Slow photography

According to Tim Wu in The slow-photography movement asks what is the point of taking pictures?, “The basic idea is that photos themselves–the results–are secondary. The goal is the experience of studying some object carefully and exercising creative choice. That’s it.” I inadvertently tested this theory two weekends ago. If you shoot film, I bet you’ve tested this theory, too. The experience I had didn’t necessarily change the way I look at my photography, but it made me think.

My new hustle

Like many photographers, I have a love/hate relationship with Instagram (you can like my images here, and don’t forget to follow). It seems that every year around the start of winter I hit hibernation mode. I become more introspective and aloof, and then quickly burn out on like farming and delete the app from my phone. Inevitably, as spring blooms, I’ll yearn again for feedback and friendship, add the app, and start the cycle over. Post, like, comment, friend, post, like, comment, friend, repeat.

Unlike some of the folks I follow and admire on Instagram, I don’t have a separate feed for digital photography. My IG tagline reads, “All natural home processed film photography.” I’m all film, all the time. Shortly after freeing myself from social media this year, however, I re-organized my camera bag to include my favorite digital body, the Nikon D700. I don’t want to get into why I shoot an outdated 12MP camera, or whether the D700 still shines in 2020. It works for what I do. But what I do was changing, too. I recently moved to a state that has more Pronghorn Antelope than people, so it seemed like this would be a good year to work on my landscape photography.

Digital landscape

I’m intimidated by landscape photography. Give me a film camera loaded with a trusty roll of Ilford HP5 and I can produce at least a couple acceptable documentary style photos. When comparing my digital landscape portfolio to the work of the pros, however, my work shows all of the acumen and sophistication of an middle school five paragraph essay. My go-to excuse is that the part of Wyoming where I live is better known for trailer-tipping winds than the majestic views you’ll find in Yellowstone or the Tetons. Also, there’s just never any fog around here. My chances of encountering mystic, mist enshrouded cliffy forests are pretty slim. I don’t like getting up early. Did I mention the wind.

Landscape photography makes me feel like a lonely kid in high school. I’ve always been attracted to the genre, but I don’t think it wants anything to do with me.

Still, I want to get better. I’ve been watching YouTube videos like mad. Each challenge I face seems to have an accompanying instructional video. When blown out skies hampered my Lightroom workflow, I figured out how to use graduated ND filters. After YouTube taught me how to compose wide angle shots with my 14-24mm lens, the one with a huge front element that filters didn’t fit, I learned how to bracket my shots and blend them in Photoshop with luminosity masks. Still, even after girding up my process, shooting landscapes continued to feel like a lot of work with little return.

Stick to what you know

I came up with a plan to practice digital landscapes while honoring my fascination with film. I’d get up early on the weekend and get to a location before sunrise. Then I’d set up my tripod, frame up a gorgeous landscape shot bursting with deep rich sky blues and streaked by the resplendent pinks and golds of the Belt of Venus. Without direct sun or contrasty shadows, my foreground would glow and glisten. With bracketed digital photos safely stashed on a compact flash card, and the sun starting to blaze, it would be time to throw a 24-70mm on the F100 and then walk around to look for interesting detail shots. As the shadows lengthened, black and white compositions would spring to mind as if the secrets of film photography where being whispered into my ears by the soft voices of angels. After a few shot, I’d don my pack, but keep out my film camera in case anything caught my eye on the stroll back to the truck. At home, I’d eat a late breakfast and then manipulate digital pixels until it was time for a nap….

Tree on Clay Hills I did the best I could with the cloudless sky.

This happened

So, two weekends ago I did pretty much that. I drove west on a highway until the sky started to lighten, then I turned off onto a dirt and gravel road. I kept passing up decent looking areas until I spied an interesting dead tree on a blue clay hill about a 1/4 mile from a pull-off. Off to the west, low granite peaks rose above the desert flats. The colors in the sky were dazzling. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single cloud. Perfect bluebird day. Great for skiing, not so great for landscape photography. Still, I did my duty, bracketed with my shutter set to a two second delay, made a note to myself to look for a YouTube video explaining how to automatically shoot a bracketed set instead of pressing the shutter release repeatedly, and did my best to capture the scene. As I moved around my spot in the predawn cold I kept seeing details that I wanted to capture on black and white film, so, as soon as the sky was completely blown out, I stashed my digital body and struck out with my F100 / 24-70mm combo.

My first black and white image presented itself right next to my tripod – a small chunk of juniper casting a shadow on the cracked clay below. As I looked through the viewfinder it was as if I was looking at the finished image instead of the actual scene. I thumbed through my aperture and shutter speed selections without really thinking. Finding the right settings to bring my vision to life felt almost instinctual. And so it went, shot after shot, chasing shapes and shadows, setting up the leading lines, until….

“Oh shit.”

I guess I was talking to the dispassionate trees. The stillness of the morning rushed back in. I dropped the camera low by the side of my leg and spun around slowly, looking at the horizon, the distant expanse, the eroding hills. I had checked the film window earlier, but I imagined that I could see one of my black plastic hand rolls inside. On second inspection I saw that the camera was empty. And that was it. Time to pack up and head home.

When I got to my pack (I’d left it by my tripod) I considered loading one of the four rolls that I had stashed inside, but I quickly decided against it. I wouldn’t be able to recreate the shots I had just imagined. Actually, the light wasn’t that different and I probably could have re-traced my footsteps, but the creative urge was gone. It felt like I had already explored those originative impulses, and trying to recreate what I had seen would tarnish the experience somehow. The resulting images would be contrived. The shots I saw in my minds eye were pure and I was sure that any images I could capture now wouldn’t live up to what I had already imagined.

Wu was right

So, in the end, I think Tim Wu was right. I still vividly remember the way I thought the shots would turn out because I had studied the area carefully. I had been mindful of the details and the process. I was fully present while I exercised the joy of creative choice making. In a weird way, shooting a camera sans film is kind of like buying a steak at the market instead of going elk hunting. I came away with the nutritious part of the photography experience without having to do the messy work that comes after taking the shot. I really didn’t feel disappointed at all.

Am I recommending that you head out now with an empty film camera and engage in walking meditation punctuated occasionally by imaginary photo taking. I don’t know…maybe. I guess it all depends on how invested you are in bringing home the results.