Creating a market for Photography

I was delighted this week to hear that there is a new photographic gallery that has opened up in the heart of Edinburgh's city centre.

I'm so pleased, because I wish there were more galleries out there for photographers to illustrate and sell their work.

My motivation is easy to understand, because if there were, the medium would be taken more seriously as a collectable form of art than it currently is.

So this leads me onto my main reason for this post....I've been wondering just how many photographers buy the work of other photographers? I'd hazard a guess that the answer is 'not many'.

And yet, when we look at the number of people out there who take up photography and eventually wish to look for a place to exhibit their work, we will find that there are few places available for budding photographers to show their work in print form. The reason for this is simple: photographic prints do not sell for one reason or another - particularly here in the UK where there is almost no market for them. I could go into great depth as to why I believe they don't sell and I'm sure that the comments to this post will go down that route. There are of course exceptions to this when we consider the big names such as Steve McCurry or Michael Kenna, but I'm really talking about the general photographic community that you and I are part of.

There are thousands if not more photographers who create beautiful work, yet have no means to sell it. Sure we have things like Flickr and it's easy to make our own website and put up a web store in which to sell our work, but prints do not sell from websites because people need to see them in the flesh to appreciate what it is they are buying. Each time I have had an exhibition, despite reassuring buyers that everything on my site is up to the same quality as the prints they see at the exhibition, they always buy from what is on display at the exhibition, even if they prefer a particular image from my website.

In one way, photographers are more blessed these days because they have an outlet and many forums in which to illustrate their work. But the truth is that there is no market for photographic work. People do not buy prints.

I think the main issue for me is a lack of support for photography as an art form from within the photographic community itself. Many of us photographers have never bought another photographers work, because we're far too interested in selling or promoting our own work. And therein lies the problem. If we were more willing to consider other photographers work and patronise it, we would be creating a market in which many photographers, including ourselves, could flourish. In a nutshell, if we wish our work to be patronised, we should patronise others work.

I've had a look around my home, and so far, I have two prints made by other photographers. One I bought from a 'photo of the week' winner on Photo.net many years ago titled 'London Tourists' by David Malcolmson. I was so taken with the image that I contacted David and bought a print from him. It has pride of place in my sitting room and I still enjoy looking at it very much. There's something extremely satisfying about owning a piece of work that I love. I'd like to own a Michael Kenna print at some point, and I've decided to ear mark his work for some time when I know I'm in a position to invest in his work.

I've decided that this year, if things are going well for myself, I'd like to start collecting some more work by photographers I admire. So far, I've only been able to afford to buy their work in book form, and I think this is a great start. The print reproduction quality in book form these days isn't too far away from print quality (the exception for me being Ansel Adams work, which is stunningly beautiful in print form and a million miles away from the excellent reproductions in his books. Same applies to Fay Godwins work also - her prints are so beautiful and although the books are good, they pale into insignificance to her silver gelatin prints).

But books are a great way to patronise and endorse the work of a photographer you like, and perhaps this is the crux of the matter. As a photographer, I'm inspired by my heros, and I've bought just about everything that Steve McCurry or Michael Kenna have produced in book form. I get a great deal of inspiration and I learn a lot by studying their work too, but the learning is less important than the inspiration I've gained from enjoying their work. So often I feel, that it's easy to become engrossed in the 'how' of photography, rather than just enjoying the work at hand.

I'm digressing here a little perhaps. Ultimately, if we wish to have a market space for our own work to be bought and endorsed, we should be opening up ourselves to buying other photographers work, be it in book form, or as prints. We should be supporting and encouraging our field of interest, and I can think of no other better way to do this than to buy other photographers work.

Journeys are Important

A few days ago I had a very enlightening conversation with my friend Vlad that has ultimately led onto the creation of this post. We were discussing Vlad's video, and how he finds the time waiting at airports a form of mental adjustment in which he is able to prepare himself for what lies ahead. So often do I find that over the hours or days that I spend traveling some place to make photographs, there seems to be a mental transition of sorts that happens for me too. I feel it's a requirement of the creative process, almost a meditative time. Let me explain a little better.

