Pilgrimage

pilgrimage n 1. a journey to a shrine or other sacred place 2. a journey or long search made for exalted or sentimental reasons – vb (intr) to make a pilgrimage (Webster’s Dictionary)

Pilgrimage is an interesting word, the same spelling used as both a noun and a verb. It is the second definition that intrigues me, a journey or long search made for exalted or sentimental reasons. I would also add for unknown reasons. It is the connotation of a pilgrimage as a search that I find the most interesting.

Walking into a bookstore looking for Christmas gifts I spied a new book by Annie Leibovitz. I think she is one of the great portrait photographers of our time, a personality superstar, who has had a tough few years. I was, however, looking at a book of images that were the antithesis of what I expected from her. Landscapes, still life, portraits of locations and places but not people. The blurb on the inside cover talked about her journey, her pilgrimage. She followed her whim and instincts, beginning at Emily Dickinson’s house and Niagara Falls, paid homage to Julia Margaret Cameron on the Isle of Wight, chased Abraham Lincoln thorough the artists who photographed and sculpted statues of him, visited the haunts of the writers of Concord, MA and even sought out Elvis, Annie Oakley and Eleanor Roosevelt. This was clearly a personal journey, not just to shrines but seemingly in search of herself.

Ms. Leibovitz was clearly on the second sort of pilgrimage, a search. This was an incredibly brave and courageous act on her part. She is a successful photographer, with an iconic style and reputation. Why go on a pilgrimage at all? For what was she searching? Why the need for change?  I don’t know “why” but I am glad she did. She may have had an inkling of a plan when she visited Niagara Falls but she ended up on quest she could not have predicted, one in which she says “I found my vision again.”  Isn’t that why we photograph – to find and share our vision?

What does the above have to do with this Musing? I recently recognized my own need to continue my pilgrimage, to keep searching for my own vision. Even though I teach workshops making my own work is still vitally important to me. I have to feed this need and not fall back on old habits, ideas and expectations. This is something a pilgrimage provides, whether by taking us out of our normal environment or simply by helping us to create a shift in our perceptions.

I stopped and looked at Annie’s book because I enjoy her portrait work but I walked away changed. I was reminded of all the portraits I shot when working for the newspaper. When I left that job I didn’t want to carry lights and all the other paraphernalia that I thought was necessary for portraits. Instead I concentrated on portraits of places, inferring the presence of people through the location. I’ve been rethinking my self-imposed rules for portraits for awhile now, making a few while working in various workshop locations. They were okay but I didn’t push on. I am not interested in flattering representational images but want to make portraits with a sense of truth, where the photographer and subject share a conversation and the viewer later gets to sit in on a part of that conversation. In a way the image is more about the moment than the person. As an introvert this whole process is very challenging for me.

However, my New Year’s Resolution is to go on a Pilgrimage of Portraits this year. If the great Annie Leibovitz is willing to take a pilgrimage that ties together widely disparate locations and people, trusting her instinct and talent to find the images that will enlighten her and allow her to find a new vision, why can’t I do the same? She took a huge risk to her reputation and sought her vision. I hope her journey proved healing as well as revealing.

I hope you will consider making your own pilgrimage this year, seeking new ways of seeing, trying out new ideas for your photography, and taking your own visual quest, wherever that may lead you.

All the best,

Tillman

 The Thin Envelope

 We have all gotten them, the long awaited reply that comes in the thin envelope. Replies from committees that arrive in thin envelopes are not, usually, the news we are hoping to hear. The rejection letters are always in thin envelopes, probably because it doesn’t take much space to say “Thanks but no thanks.” Good news comes in thick envelopes, envelopes filled with further instructions and forms needing to be filled with information. A thin envelope means you have been rejected. You’re done. The dream, for the moment, is gone and your efforts deemed unworthy. And boy, does that hurt.

This year I applied for both an artist grant and an artist-in-residency program.  The thin envelope for the grant came just the other day. I hope to hear about the residency in a few weeks.

The real question is: How do we deal with the thin envelope? It immediately has us listening to our internal demons, giving in to our doubts, asking ourselves why we continue to do this work we call art when no one seems to care. It is easy to quit if the only things we get for our effort are the thin envelopes of rejection.

We can get angry and spend our time railing against the injustices of a world that fails to recognize our genius or efforts. We can dismiss the work of those who got  “our “ grants. We can mock the committee’s choice, we can tell our friends how unjust it is. In total, we can waste our time being angry and hurt.

