |
Winter Opportunities and Challenges
Tips
Considering these characteristics and challenges of winter shooting, here are some ideas that might help deal with them:
Look for lines including:
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relaxing s-curves like those made by a winding road or path, a brook, snow drift or snow-shoe tracks that you can make yourself;
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diagonal lines that impart energy and depth to a photo or divide the frame into triangles;
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merging parallel lines that create strong perspective.
Embrace negative space. Negative space is the area around your subject that is empty of eye-grabbing visual features. When the sky is overcast, the lack of colour and tonal contrast can make the earth and sky appear to merge. Use this to create an ethereal, abstract look that lacks perspective, perhaps with one subject - a tree, rock, or person in a sea of negative space.
If the sky is bland and without any tonal character, minimize it in the frame or eliminate it all together.
When the sky is beautiful or moody, let it dominate the frame.
Notice how a frosting of snow can bring out the features and striations of a rock face or any other rough surface.
Try to capture the lace-like quality of snow-covered branches.
Look for interesting contrast between snowless tree trunks and snow-laden branches.
When shooting a large landscape where you want both a sharp foreground and background, use a small aperture (e.g. F16, f22).
Move around a subject noticing the changing effects of light direction and the background changes.
Shoot at all hours of the day although the magic hours just before sunset and just after sunrise are still the best.
Look for singular trees in the landscape, especially those with stark, graphic forms and make compositions with them small and near the edge of the frame.
In a forest, use a wide-angle lens and point towards the light source to create radiating shadows from the trees.
Look for some interesting detail such as a single icicle hanging from a berry or a few flakes of fresh snow on a fallen leaf and isolate it (with an aperture or f 5.6 or so to create a shallow depth of field).
Look for backlighting opportunities with ice clinging to objects.
If snow dominates the frame, over-expose by one to two stops, especially in soft light, to make snow look whiter rather than muddy gray as your meter will want to render it. Bracket to be sure. Watch your histogram and don't clip the highlights. If there is only a small amount of snow in the frame shoot it as metered.
In hard light (bright sun), it might be better to shoot it as the meter suggests or even underexpose a bit. Hard light will emphasize texture and contrast. Also consider backlighting or sidelighting when the light is hard.
Use a low view point at sunrise and sunset to bring out the texture of snow.
With falling snow, turn off your in-camera flash. It will overexpose the flakes closest to the camera. Instead, use no flash or an off-camera flash over to one side or even pointed at an angle back towards the camera.
Also with falling snow, you might want to manually focus on whatever you want sharp, either the falling flakes or some other subject.
Find a position where falling snow stands out against a dark background.
Use fast shutter speed to freeze falling snow. Or, use a slow shutter speed to allow falling flakes to blur in soft streaks. This will emphasize the falling motion. Either fast or slow shutter speeds can be effective. Try both.
Use a telephoto lens to capture the feeling of falling snow. It will create an impression of more concentrated snow because of its tendency to reduce perspective.
In very cold weather, wear a large parka and keep your camera inside it to keep the batteries warm.
Do not blow on your camera to remove snow or other particles.
Carry spare batteries and keep them in a pocket close to your body until you need them.
When its especially cold and you want to walk around with your camera attached to a tripod (as I do), consider taping hand-warmers directly to the bottom of your camera. Also you can attach moleskin to the fixed parts of your camera that you will handle.
Put foam pipe insulation around the upper part of your tripod legs to reduce the heat loss from your hands.
Hold your breath when you are looking through your viewfinder to avoid condensation.
If your shutter freezes up, return to the warmth until its function is restored.
When you go into the warmth, prevent condensation by keeping your gear covered until it can warm up slowly.
Use a lens hood to create some protection around the lens especially when it is snowing.
Use well-fitting gloves that are not so thick that they prevent you from using your camera controls. Mitts with flaps the cover your fingers when you are not actually shooting are also beneficial.
Check the forecast but don't be ruled by it.
Loose the attitude that you would rather be indoors by the fire. Just get out there with a smile on your face.
One last very important point: do not disturb wild animals, especially in winter. It is a critical time for them when food is scarce and energy conservation is imperative.
Enjoy your winter shooting.
