Doug Bruns

Posts Tagged ‘photographic technique’

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“What I really wanted was every kind of life…”

In Life, Literature, Photography, The infinity of ideas, Thinkers, Wisdom, Writing on April 7, 2010 at 2:24 pm

Susan Sontag first thought she was going to be something other than what she became. When she was about six she read a biography of Madame Curie, written by her daughter Eve Curie. “…at first I thought I was going to be a chemist. Then for a long time, most of my childhood, I wanted to be a physician. But literature swamped me. What I really wanted was every kind of life, and the writer’s life seemed the most inclusive.”

I find this interesting, particularly in light of a book I’m reading, Wisdom, Philosophy to Neuroscience, by Stephen Hall. I’ll save my thoughts about the book for later, but want to pass along one idea specifically. In a chapter titled, Dealing with uncertainty, Hall writes of a scientific paper, which in essence, he says, is “about balance.” He continues: “It describes how people neurologically weigh the relative merit of sticking with a behavioral strategy or changing” in a non-stationary environment. It all boils down simply to this: “At a party, in a marriage, at a job, in a stock fund, the question is always the same: Should I stay or should I go?”

I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit. It is a simple idea: A theory of decision-making which asks, Do I stay or do I go? (It’s tied deeply to the evolutionary notion of fight or flee, obviously.) Sontag understood early to move on, answering the question do I go? (In her case go from physician to writer.) For most of us, however, Should I stay or should I go, is never so obvious or so amplified. That makes it all the trickier.

I keep getting drawn back to this question of how to live a life. I can’t think of an example of a decision which cannot be answered by asking Should I stay or should I go? I’m sure it’s out there, but I can’t put my finger on one right this minute. The point is, this challenge–stay or go?–is a road map. And living a life, I think, should have one–a road map, that is. Funny thing, though, there is no one pointing out the destination. What good is a map if you don’t know where you’re headed? (“Parts unknown,” to nod in Twain’s direction, is even a destination, no?)

I’ve had some help with this business recently, the road map destination thing. My friend Thatcher Cook, whom I’ve mentioned previously, is a strong advocate of the credo, in his case the credo of a photographer. He put me onto this notion and it set me off in a number of directions I did not anticipate.  “Include footnotes,” he admonished. In other words, be serious, dig deep, follow the thread wherever it takes you. (Press on and demand of yourself some answers, for god’s sake. This is important stuff.) Though Thatcher’s credo, a working document, is oriented to his discipline of photography, the concept is broadening. (Its a credo, not a manifesto, so it’s private, sort of…)

If you have a destination, you can answer the question, Should I go or should I stay?  If you don’t you can’t. Simple. (Montaigne: “The soul that has no fixed goal loses itself; for, as they say, to be everywhere is to be nowhere.”) If you can’t answer you cannot make a decision. Simple again. Sontag was “swamped by literature.” Most of us will never get swamped by something. We may get drenched, or even rained on, but swamped, whereby the destination is clear, is a very rare thing. It appeals to me to seek the rare thing, yearn for the difficult. The common is just that, common.

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writing, photography and bliss

In Photographers, Photography, Thinkers, Writers, Writing on February 10, 2010 at 7:58 pm

It’s been almost ten months since I moved to Portland. When I came here it was my intention to roll up my sleeves and do some serious writing. Perhaps I could weave together all those threads of ideas and themes, notes and chicken scratch, into something of consequence. Well, maybe not consequence, really. Just something for god’s sake. I’d been whining all my adult life about a calling to write and never having the time–as well as a multitude of other excuses. So, roll up my sleeves and write I did–or tried–or, rather, am trying.

I’ve read that if you have to write every day, you’re a writer. Conversely, if you are not compelled to write every day, if you don’t have to write every single day, then you’re probably not a writer. I recall seeing somewhere that Tolstoy said the writer, like the musician, must practice every day.