My graduate school mentor, John Weiss, has a great way of looking at the thin envelopes. He says that all competitions are a matter of selection and NOT rejection. The judge, jury, panel or whomever, is looking at the work for something specific.  They are selecting for their needs and desires, not rejecting everyone else. The secret is to keep applying until you find a group of jurors who agree with you.

So, my work didn’t happen to fit what the group of selectors desired for the artist grant this year. Intellectually, I talk to myself about selection rather than rejection, but the sting of rejection still hurts – for the moment. It makes it a little harder to keep making applications for other grants, fellowships, and residencies – for the moment. But only for a moment. The truth is I make my photographs because I have to. It is who I am and what I do. When the thin envelope comes, I will, for the moment, be angry at not being selected. I’ll be hurt for a short time that my work wasn’t what the jurors were looking for. But I won’t quit making my work because one day it will be exactly what a group of jurors is looking for.

Don’t quit. Keep on working.

Tillman

“It’s like obituaries, when you die they finally give you good reviews.”

Roger Maris

The first “real” critique I received as a professional photographer occurred in 1980 at the Rochester Institute of Technology Color Photojournalism Workshop. I was a very young and inexperienced newspaper photographer attending my first workshop. I didn’t know most of the teachers but I knew the publications they worked for: Associated Press, National Geographic, Washington Star, and Louisville Courier Journal. The workshop began with a full day of critique and by the end of that first day all the six instructors would critique the thirty participants.

My first critique was with Bill Strode, picture editor of the Louisville Courier Journal. It was one of the best newspapers in its use of photography and had won numerous awards over the previous few years. Bill asked who wanted to go first and, being young and stupid I said, “I would.” He asked how I wanted him to look at my portfolio and I asked if there was anything I could improve upon and what he would say if I applied for a job with his paper.

Forty-three minutes later I had my answer. The highlight of that critique was Bill holding up one print and saying, “You almost have a photograph here but you have no idea why.” At that moment I would have happily traded what little camera equipment I owned for a bus ticket home to East Tennessee – and I still had five other “big name” photographers to show my work to. I was in trouble, feeling way in over my head and out of my league. Word seemed to go out very quickly to other participants and teachers because I seemed to be treated with kid gloves for the rest of the day. I am sure they didn’t want a suicide upsetting the week. It would have been a great “photo op” but would have broken up the flow of the workshop! I don’t remember my meetings with any of the other instructors or talking to the other students that day. I was embarrassed and ashamed of my work and wanted to run and hide.

Bill pulled me aside that evening and we sat down to talk. He explained that my ego was outsized for my experience level, that I had no idea of where I stood in the world of photojournalism, and that I didn’t really understand what good photojournalism was. However, during that conversation he also gave me hope and concrete advice for ways to improve my photography. He told me the real key to being a good photographer was a simple blend of 99% hard work and 1% inspiration.

His suggestions to me included:

1. Subscribe to newspapers and magazines that do a good job using photography. Spend time each day looking at these photographs. Compare my prints, side-by-side, with those in the publications. (If I covered a football game compare my images with Sports Illustrated. I may have covered a high school game and they covered the pro game, but it is the same game. Be objective and ask myself why their photograph was better than mine.)

2. Think about what I am going to photograph before I get there. Think about camera angles and camera placement. Try to figure out where the best vantage point will be and get there early enough to be there first.

3. Figure out how different lenses “see.”

4. Work hard.

5. Take visual chances.

6. Aspire to be the best.

In essence he was telling me to do a self-critique every day. Look very hard at the best of my work and the worst. Was I in the best position for that shot? Did I use the right lens? Did I capture the peak of action? Did I care about what I was covering, the story I was telling? He gave me a pathway to success as a photographer. He pointed me in the right direction. Would I have heard his advice before I had heard his critique? I doubt it. I’m grateful for his honesty, and glad I took what he had to say to heart rather than taking that long bus ride back home.

Today when asked to critique a student’s work I always remember my own first experience. I don’t want to destroy their love of photography. Most are taking my class, not because they are or want to be professionals, but because they are passionate about making photographs and telling visual stories. They want to improve their work and so are asking for help to do so. I like to say that I am doing a “review” rather than a “critique.” I do this one-on-one, two photographers looking at work together. It is a conversation about images and, I stress, it’s only my opinion. I can’t get your images into a museum collection, a major show, or hire you to work for me. I can look at work and tell you how I relate to it.

