Thinking Photography - Emotion
When it comes to photography, I am more an egalitarian than an elitist. Some have said it’s the most democratic of the arts, some (let’s call them “Art Snobs”) will say that it’s not even an art. I say good, because it’s more than an art.
I will wholly admit that when it comes to my personal work and the photographs I love to study, yes I am a bit of an elitist. I believe photography can be an art and I appreciate the art and craft of photography. But that is not all that photography is and I refuse to deny anything photography can be. Some aspects of it I may not enjoy or even appreciate, but that’s on me, not photography.
That said, my interests reach out into many of those areas. I have an appreciation of the photographs of war photographers like Don McCullin and James Nachtwey. I can become immersed in the documentary photography of folks like William Eugene Smith or Sebastião Salgado. Or the purposeful photography of Farm Security Administration photographers like Dorothea Lange or Walker Evans, whose works are readily available through the Library of Congress.
I even enjoy good commercial photography. That’s why when I’m in a doctor’s waiting room, I’ll grab a Vogue magazine if there is one - the photography in the ads can be amazing.
Photography can serve many different purposes for many different reasons. Who am I to say what is right or wrong, other than for myself? Ansel Adams said, “There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer.” Each has their own relationship with the photograph. I can only speak for myself.
And I’ll readily admit that I share in the diversity of uses that photography has to offer. Perhaps that’s why I am reluctant to place confines around what a photograph is or can be. If there are limits, they are the limits I place upon myself (when it comes to my own work) or on particular images (when it comes to what I want to look at).
And I’ll also readily admit that I freely partake in what Eastman Kodak knew could make him a lot of money (and did) - photographs that evoke fond memories. Even today, most photographs are taken to record for the taker something they appreciate, if not treasure, and want to have a physical recording of that evokes a memory of that experience. That desire to give permanence to the moment and of the people they are sharing it with that can later trigger fond memories.
And yes, sometimes that type of image can transcend a snapshot and begin to tread into the realm of art.
But as much as I believe the above image is an excellent photograph (I did a blog post on it, go to the blog search tool and type in “Guys” and you’ll find it), I cannot separate the image from the afternoon of photographing with the guys running around playing, and then the making of the image with the 4x5 on polaroid film. Most of all, I can’t separate the fact that this is Kit and Brandon at a particular stage in their life that I shared. For others, it’s perhaps an interesting image, but one divorced from what I bring to it and what it means to me.
Granted, not all the photographs I have of the guys (with Devon joining the subjects a few years later, and others over the year) arguably rise to the level of art. No, they are a record. Sometimes a technically proficient record of people at a certain stage of life, perhaps enhanced by capturing a bit of their personalities in the photograph, but really, a record nonetheless, hoping to capture and then, years later, bring back the memory of their personalities.
But emotive photographs don’t have to even have technical quality to stir emotions. Most of my shots of the guys are, well, just shots. Something as simple as a poor quality phone picture of me with the guys (as adults) watching El Classico on one of my swings through the DC area when I was out gallivanting around the world can bring joy to my heart. I suspect that’s the case with everyone. So why should that not be a valid use of photographs, regardless of the “artistic merit” of the picture itself? Photographs have a way of stirring the emotions in so many ways, that’s one of the things that makes photography so powerful.
And photographs can stir multiple emotions at once. I have a photograph of Hans, my dog, on my iPhone. Every time I pick it up, the screen turns on and there’s Hans. Every dozen, maybe even two dozen times I pick up the phone and smile, there’s one time I pick it up and feel pain. I feel his loss, an emptiness that can’t be replaced. That too is the power of photography.
I was reminded of that this week when, once again, I popped into Ann’s office to ask her a question. She was downstairs making lunch, but that didn’t stop me from taking a look at what was on her monitor. Her sorting through the years of back catalogs had taken her to 2014 or 2013, I wasn’t sure which, but the emotions sure kicked in when I saw the photograph of Opal Creek.
You see, Ann and I made a couple of trips to Opal Creek in the Opal Creek Wilderness area a couple of weeks apart either side of New Year’s day 2014.
You can see from the photograph above where Opal Creek got its name. There is no manipulation of the colors in the image. There really is an amazing color to the creek and its stunningly clear water.
We first decided to visit Opal Creek the weekend after Christmas 2013. As expected, the trail was relatively free of people and despite the cold, we were totally blown away with its beauty.
So blown away in fact that we returned the following weekend (now 2014), heading back to the farthest part of our previous hike (where the imagery was the best), and then heading back along another trail that ran along the east side of the creek for much of the way.
Both Ann and I had heard much about how beautiful Opal Creek was. When I was in the Environmental Studies master program, two of my Oregonian classmates had a long discussion as to whether Opal Creek or Hells Canyon on the Snake River was the more beautiful location (they agreed to disagree . . . but other classmates chimed in that it was Opal Creek). Even with our expectations elevated, we didn’t imagine just how amazing the place could be. That’s in part, why seeing the image on Ann’s monitor hit me with a tidal wave of emotions.
But the emotions that filled me weren’t the pleasant memory of those trips. It was one of sadness, deep sadness and loss.
Why you may ask? Well, in the summer of 2020, the year Ann and I moved to Portugal, hell rained down on Oregon and the state was ablaze. Our beloved McKenzie River Valley was among the victims. One fire, the Holiday Farm Fire, named for the resort the movie was named after and located adjacent to where the fire started, was a mere one-half mile from Bill’s place up river. Fortunately for Bill and Becky, but unfortunately for the town of Blue River and hundreds of other homes, the fire blew down-river. Even several years later, the signs of destruction . . . and of recovery . . . are everywhere as you drive along Hwy. 126.
Also hit that summer was the Opal Creek Wilderness. The Beachie Creek Fire burned nearly 200,000 acres. And if you’re wondering where Beachie Creek is, just look at the image below.
You hike past the confluence of Beachie and Opal Creeks on the trail from the trailhead to the Opal Pool Falls. In case you’re wondering, those are burnt trees in the photograph - normally the photograph would be deep green colored. As the photographs from our hikes in December 2013 and January 2014 show, the area stays green all-year ‘round. Well, it used to. The Opal Creek Trailhead is still closed for hiking, three years after the fire.
We remember following the fires in 2020, worrying about Bill’s place when we heard about that fire, then feeling a huge pit in our stomachs when we heard about the Opal Creek Wilderness being ravaged by flames. The following year, when new images came up on google maps, we checked the images and we knew we would likely never return there. The pain would be too great. So when I saw the image on Ann’s computer, it was that pain of loss I felt first.
Perhaps the only real comfort I have, besides the images I have to remind me of what a beautiful place it was, is the knowledge that in 100, maybe 200 years, it will look like this again.
The way it should look.