There is a passage in the book On Being A Photographer about Josef Koudelka. One of the authors, Bill Jay, relates that Koudelka was visiting him. Koudelka was “shooting pictures around my cabin. I couldn’t understand what he was seeing, as the images seemed to have no connection with his known work. He said ‘I have to shoot three cassettes of film a day, even when not “photographing” in order to keep the eye in practice.’ ” Jay goes on to say, “That made sense.  An athlete has to train every day, although the actual event occurs only occasionally.”

One my photography mentors, Magnum photographer Constantine Manos, a friend of Koudelka’s, told me that Koudelka had once been flown to Paris to accept a prestigious award. He was put up in a fancy hotel, but left it to go sleep on the floor of a friend’s apartment. Koudelka only cares about photography, Manos told me. Everything else is foreign to him.

Funny, Koudelka’s name came up in conversation recently. I was having lunch with my friend, documentary photographer, Thatcher Cook and was bemoaning the winter chill that had set it. It had killed street life in Portland, stalling my Portland project. (Not to mention that some days were so cold I could not feel my shutter to release it.) Thatcher said that Koudelka used the winter months to develop and print what he had previously exposed, presumably in the warmer seasons. I like that idea and find some solace in it, as it keeps the photography spark alive during the dark winter months of less activity. (Another good reason to shoot film!) But, I also know that when Garry Winnogrand died he left behind more than 2500 rolls of unexposed film. Imagine, 100,000 exposures he made but never saw (good reason to shoot digital, eh?).

The point being, photographers shoot. Writers write. Athletes train. Musicians practice. Joseph Campbell famously stated, “Follow your bliss.” It is a luxury, you say? No, if you want to be alive it’s a necessity. Go do what you do. Listen for the drum beat, follow it. Go. Do it.

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Not for the coffee table.

In Photographers, Photography on February 1, 2010 at 9:52 pm

A few weeks ago I ordered some photography books. Not for the coffee table. For the eye. They are:

Robert Doisneau, a Taschen “Icon” series book.

Bernard Plossu, So Long

and two monographs:

Edouard Boubat &

Lee Friedlander

Not a photography book, per se, but I also purchased Clive Scott’s Street Photography, From Atget to Cartier-Bresson. I have not read it yet, but it seems a bit pedantic. Stay tuned. I also reread David Hurn and Bill Jay’s fantastic book, On Being a Photographer. Every photographer should have this on the shelf.

When the books arrived, Carole remarked, “More photography books?” She commented on how big and heavy and thick they are. I said, “If I were a poet, the books I’d study would be small and slim. But I’m a photographer, not a poet.” (I’ve heard it argued, however, that all the artistic disciplines aspire to that of poetry. That seems correct.)

The one I to talk about, because it has been the most thought (eye?) provoking of the group is the Friedlander, properly the Peter Galassi MoMa’s retrospective exhibition book, 2005. Thought provoking because I never much cared for Friedlander’s work, to put it bluntly. Now, though, like so many things in life, I think I didn’t care for it because I didn’t understand it. Not that I “get” Friedlander. At least not everything. Much of his work is Hindemith to  Stravinsky, Pollock to Jasper Johns, if those references make any sense. (Ulysses to Finnegan’s Wake?) I know I don’t get the “landscape” work of the 90s. But here’s another reference that seems to make sense to me. If Cartier-Bresson is Dickens; and Robert Frank is Hemingway; then Friedlander is David Foster Wallace. If you’re not the music or literary type, what I’m trying to say is that Friedlander is an evolution of the discipline in a post-modern sense.

They say that there is nothing extraneous in a Friedlander photograph, which is saying a lot. His most successful work is thick and complex, and not easy. That is largely the late(r) stuff. It’s not as witty, and strikes me as more earnest. But what is to be said about anyone’s work over thirty or forty years? Just the consistency is inspiring.  What I started by saying, that there is nothing extraneous in his photographs, is startling to me–and freeing somehow. It’s as if the (apparent) randomness, at first glance, is to the contrary, order. What a way to look at life! Is that art? I think so.