The best review of your work is often a self-critique. Here are a few ideas for a regular self-critique based on what Bill Strode told me:

1. Find your best 10 images and place them where you can see them every day. Spend time looking at them.

2. Find work that inspires you and look at it every day. Compare your work to that work. Look critically at the two and figure out the differences that make one inspirational and the other not so.

3. When you are going out to photograph, think about where you are going and what images you want to make. Think about what you expect to find and how you want to capture it.

4. Understand your equipment inside and out by using it. Know how each lens “sees” and learn how to use these differences in your photographs.

5. Think about your photography every day. Ask yourself “why” you make the choices to photograph the subjects in the way you do.

6. Work hard. Be willing to make bad images to find good ones.

7. Be your own harshest critic as well as your own best friend. You know your work better than anyone else. If you study the history of photography, become aware of what is happening in contemporary photography and follow your own muse then anything the rest of us say about your work can be a conversation, a dialogue, rather than a torture session.

8. Aspire to be the best.

Work hard, find the best of the best to compare your work to and critique your work regularly. You will make better photographs.

Have a great summer!

Tillman

“I haven’t failed; I have found 10,000 ways that don’t work.” Thomas Alva Edison

Failure. Not a word any of us likes, but it is an important word nonetheless. Our failures as artists are important. Our failures mean we tried, we searched and we risked something. It can also mean we have a sense of discernment; we can look at our work either as individual pieces or as an entire project and discover success or failure.

If we can’t acknowledge failure then we can’t truly recognize success. As artists we should know when something works and meets our ideals or when something fails to meet those standards.  Those who don’t create failures are those who continue to recreate what has already been successful for them. They quit growing and maturing as artists. Not all projects succeed. Some fail, some never begin, some disappoint, and some need re-thinking.

We had a lot of snow this winter and it stayed around. When driveways were shoveled, parking lots cleared and streets plowed the snow became heaped into great piles. The pile at the end of my driveway was almost as tall as the garage. The ones in parking lots were often twenty feet or taller! I wanted to photograph all this snow in a different way. These huge piles of snow interested me because they were structures built by man out of snow, temporary, fleeting, evolving. I set out to find the beauty and uniqueness in these structures, to photograph Maine-artica.

I decided to use my 8×10 and 5×7 pinhole cameras. Both of these are extremely wide-angle cameras so they would enhance the size and scale of the “bergs” and their extreme depth of field would provide plenty of sharpness for the object to be recognizable. In addition they would be easy to use on cold winter days. I spent January and February photographing the “icebergs” and ice trails in the area. The result: after shooting and processing nearly one hundred sheets of film, little of it excited me.  I haven’t found that signature image that informs me where the project is going or even if the idea was working visually. I went into this project with some ideas of what I wanted the images to be. However, the images I created didn’t match my preconceived ideas or my expectations. Is this project a failure or does it need re-thinking?

I also worked on two other projects recently. Last fall I spent a week in western New York photographing and scouting along the Erie Canal, photographing along the remains of the original Erie Canal as well as the new canal from Lockport to Seneca Falls. I went on this trip with no expectations, just curious about what I would find. After processing the film I was excited by some of the images I had made. I am determined to continue shooting along the canal and to lead a workshop there in October of 2012. It is going to be a great workshop location, so make a note to join me!

In addition to the Maine-artica project I wanted to find a project I could shoot indoors this winter. I began thinking about the artists’ studios I photographed in my visits to Orkney and it dawned on me that we have a wealth of artists here in Maine, too. I decided to explore the places where creativity lives, where art is made, where artists work. I have gone into each studio without expectations or a plan, simply observing and looking for what makes each studio, art form, and artist unique. One artist noted, “It’s like letting you inside my head; a frightening thing.”  Jewelers, sculptors, paper artists, metalsmiths, felt artists, potters and clay artists have let me spend a few hours with my cameras in their working space this winter. It has been a wonderful experience for me and it has kept me making new work through the dark of another Maine winter. For now, I have no idea where it will lead me.

Three projects “in process,” one of which didn’t meet my expectations.  Have I failed, as in “abandon the project” or do I set about re-thinking this project through? Perhaps, to paraphrase Thomas Edison, “I made 100 images that didn’t work.” I have all summer to ponder this and be ready to search for Maine-artica when the snow flies again next winter.

Have a great spring!

Tillman