When I first leave home, I'm usually still wrapped up very much in my home life. Friends, family, Edinburgh the town I live in, is my environment. I'm a city dweller. So while I am at home, my mind is often turned to the day to day living of being in a small city. If I were to teleport immediately to some remote landscape, I think I would find myself emotionally disorientated. I seem to need to have the journey time between home and location in which to let go of my city life, and slowly prepare, and move into the life I have while in a wilderness location.

There is a need, certainly for me, to have this time, to be able to transfer from one environment to another. Far off places, and perhaps friends who live there, are but an abstract notion when they are not immediately in my present day to day life. I have to file them away as some extension of me, and it takes me a while to step into the life of the people I know in these far off places. It also takes me a while to forget about my city life, to be able to fully let go.

There needs to be this transference stage. It's vital to have it, so that I'm emotionally ready and prepared to accept the landscapes I photograph.

Now imagine a world where distances are becoming smaller and things are becoming more immediate. Do you think these remote landscapes would be just as appealing to us if we could get there in a very short space of time? I don't think they would. We wouldn't have the appreciation for them as we wouldn't have had the settling in time, that a plane ride gives us. That time to reflect, to consider where we are going. A plane ride is forced meditation. It is a vital part of the process where we can let our minds float freely, allowing things to go and for our aspirations and anticipations of the future, to come to us. I think it's prep time, for my creativity.

This subject leads on rather neatly to the personal issues I have with what I do for a living now. Every few weeks I am away somewhere in the world. It can be a disorientating thing to be doing on a frequent basis, because it always takes me time to settle back into my Edinburgh life when I'm home, and then there is the mental and emotional demands of preparing myself for a workshop or photo tour somewhere that will require maybe a week or so of my time. I can only describe it as relocation-lag. Where it takes a while for my mind and spirit to settle into a different environment.

I'm just curious how this all affects the creative process? How do you see it affecting you? Does it take time for you to settle into a new environment before you can make images, or do you find that the newness is what inspires you to make images? Have you considered that the plane ride for a few hours, is perhaps like a meditative requirement, something that needs to be done, in order to prepare your mind for what is to come?

I think this is also why I need to have space between my shooting sessions and the post-editing. I need time to be able to absorb what it was I felt and took in while in a remote landscape. I can't be objective about it, or give the work the attention it deserves, if I come home and immediately start to edit it. I'm almost trying to complete the work, before my mind has even reached its own conclusion of the emotions and events that I'm still absorbing.

If I were to edit soon after the shoot, I feel the edits would be a rushed response, and would show little care for just what it is, that I'm still absorbing.

Traveling gives us time, and with that time, we gain insight. Travel also gives us distance, and with this distance, we gain a different kind of insight. Both contribute to the creative process in different ways. We should embrace them, because they are part of the creative journey and have impact on what it is we do and how we reach a creative conclusion.

Into the polar night

When I started out making pictures and putting them up on this website, I found over the years, that I’d get correspondence from all over the world. When I look back at the early days , I can still remember the first emailers. I had maintained a long standing dialog with them while I was an amateur myself. Over the years while my own hobby turned gradually into my current profession, I had one or two stalwarts who maintained a beautiful correspondence with me. They never seemed to lose sight of me, nor I them.

One of those stalwarts was Vladimir Donkov.

A young Bulgarian photographer, Vlad was busy carving a career for himself, and doing things in the photography world before he was 20 years old, that most of us in our 40’s are still dreaming about.

Vlad would email me perhaps once, maybe twice a year, just to check in, tell me about his own photographic journey. I’d never met him in person, but over those initial years of working on my own hobby and website, I felt I’d kind of got to know him well. To me, Vlad was and is still, someone I relate to because we share the same passion.

Then, in 2009, Vlad emailed me to tell me of his plans to go and shoot images in the Norwegian winter. Oooh, I’d always wanted to go and make images in the snow, and so I thought I would accompany Vlad on his journey there. For some reason, I was under the impression that he had invited me, but we have many jokes these days about how I actually invited myself along on his trip!

