Light always plays a part to a greater or lesser degree in any photograph. Sometimes, as was the case the morning of June 30 when I captured the image in this post, light becomes a compositional element in the photograph.

But light can be a fickle subject. She is prone to fool your lightmeter, claiming for herself center stage, causing your camera to underexpose your main subject.

Light also can be elusive. While she is eager to show herself in all her glory, she will do so for but a moment. The photographer must act quickly to capture her on film before she slips away to hide in the full glare of the sun.

A photographer will be well served to learn the secrets of natural light.

A friend and I have just returned from our annual pilgrimage to the Bach festival in Bethlehem, PA. Discussing the generally recognized sacred nature of Bach’s music and our own individual thoughts and experiences in listening to the live performances, the following idea arose:

Just as a cello is made up of strings, a box of wood, and the air in the box (among other components) and these components taken together, when played by the Cellist, create sound that has an effect on the environment, and the cello is but a component of the orchestra, and the orchestra is but a component of the orchestra-choir collaboration, we too, as listeners, whose emotional chords are plucked ever so effectively by the music, begin to vibrate. It occurs to me that I am not big enough an observer to see that the vibration of my own emotion, like the vibration of the strings on a cello, like the sound emanating from the living, breathing orchestra (watching the players as they respond to the conductor, it seems that they rise and fall as one like the heartbeat of a living being), is nothing more than a component in the performance.

The conductor moves his baton, the strings of the cello vibrate with the bow, the strings of the harpsichord vibrate when plucked, the vocal cords of the choir members and soloists vibrate, all sending a wave of sound into the air (and how wonderful it was to be sitting in the air that was disturbed by the single note of the harpsichord and to realize that classical music, like jazz, can be like a desert to me when played on the radio, but a lush garden when experienced in live performance). The wave of sound overtakes me and I have an emotional response in one moment, and in another moment I am impelled to close my eyes and find myself in a state of mind I associate with the practice of Transcendental Meditation.

Both my friend and I had strong emotional reactions to various of the pieces performed. If the “vibration” of our emotions (not a physical vibration, but something I am not big enough to see because it is an effect beyond the realm of my sensory mechanism) can be viewed as similar to the vibration of the strings on the cello or the vibration of the vocal cords of the vocalists, might not my participation in listening to the music be nothing more than a component in the performance when viewed from an expanded perspective.

If indeed there is a “vibration” of emotion, then, like the sound of the cello contributing to the performance, by virtue of living and responding to this beautiful music I am nothing more than a component of the musical performance. With this perspective, I can imagine that every phenomenon is nothing more than a component in a sacred orchestral piece. Is it possible, informed by this point of view, that at the moment I put my attention on Bach’s “Mass in B Minor”, for example, that piece can be viewed as the music that overtakes the universe (cello contributes to orchestral music contributes to orchestral-choir collaboration contributes to my emotional response contributes to how I interact with the world contributes to how the world exists (at least for me))? And if this is possible, might not the same be said of any other successful work of art, or indeed any other point of focus?

Daniel Oppenheimer, in writing about the photographer, Diane Arbus, states that her “brilliance was to catch everybody unmasked, at the moment of transition between unconscious repose and practiced, social self-representation. People seemed to reveal, in that moment, their essential being . . .”

My objective in making photographic portraits is to do the same thing, although more often than not it happens by chance when I simply am taking someone’s picture. I think I have been successful in capturing my subject in that “moment of transition” in the photograph, Twelve going on thirteen.

I think that such “moment of transition” as it is represented in this photograph is a good metaphor for a budding young woman’s emotional state as she transitions from the state of being a child to the state of being a teenager. I invite you to consider also whether the background in the photograph contributes to that sense of meaning.

Twelve going on thirteen is featured in the Portraits gallery at www.wmgphoto.com

David Oppenheimer’s biography of Diane Arbus is located — Here –

The image in this post, Boys at Play, is a scan of a black and white photograph I created in a traditional wet darkroom. The negative for this image contains much more visual information than the print, however I used an Ilford Mutigrade filter on my enlarger which had the effect of creating the more posterized image you see here. I suppose one might be able to create a similar effect using the posterize feature in photoshop, but I don’t know if that would yield the same result with this image as I obtained using traditional photo processing techniques.

Given the posterized nature of this picture, one might argue that it is not a technically perfect representation of the subject. Nevertheless, for me, it is an effective photograph because, without fail, I have an intense emotional reaction every time I view Boys at Play.

The same can be said about “Robert Capa’s shots of the Normandy landing”, to give but one of the examples pointed out by Paul Indigo. Capa’s photograph of a soldier wading in the ocean towards the shore is blurry and grainy and by no means a technically perfect image, but it is one to which I have a strong emotional response. For me, this photograph successfully captures what it must have been like to be that soldier in that circumstance.

With Boys at Play my response is something akin to dread. But, being the father of two sons, I know that boys (and their dads) often engage in rough play, play that to an outside observer may appear to be something more sinister. I believe that Boys at Play is a successful image insofar as it captures the sinister-looking nature of the interaction between two boys.

You may view a larger version of Boys at Play by logging on to the Surreal Portraits Gallery at my online Photo Gallery at www.wmgphoto.com by clicking –here–

To view Paul Indigo’s blog post Great images may be techically flawed, click –here–

Robert Capa’s most famous Normandy landing photograph can be viewed –here–

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Paul Indigo comments:

“Interesting article and I appreciate the way you share your personal feelings about Boys at Play. The emotion in the image hits you straight away and photography is after all about communication, not slavishly following a set of dogmatic rules. I suppose the idea that you and I are trying to get across can be summed up in a simple question: ‘Do you want to be the best rule follower in the world or the best visual communicator?’”

He suggests that, unlike our cats, who do not return from their nightly adventures each morning to relate their stories to the other animals in the household, we humans relate our stories through the art that we create, and that it is through artwork that we may relate those stories to future generations. “That way,” he states, “we don’t ALL try the red berries before we figure out they were poison!” He suggests further that through making art, we expand our ability to know and get closer to the greater truths that underlie our objective perception of the world around us.

For me, the process of making photographs opens a door to a more sublime reality. As I walk around with a camera taking photos, or stroll a photography exhibit at the National Gallery of Art, for example, I experience a phenomenon that I call “the world slipping away”. My senses become enlivened and, in a subtle sense it seems to me that all phenomenal existence not related to the process of my creating, or interacting with, a photograph, retreats into the background of my perception, and I view those aspects of the world that directly impact my process as being more alive. It is as if I can sense the impulses of creativity rising up from some deep well, a source of inspiration that is outside of me, outside of time, outside of space.

My correspondent concluded his observations regarding my creation of the online Gatesman Photo Gallery by suggesting that what makes me an artist is that, even though I did not have to do so, I made the effort to go back through two decades worth of photographic negatives, process them so they can be viewed on the internet, and start a web site to share the images. While I recognize the validity of his point, I want to suggest that what makes me or anyone else an artist is that they make the effort to create and share their photographs, or paintings, or stories, or dances, or music because they cannot help but do those things.

It is not that one makes his pictures available for others to see when he doesn’t have to do so that makes him an artist. Rather, to be an artist is to feel compelled to do so, whether or not you have anything to gain in material terms.

But that is not enough. For me, my interaction with my correspondent was like fertilizer to the garden of my creative process. [See October 4, 2007, blog post discussing My Autumnal Garden.] I believe that by sharing our experiences of the creative process we become better able to recognize and articulate the creative impulse.