A couple of years ago I read Malcolm Gladwell's wonderful book "Blink". It makes the case that we should put greater faith in our instincts, especially our initial, intuitive responses to a person, object, or event. Even though these assessments might happen in a few milliseconds, they can be, and often are, better than those based on more protracted deliberation. According to Gladwell's research, this ability is based on the way the human brain has evolved to assess stimuli (largely visual) subconsciously and render trustworthy judgments very quickly. Of course, this is not always true, and Gladwell also talks about certain factors, like biases and prejudices, that can impede our subconscious ability. Nonetheless, he makes a very strong case for the power of quick, intuitive assessments that can happen in a "blink".
So what does this have to do with photography? Just this: your first visual impressions are important and reliable. The photographs you make based on them may not be your best shots in any given circumstance, but they might be. So, I say, "shoot first and ask questions later". Rather than thinking very much about why you like something, just dive in. We have all heard or said "I know what I like, but I don't necessarily know why". That's OK. To record your first impressions, you don't necessarily have to know why something attracts you, but you do have to recognize that it does. You have to feel it.
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| Brown Pelican and Surf, Espanola Island, Galapagos |
I believe our visual instincts can be very strong and quite trustworthy. When we analyse, especially with words (even if they are just in our heads), we can loose sight of our first impressions, what it is that attracted us in the first place. Seeing and feeling come first. Words can even impair our vision because they are part of our conscious minds, whereas visual recognition is much more closely associated with the subconscious.
In your reading about photography have you come across the idea of pre-visioning or imagining your shot in advance and then going after it? Sometimes it is treated as a prerequisite for good image-making. Certainly it is a valid method and one practiced by many excellent photographers, but rarely do I practice it, and I certainly don't see it as a "essential secret" to making strong images.
I think its closely connected to your ability to imagine visually. Some are very good at it, others less so. For example, my wife might suggest that we move the couch from here to there, or to paint the walls a particular shade of whatever. She can actually see the change in her mind's eye. She can make a disturbingly (to me) accurate guess at how it will work out. It's a gift, but one that is not as strong in me. I have to move the damn couch to its new location and then assess whether it works or not. She can do the whole thing in her head, which is a whole lot easier on the back.
So some photographers have this gift and others lack it, or have a weaker capacity for it. My point is that there are two kinds of photographers: one that pre-visions the image and then proceeds to create it, and the other (like me) that is more reactive to the world around us. In my (perhaps self-serving) opinion, one is not necessarily any better than the other.
While "pre-visioning" is totally valid, I think we need to guard against it over-ruling your spontaneous reactions to our ever-changing world. Also I think we can all work at "active seeing". Active seeing is letting your imagination and the environment interact freely; it is letting go of preconceptions and embracing discovery; it is seeing with all of your being and total engagement.
When I go out shooting, very rarely am I thinking about a particular subject. I'm mostly responding to, and interacting with, what I encounter, especially the light. Once I find something that merits shooting, I work with it to find the best composition, lighting and so on, but it is not as though I imagined it all beforehand. It is reactive photography.
This said, I am not diminishing the importance of preparation and anticipation, two key ingredients for any kind of successful image-making. Preparation involves having the right gear, being in the right place at the right time, having the batteries charged and much more. Anticipation involves pointing your camera in the right direction, framing the shot in readiness for some action, choosing the best exposure settings, foreseeing the behaviour or movement of an animal or person, being ready for the "decisive moment". These are requirements for all of us whether you are a skilled pre-visioning photographer or a more reactive one.
Also one way of shooting can be more important than the other depending on the situation. For example, when I'm on assignment, I will prepare a shot list to ensure that I comply with the needs of the client. I might then imagine how to shoot a particular subject - time of day, soft light, hard light, key elements of the composition and so on. But even then, I leave a lot to my spontaneous reaction to the location.
So this is not about good or bad, strong or weak. It is about recognizing your own capabilities and using them to create images that reflect your individual view of the world, your style, your passion, and not getting bent out of shape about your ability to envisage the perfect shot in your mind's eye beforehand.
By the way, my wife is a good photographer too.
Minty Nature Photography
The art of nature photography can be a daunting task. You are surrounded by a world of exciting visual material - animals, plants, objects, land, water, sky as well as their abstract components of colour, shape, line and texture. In addition there are the non-visual elements such as sounds, smells, wind, warmth, cold, damp, dry - all of which contribute to your total experience when you are immersed in nature. Then there is the internal environment of our beings, our feelings and thoughts from one moment to the next. When you place your eye to the viewfinder all this is rendered down into a strictly-bounded, two-dimensional frame in which you try to depict what you see and, more importantly, what you feel in that moment. For those who have truly tried to do this, you know it is not easy.