So in March 2010, I went to the Lofoten Islands, at the time, a still relatively unknown location for winter shooting and met up with Vlad. He was perhaps 24 years old at this time, and I was 42 years old. I kind of like to think it’s funny how the numbers are reversed. I was wary that he might think me an old bore, or that I find him too young or immature. I’m glad to say that I found a great friend in him (despite him probably finding me immature ;-)

Vlad was solely responsible for me coming to Norway's Lofoten islands in winter, and I think he needs the recognition for being the one who started off what is now turning out to be a photographer's winter paradise. Each month, I see images of Lofoten appear on my facebook page from amateurs and professionals that have been drawn to the place for the same reasons Vlad and myself love it. It is a stunningly beautiful and wild place.

Vlad emailed me today to let me know about a new project - a video - that he has been working on. He’s made a really nice video of his work in the Moskenes region of the Lofoten Islands and the video has been done in conjunction with the support of Hasselblad. The video is excellent, and I just want to share it with you, as I feel it's inspiring to see him out there, in the Lofoten landscape, working his magic.

I think it's fantastic when people realise their dreams, or have a 'go-do' attitude. Vlad clearly has this and is very much following his own path.

If you'd like to know more about Vlad, and see some of his work, his site is called VerticalShot.com.

Neil Gaiman's 'Make good Art' speech

I was sent a link to Neil Gaiman's wonderful speech today, where although the subject title is 'make good art', he really covers how to lead a creative life, and all the aspects of life that come with it.

Watching this video has given me pause, because many of the points he makes, I have either shared, or experienced during my own photographic / commerce journey the past four / five years.

The main point for me, is that ever since I started my own photographic business, I have never created any images because I felt I should. I created what I created, because I wanted to. I've found that living a more truthful creative life, has brought rewards for me in more ways that I could have imagined. Not only have I enjoyed what I do more, because my art is 'me', but I've also attracted many beautiful people and events into my life because they responded to who I am in my pictures. I've had many people tell me they felt they knew me before they met me, because they see and feel something in my work.

Neil also covers the point that not knowing what you're doing, is a good thing. Because you tend to create something fresh and new, and when that happens, there are no rule books out there to say how it should, or shouldn't be done. So often in life have I felt that the words 'shouldn't, or 'can't' are used too frequently. 'Mustn't, Shouldn't, Wouldn't, Couldn't' are all words that should be banned if you want to move forward with your own dreams.

In my own photographic journey, I never set out to copy anyone else's workshops, photographic style, or ideas. I've just run with what I thought would be good ideas because they inspired me to work on them. I've gone to certain locations around the world because I was attracted to them. For no other reason. It has all come back to me in spades of positivity as a result of staying true to my own voice.

And having your own voice is vital, if you want to be happy doing what you do.

Above all, Neil covers the point that a creative life is one of surprises and discoveries. I subscribe to this very much and have seen much evidence of great things come my way, all because I set some ideas I thought were good, in motion. I don't know where I'm going with what I'm doing, and I find that an immensely freeing and inspiring place to be.

I hope you get something out of his speech, because I feel there is a lot of great wisdom in there for all of us. Not just the photographers in us.

Dissonance in Photographs?

In the world of music, dissonance is something that is learned at an advanced stage in the development of any musician whether they are simply learning to play or while writing their own compositions. Consider that during the early stages of musical development, most musicians learn to play (and also write) very simple melodies. Structures are uncomplicated and the use of chords as an expression is perhaps somewhat limited. Over time, as they develop, they delve into more complex musical structures and eventually begin to incorporate chords and complex overtones that have feelings of tension and expectation to them. This is known in musical terms as 'dissonance'. Dissonance is not a bad thing, it can provide depth and complexity to music and take us into different worlds of feeling and mood. We've all been subjected to it, for example - in film scores where it is used to convey drama. The music becomes extremely agitated and complex. It is a universal language we all understand.

Yesterday I had a very nice conversation with a musical friend of mine about this very topic. Since the conversation, I've been considering if there is a parallel to 'dissonance' in photographic images. I'm certainly aware that we can have dissonance in photographs, but I'm not altogether clear if dissonance is a good thing in images. Is it possible to have an image that creates tension, but at the same time be pleasing to our eye?

