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PREFACE:
IT’S ELEMENTAL

ONE FACT THAT IS NOT IN DISPUTE IS THAT THERE IS A…GULF BETWEEN ART AND COMMERCIAL PHOTOGRAPHY, BETWEEN PROFESSORS AND PROFESSIONALS. —BILL JAY FROM OCCAM’S RAZOR

I began the first edition with a discussion of the dichotomy existing between commercial and fine art photographic practices. (Although commercial photographers are commonly referred to as “professional photographers,” I avoid the term because both commercial and fine art photographers are professionals in the field.) The response was notably mixed among educators, commercial photographers, fine artists, and students, at times turning into impassioned polarized debate. Much of the debate centered on how photographic practices are defined and what I meant by “fine art.” I decided I hadn’t provided clear distinctions in the first edition, so I’ll attempt to do so here. Consider this: commercial photography can be defined as any work created with commerce as its primary goal (hence the shared root word). This includes most photography from advertising to editorial, consumer portraits to high fashion, architecture to public relations, and corporate and decorative art made to adorn public and private spaces. Under this definition, commercial photographers are like prose writers—their work has commercial or functional value in society. Commercial photography has direct, tangible economic value; its purpose in many ways is to provide images for its intended contribution to society. Fine art photography, on the other hand, can be defined as any work created with poetic, self-expressive, research, or innovative use of visual language as its primary goal. This includes most museum, academic, and documentary photography. Under this definition, fine artists are like their academic and research counterparts in any other field, but whereas these researchers express their theses’, findings, and conclusions using written language, fine artists express them using visual language. The purpose of fine art, like other research, is to increase our knowledge, to promote positive social change, and to contribute to humankind’s collective growth, understanding, and wisdom. As such, the commercial value of fine art photography is often secondary, although many fine artists can and do profit from their work through display in galleries and museums, and through commercial and editorial use gained by marketing.

Unfortunately, the commercial versus fine art dichotomy is perpetuated via the historically prevalent model of photography education; and while the exception is becoming more the rule, many educators still advocate one discipline’s value over others. I believe that hierarchical positions regarding fine art and commercial photographic practices are detrimental to students’ success, but I want to take a moment to clarify my position for those who feel my critique is too harsh.

I’ll begin by stating that I don’t advocate abandoning programs or curricula that adhere to a single, specific discipline. Photography encompasses a vast field of practices, and as such a range of educational philosophies helps to maintain a healthy and diverse professional dialogue; this includes concentrated programs of study whose goal is to graduate students with specific expertise. Second, I’ll state that this book is for the entire range of photography practitioners, and although photographic language is based on technical attributes that all camera-made images share, there are some practices I don’t discuss. Specifically, in scientific, biomedical, and forensic fields, objectivity supersedes any commercial, expressive, or subjective use of the medium. This is true for photojournalism as well, although enlightening, expressive, highly emotive photojournalistic and scientific images are made every day in which degrees of objectivity are maintained.

The commercial versus fine art definitions can be illustrated through an analogy of two types of written language: prose and literature. Just like uses for photographs, there are a multitude of uses for written language. If, for instance, I need a technical manual to help me operate a piece of machinery, then I don’t want it written in poetic form. I don’t want to learn about its history or potential existential meaning. I need the manual’s author to use straightforward language, and I need the information to be clearly delineated so that I can use and troubleshoot the machine. Similarly, if I want to read a biography of the historical figure who invented said machine, I don’t want the author to embellish about the inventor’s life; I want to trust in the accuracy of the author’s written word so that I have a clear picture of the inventor and perhaps draw my own conclusions about her. On the other hand literature, a novel or poem, say, written about the same inventor, could be characterized by its imaginative, metaphoric, or inventive use of the same language applied to the author’s research and interpretation. I might read said literature for enjoyment or to enlighten my understanding of the nature of invention, machines, or anything the writer related to the inventor. All types of written language—from technical manuals to biographies to literature—are constructed using the same grammatical rules and the same vocabulary, but each serves its own purpose in the world. There is no hierarchical structure; they simply serve to achieve different goals. This analogy is good to keep in mind when referring to photographic practices.

The observation that throughout photography’s history practitioners have been segregated into commercial or fine art practices is not new. Since the medium’s invention, photographers have taken great pride in their type of practice, to the point of disavowing contributions made by photographers on “the other side of the aisle.” But in the 21st century, where the odds of success necessitate that photographers diversify their practice to ever greatening degrees, the dichotomy is becoming increasingly detrimental. The constant dissemination of innumerable images via the Internet and social media, film and television, print media and advertising, galleries and arts organizations, as well as an increasingly global culture has created a generation of photographers who don’t feel constrained by discrete disciplinary boundaries. Their approach to photographic practice reflects the expansive melting pot of influence in which they were raised.

But counter to this contemporary model of photographic practice, a vast number of commercial practitioners still fail when vying for art world representation, and an equal number of fine artists fail when trying to support themselves in the commercial fields. One reason for this is that their photography program adhered to a single disciplinary line, with commercial schools concentrating on technical training and business operations, and fine art schools concentrating on aesthetics, theory, and interdisciplinary education. This approach is ideal in some instances because specialized education enables graduates to rapidly advance in a specific field of photography. One drawback to this approach, however, is that in a diversified contemporary marketplace, graduates’ chances of success decline without the useful carryover of techniques and ideas between disciplines. Taken to the extreme, photographers emerging from narrowly focused programs practice photography in relative ignorance of the myriad ways in which the medium’s “other half” could inform and enhance their work, and all viewers suffer from the unexplored potential.