It's also inescapably subjective. It has been said that you are in every image you make. Each one is autobiographical. This is because the way you choose to frame an image, select its content and set its boundaries, is such a personal thing. During our tours and workshops I am often with other photographers, both professional and amateur, at the same place, in the same light, at the same time, each of us with high quality gear and perhaps similar skill. But when we share our images afterwards, it's surprising how different they are. Each eye chose a different way to frame the scene or subject.
It takes discipline and work to select the essence of an image and eliminate the distractions. You can do this as you shoot the original image of course, but you have a second crack at it when you are editing. Then you can crop away the parts of the image that do not contribute to your vision. Sometimes when you are shooting it's simply impossible to position the camera to get rid that unwanted branch on the top left or the highlight near the bottom edge. Or perhaps you discover a different version of the image, an image within an image, later when you are examining it on you computer or light-table. That's where cropping and editing come in. These processes allow you to ask the question, "What is the very best way of rendering this image?" You want it to be both true to the subject and true to your emotional response to it. You hope it will stimulate the viewer to appreciate your view and have a sense of your feeling about it.
So go ahead and capture your first impressions of a scene. Sometimes these end up being the best images. But don't give up there. Keep working it. Move around. Seek out different angles and notice how the light changes with each camera position. Change lenses and see how that affects your perspective. Ask questions like, "What do I feel right now?", "What might the surface of the petals feel like?", "How would a small insect see this scene?" Then try to answer those questions with an image. Be a child. Enjoy the discovery.
So here are some ideas to help create a positive attitude towards your photography.
Be curious about the world around you. Ask yourself questions: How does that work? What is that bird doing? What might that dog do next? What is the relationship between that bug and the plant that it's on? Why is the light so appealing right now? What does that feel like? Each question pulls you deeper into the subject and the pictures you make will show it.
Be observant. It goes hand-in-hand with curiosity. Don't be satisfied with the first impressions of things. Dig deeper. Stay with your subject for a while. Change positions and see how that affects your subject or your feelings about it. Take notice of things that normally may escape your view. Look at details as well as the whole.
Be enthusiastic about what you are doing, and life in general for that matter. Embrace them like dear, old friends. Show your passion, be it for motorcycles or moose, soccer or sailing. If you don't care about what you are shooting, how can anyone else? If you are enthusiastic about you shooting, it will show in your images.
Be there. Be truly present both in body and, more importantly, in spirit. If your mind is somewhere else - on a conversation that upset you, on what to make for supper, on tasks that you face tomorrow, on the bills that await your attention, even on the movie you saw last night, it will affect you photography. It might take some mental discipline, but cast aside these distractions and "focus" on where you are and what you are doing. Be truly mindful of the place that you find yourself in at any particular moment. No matter if it is your backyard, or the most exotic location you have ever been in, it is, at this time, in this light, in your state of mind, unique. Don't waste it.
Be patient and persistent. All those great shots you see in photo magazines are rarely the result of quick, cursory experiences. Most are the result of returning to a place again and again, of waiting for the light to be just right, of slogging up-hill for most of the day, of taking the time to know your subject, of not being satisfied with first impressions. Be patient not only with your subject, but with yourself as well. If you don't get it right the first, or even the tenth time, do it again. If it looks good shoot it. If something changes and it still looks good, shoot it again.
Be respectful – of culture, of place, of wildlife. If you are in a foreign place and amongst people of a culture different from yours, be aware that you are the one that should conform, not them. Learn a few simple words in the language. Smile and acknowledge the presence of others. Ask permission to take a picture with a simple gesture with the camera and a questioning look. Leave things where they are. Don't pick the flowers or break the stems of plants. Don't trample the ground cover unnecessarily. A small amount of harm might be inevitable but try to minimize it. With wildlife, try to minimize the disturbance you might cause. Don't move towards the animal until it inevitably flees. Stop as soon as it begins to look uncomfortable. Wild animals are usually doing things with purpose, whether it be resting, feeding or interacting with others of its kind. So it is important not to cause a behaviour change that to you might be minor, but for the animal could be critical.
These are the attitudes I try to bring to my shooting exercises. They work for me. I hope they do for you too.