I also think that it's not possible to use musical development as a similar analogy to that of image making, as they both appear to be opposite from each other. In music, simple compositions or melodies are often encountered early on in our musical tastes and development, while more complex forms of music are often acquired over a long period of time while we learn to enjoy their depth and meaning. With photographic images, we often start with very busy, complex scenes, because we haven't developed our eye to remove all the distracting elements contained within the frame. It is only over many years that we become able to refine our compositional eye and notice things that need to be removed.

This has been my assumption until yesterdays conversation with my music friend. I'm now unsure if my idea that imagery should be simple, is a correct one. Certainly for many people who wish to improve their photography, gaining a more selective eye is a good thing. But what if you do want to create images that have a degree of tension in them? Surely it is ok for an image to be overly complex, to have a dissonance to it - if this is what you intended?

I think there is a difference between dissonance in an image, and a bad composition. For me, dissonance implies that the work is good, while containing a degree of tension in it. Bad compositions are often bad photographs because the composition creates a form of tension that is displeasing to the viewer's eye.

I'd like to hear your views, and maybe you can point me towards work where you feel there is dissonance (read tension) while at the same time, the work is superb. I'd love to hear from you.

postnote: I deliberately used the two images of Raudfoss in Iceland in this posting, because I feel there is perhaps more tension in the first image due to the more fractured foreground landscape. The second image has a less fractious foreground, with more space and is perhaps therefore calmer than the first. But there is still a degree of complexity to both of them, and I'm wondering if this is dissonance, of a sort? The images aren't bad, in fact, I'm very pleased with them, but there is certainly a complex overtone to both of them. How else may dissonance be conveyed in an image? A dramatic thunderous sky perhaps can convey drama, but does it convey tension? Do you feel on edge when looking at pictures of storms?

Working for free, is a mugs game

A few days ago, I saw Bill Schwab post this on facebook: "I just got a letter from a writer wanting my images for a Huffington Post article. I was given the tired, old line of... "They don't pay their contributors, but the exposure would be great."

Sorry, I don't work for people that don't pay their contributors. No one should. You're only cutting your own throat and those of your fellow creatives. I've been at this a long time and never once has free exposure lead to a paying job. It only marks you as a sucker."

I completely agree and have had a fair share of this kind of correspondence over the years I've been doing photography.

Initially, what seemed like an honour to have my images used by some organisation and have them printed and available with exposure, soon gave way to a bad taste in my mouth. The exposure was pointless because no one ever asked who the photographer was, and yet, the company got a lot of value out of having a beautiful image adorn their promotional activities.

If you are an amateur, hoping to make a living from your photography, the first bit of advice I would give you is to not give your work away for free. The second bit of advice would be to tell you not to undersell yourself, so don't give your stuff away for a knock down rate either. A poor rate suggests poor work, and no one is left in a position to admire you for what you do, least of all respect you, if you don't believe in yourself.

The other thing, is that giving your photographic time and work away for nothing kills the market. The problem is unfortunately, there's always someone out there who gets so flattered that they were asked, that they forget that they need to protect and look after their own work.

I get so many emails from friends or workshop participants who have been blown away by someone approaching them to use their images, often with the assumption that they will do it for free, and get some exposure of some kind out of it. Trust me - you won't.

Respect who you are, and respect your work. If people want what you do, they will demonstrate it by paying you for it.

Black and White Canvas

Following on from my previous two posts (white Canvas and then Black Canvas) where I discussed the use of snow (white canvas) or black sand (black canvas) as a blank canvas in which to place isolated objects thus creating a simplified composition / photograph, it's time to talk about incorporating the two.

Of course, the title of this post suggests I'm talking about black and white photography. I'm not. I'm just amalgamating the previous two posts together. If you've not read them, then I suggest that you do, as they are really the foundation to where I'm going with all of this.