Graduates from commercial schools are adept at using the most complex, state-of-the-art equipment and materials; they produce images demonstrating perfect technical execution with eye-catching style. But many of their best photographs lack substantive meaning, and at worst they miscommunicate because these graduates were under-educated in the areas of art history, visual literacy, critical theory, and aesthetics. To quote the conceptual fine art photographer Misha Gordin, “The poor concept, perfectly executed, still makes a poor photograph.” On the other side of the educational spectrum, fine art school graduates fully understand the theoretical and historical underpinnings of photographic work; they produce images filled with insight, passion, depth, and meaning. But many of their best photographs lack sophisticated technical accomplishment because they are underpracticed in the medium’s technique, mechanics, equipment, and materials. Technically poor images are like poems written with poor grammar—they may have volumes of insight to convey, but they have difficulty doing it successfully. To paraphrase Misha Gordin, the blend of talent to create a concept and the technical skill to deliver it is necessary for making successful photographs.

To complicate matters, the advent and rapid evolution of digital technology has created a relatively new fissure within photographic practice, this one based on photographic media itself. Reflecting this, many academic programs have been forced to choose between two discrete light-sensitive media—traditional or digital—the majority choosing digital. The decision is in part based on their need to maintain relevance within their particular discipline or industry, but it’s also due to the unavoidable financial pressures that bear on academic institutions such as hiring for faculty expertise, limited curricular time to cover a vast amount of material, and space limitations for darkroom and digital facilities. Many programs (and practitioners) have chosen to adopt an either/or approach, suggesting that abandoning traditional for digital media will advance those leaders who embrace it and retire those relics who don’t. But this approach can limit the medium’s collective advancement in several ways. First, students tend to learn and practice only the technologies available to them through their academic program, so the unique visual outcomes of alternative media options often go unconsidered even after they graduate. Also, an either/or approach neglects careful examination of the broader potential offered by both. Maintaining a balance between technical and aesthetic, traditional and digital, historical and contemporary, provides solutions allowing more expansive use of the medium.

In addition to polarized academic approaches and the proliferation of new media, many students unwittingly set themselves up for failure in a particular branch of photography because they are unfamiliar with the dichotomy when they enter a college program. Every professor knows scores of students who did not consciously choose the type of photography program they found themselves in. That is, they did not make informed decisions by sufficiently defining their future goals and applying to institutions that, through research, they learned would best help them to meet those goals. Two years and tens of thousands of tuition dollars later these students begin to understand what direction they wish to take in their photography career. Unfortunately, too many of them simultaneously discover that they are not in a program specifically designed to get them there.

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IMAGE © ANGELA FARIS BELT, LIGHTS, 2008.

So what’s the good news? The negative effects of these combined problems—polarized academic emphases, the pressure to adopt solely digital media, and students’ unknowing of the range of programs and potential careers in photography—can all be mitigated through courses that simultaneously balance and broaden the way we engage in photographic practices. One way to accomplish this is through courses that integrate hands-on practice in photographic technique with simultaneous study of how the inherent visual outcomes create meaning. By engaging a more holistic approach to photography education, graduates emerge armed with sound knowledge of the range of available tools, are historically and conceptually informed, and are better able to define and redefine the emphasis of their photographic practice throughout their careers.

This book provides such a course. It allows practitioners to gain a better-rounded, contemporarily relevant education in the medium. Originally designed as an intermediate-level portfolio development course, The Elements of Photography solidifies technical skills while deepening conceptual awareness and expanding visual literacy. Based on four immutable elements (outlined in the Introduction) inherent to the making of all photographic images, this course remains successful even as photographic materials continue to change and evolve. How is this possible? Because the principles that make a photograph, well, photographic, never change.

The approach outlined in this book, which anyone can learn, is based on a single theory: photography is a unique form of visual language based on a specific technical grammar. Anyone who studies a language intently begins to understand its grammatical structure and can use it to communicate more precisely. A photographer with a curious and conceptual mind who understands the grammar of photographic language can effectively use it to share insights and interests. The most successful fine art and commercial photographers—those whose work has the power to enlighten and educate, to persuade and advance change, and to heighten our perception of people, places, events, and things—share a common characteristic: their work acknowledges that the power of photographic image making lies in the interconnection between the medium’s technical structure and its visual outcomes. When photographers learn to integrate technique and aesthetics, they become better able to create successful, meaningful images in any branch of the profession.

This book examines four elements specific to every image created through the action of light. These elements form what I call the grammar of photographic language, because they constitute the technical foundation, as well as dictate the visual outcome, of all photographic images. They are: the photographic frame and its borders, the aperture or lens and its effects on focus and depth of field, shutter speed and its effects relative to time and motion, and the physical media used to create the aggregate image. Together these elements answer a three-part question that defines the essence of photographic language: “What are the essential technical elements inherent to photographic image making, how do those elements dictate discrete visual outcomes, and what meanings do those outcomes suggest in relation to the subject?” To fully mine the medium’s potential, these grammatical elements must be expertly addressed by photographers, regardless of media choice and the intended use of the images.

I have shared this course and its methods with a broad audience of educators through the first edition of this book, and the quality of their students’ images and growth in understanding have been as impressive as that of my own students. Using this book helps educators to bridge the institutional gap between technical and fine art practices, as well as the gap between traditional and digital media, and helps to ensure that students receive a comprehensive education in photography that will serve them well in any branch of the profession they gravitate toward. But this book isn’t only for college photography students; self-taught and practicing professionals have also used it to broaden their approach to image-making, and they’ve done so with excellent results.

This second edition expands greatly on the first, and is organized to allow beginning photographers easy entry to the principles outlined within. The format of this book, its principles and content are outlined in the Introduction. Also found there is advice about how you can gain the most from the reading and the practical exercises. As you embark on this photographic exploration, remember to enjoy the process as you celebrate your progress!

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