You see, for me, photography is not about great scenery. It's about tonal compositions. If we abstract a scene down to the basic building blocks we have tone and form. That's all we have. We don't have trees, we don't have rivers, we don't have beaches. Forget all those 'meaningful' handles we have for things out there in the world. They're really irrelevant and a massive distraction to what we're really doing in photography. So what is it that I think we're trying to do in photography?

Well, a number of things actually. But perhaps the most important one is that we're trying to make sense of the world, to distill what we see in front of us, down into a digestible, accessible message. We wish to compartmentalise what we see down into something we can understand, and that hopefully everyone else will too. We do this by using maths (spacial distances between related objects within the frame), and by mood (dark tones convey a sense of mystery or low feelings, while brighter tones are more uplifting and transparent).

But ultimately, everything we see within the frame is a tone. It is somewhere between absolute black and absolute white. I honestly wonder sometimes - if we could paint onto the sensors / film of our cameras what we want, we would. We're just dealing in tones.

So am I suggesting we all start working in black and white? Sort of, but not quite, but yes. I am.

Recently, while I was in Lofoten, one of my clients - John - was working with his D800 camera and I noticed he was working with his live-view screen set to black and white only.

I loved this.

To me it was the perfect summary of what it is we're trying to do as photographers.

What John was trying to do, was consider the tones in front of him. By removing the colour element, he was able to be more focussed on the tonal relationships before him, and the form they convey throughout the scene. By working with a black and white preview screen, he was abstracting.

Photographs aren't about scenery, they're about form and tone.

I began this discussion by presenting a white landscape (snow), to illustrate how we can reduce our photography down to the absolute zero in terms of content to a frame, and if we're good at it, we can make stronger images. I feel working in blank landscapes such as snow and beach locations can help us fine tune our photography. We start to realise we don't need much, and everything that is put into the frame should have a purpose.

Like Mark Hollis fromTalk Talk said "Before you play two notes learn how to play one note - and don't play one note unless you've got a reason to play it." The same holds true for photography. We must distill our image making down to what it really is, and it's not about scenery, it's about form and tone. Start with less form and work up from there is my advice.

White Canvas

Last year, on my Bolivia trip, Jezz said to me 'it's not that you like snow Bruce, it's just that you like white'.

I think Jezz hit on something with his humorous comment.

I do like white.

Over the past few years, as my photographic style has simplified, it's as if that 'white' that Jezz speaks off, has become something I seek, because it has a few properties about it that I find are an aid to my compositions and inspiration.

Like a blank canvas, these white spaces allow me to reduce the content of the frame down to the most elemental building blocks. Less objects in the frame can often suggest a much simplified view.

But these white spaces also allow the objects that I do include in the frame to be more separated out; for them to have breathing space around them. This breathing space implies a sense of calm to the photograph.

Snow is the epitome of space and 'nothingness'. Which is why I think I'm often attracted to the colder regions. There is something unblemished about Snow and Ice. It rarely has the mark of man on it, and through it, we are allowed to place upon it our own visions of what is or isn't there. And that's what space in photographs does for us - it allows us to have more freedom to conjure up our own thoughts and dreams.

So although Jezz thinks I like white, I really like space. Space in a photograph allows for things to be more calm. Space also allows for the image to be more simplified. Space is good.

But it's not just Snow that gives us this. We can reach similar levels of space and simplification by using other surfaces. Large areas of sand on beaches is another example, and so too is anything that has a simple texture and area to it with almost no break to its own continuity. This continuity I speak off, allows the eye to pass over, to float by and head towards the subjects we do wish the viewer to rest their eyes upon.

By isolating out regions of the landscape where it seems as though nothing is going on, we can create images where it feels as though there is more going on than meets the eye. Less is more. And by removing distracting tones, or overly complex structures in our images, we reduce our message down to one that is concise. Our message becomes much easier to digest, and more coherent as a result. Good images have often simple, but strong messages.

Yes, space in the landscape is good.

Is it right, to take, or to make photographs?

I've often wondered why sometimes, language used for image making often has an acquisitional aspect to it. Words such as capture, or  to take an image resonate with me in a rather negative way.

I was asked once, why I always seem to say that I make photographs, not take them. I hadn't been aware of my own language, but after some time thinking about it, I know why I use the word make.

Firstly, there is the sense that I am creating something, rather than pointing my camera at something and just copying what is there. To take a photograph suggests I'm copying what is already there, and this is perhaps a terrible mindset to be in. Our mindset being an important part of the picture making process (not picture taking process).

Secondly, I don't go making images so that I have a collection. I am not a collector, and the idea that I take an image, suggests stealing a moment. It suggests ownership of something that was not mine and never can be. It suggests the habit of a collector, rather than someone who is in empathy with his surroundings and wishes to work with it, rather than at it.

Thirdly, taking implies possession; possession implies a sense of oneself being superior to the landscape. It suggests a lack of respect for what is around me, and someone who is not receptive to what the landscape is. It implies a lack of emotional connection.

I make images. They are creations based upon what I saw and appreciated in reality.

I enjoy my time outside, listening to the sounds of the wind and rain, watching atmospheric conditions come and go. I feel very much in empathy with my surroundings. Like a camper who, once done 'leaves only footprints', I have the utmost respect for the places I make images of. I like to think of my images as being an interpretation of the places i've experienced. I can't take the landscape's spirit. I can only represent it, in the form of art that I make.

Perhaps this feels to you as if I'm splitting hairs. But isn't it true that, often it's the small things that matter, and by having the mindset that I do have, I feel I'm able to abstract my creations away from the landscapes they represent. I'm able to understand that what I do, is an interpretation of what was before my eyes, not a verbatim recording of it.

It's an important point, I feel.

Tripod Height?

I'm on my fourth tripod in 12 years. Mostly due to the fact that it took me a while to realise that salt water is highly corrosive, and leaving the tripod lying around for a week or two, rendered it ready for the dust bin (even a graphite vice wouldn't release the welded together legs). But recently, I've changed tripod for one reason alone: height. Looking at many tripod websites, such as Really Right Stuff's dedicated page to recommending what sort of height you should choose for your tripod, I've come to one conclusion over a couple of decades of making images: get the tallest tripod that you think you can handle carrying around.

Tripods are only useful if you can handle carrying them around with you. So make sure the tripod has a weight that you can handle carrying for more than a few minutes. Otherwise it's temping that it might become a rather expensive door stop or piece of furniture in your home.

The tripod I currently own is the Gitzo GT3542XLS. This is my personal preference, for a few reasons:

• I'm 6ft tall and it's vitally important to me that my tripod can extend well above my own height
• I hate center columns, as they make good tripods into poor ones, as the centre of gravity is compromised
• I hate center columns, as they get in the way when I put the tripod down really low (see my next point)
• I hate using center columns turning them upside down to get my camera down so low (it's a personal preference - this is actually a great feature for some photographers and I often suggest it on my workshops)

I wasn't too keen on it having four columns. I prefer to have a tripod with three, as it makes for setting up - much quicker and a breeze. Four columns is often an added complexity, but not so with this tripod, because of its height, I often only extend it to 3 columns at most.

The reason for the height though, is that there are times when I find that I'm standing on a high rock, or the side of a steep slope. Those times require a longer leg to extend below where I'm standing. If it's a beach, then it means I'm standing on a rock, and one or more of the tripod legs needs to extend below the height of the rock I'm standing on. If it's a slope I'm on, then some of the tripod legs have to extend down the slope, if I wish to keep the tripod at the height I want. And that's the main crux of the matter: height is a vital ingredient to a composition.

If the height is not right, then the composition may suffer. I've had times when objects in the scenery touch other objects, or overlap, causing a feeling of conflict within the composition. All because the height of the tripod was not correct.

So there you have it. I have a massively high tripod these days, and I'm not going back to any recommendations to buy a tripod that reaches my own height (Really Right Stuff make great products, but their recommendations for height are not worth listening to).

If you're in the market for a tripod that can cater for all the compositions you see with your eye, you should be thinking of one that extends well above your own height. But you should do this with the consideration that it has to be portable to. A tripod can never be too high, but it can be too heavy, and if it's that way, you'll often find it left at home in preference for one where you can carry, even though you can't get it to work with all of the visualisations you see on location.