Another shot from Sconce and Devon park. Obviously, it’s a reflection, but I’ve turned it topsy-turvy to give it a slightly disconcerting, slightly surreal, feel. I never can resist a good reflection and I never get tired of them – I doubt I ever will.
This set me wondering why so many of us like water reflections so much. I did a bit of Googling, with the first result being an academic paper which came to the conclusion that people like reflections in water better than they do in glass, and they like reflective water better than they do clear water, and so it’s probably a good idea to incorporate ponds into garden design. That really didn’t help much.
Maybe I wasn’t using the best search terms, but I couldn’t find anything much on this topic at all. There was quite a lot on mirrors and their symbolism, and lots of stuff on the symbolism of water, but nothing on the psychology of why we’re drawn to reflections in water. Even John Suler’s online book Photographic Psychology: Image and Psyche, which is my go-to place for this sort of thing, had very little to say on the subject. However, he did point out that reflections in water span the boundaries between what our brain recognises as real or unreal – perhaps there’s some kind of attraction in that liminal space: a dreaminess, an other-worldliness. It seems strange to me that so little is known about something so widespread.
Just after I posted about using limitations to enhance creativity, I came across this TED talk from Phil Hansen, called ‘Embrace the Shake’. He thought his art career was over when he developed a tremor in his hands, but it turned out to be the start of something much bigger and better – but only once he’d accepted and embraced his limitations. It’s well worth ten minutes of your time.
Over the other side of Newark, there’s a park called the Sconce and Devon Park. Its main feature is the Queen’s Sconce, a large and impressive earthwork defence used during the Civil War, but off to the side there’s a riverside trail with natural meadows. The river is called the Devon – pronounced Dee-von – and in spite of the distant but obvious sound of traffic on the A46, it’s quite idyllic down there. I went there on one of the few warm and sunny days we’ve had this year, and this scene reminded me of Monet-style waterlilies, with its soft tones and mixture of sharp and soft.
As time goes on I’m building myself a kind of creative manifesto: a set of fundamental principles that work to enhance my creativity. I think these principles are helpful to everyone, not just to me, and the idea came to me to bring them together in this space and explore them one by one. The first in this series was about cultivating boredom.
There’s a certain overlap between ‘restrict choices’ and ‘cultivate boredom’, but enough significant differences to make it a separate item. We’re inclined to think that it’s great to have lots of choices, and it does feel good, but in fact it works against our creativity. Too much choice can freeze us like a rabbit in the headlights, or perhaps more accurately, like Buridan’s Ass. Buridan’s Ass was hungry and was placed midway between two bales of hay, each of them equally tempting. He couldn’t decide which one to go for, as there was no obvious better choice, so he stood there in indecision until he eventually starved to death. I can relate to this.
Choice, in photography and other parts of life, is reasonably easy when one choice stands out as being better than the others. However, when faced with a number of choices that are equally appealing, it’s so much harder to decide and you can easily end up doing nothing, or trying to do it all. Which location should you visit, which lens should you use, which camera body should you take, which filters, which bag should you put it all into? Setting restrictions – ie, reducing choices – can eliminate a lot of the decision-making and release our creative spirit.
Not sure? How about this quote from Stephen Sondheim:
‘If you told me to write a love song tonight, I’d have a lot of trouble. But if you tell me to write a love song about a girl with a red dress who goes into a bar and is on her fifth martini and is falling off her chair, that’s a lot easier, and it makes me free to say anything I want.’ (Stephen Sondheim)
Paradoxically, less choice can actually make you more free. It gives you a starting place, a foundation on which to build, and then sets you free to do whatever you like with that. If I said to you ‘go and make a great photograph of anything you like’, you’d probably feel confused and lost. If I said ‘use a 50mm lens to take a great black and white photo of a tree’ you’d be far more likely to come up with the goods. And because these restrictions would be quite limiting, you’d end up looking for ways in which you could make it more interesting, and thereby get a lot more creative.
I’ve been lucky enough – and I do use that word deliberately – to have had a lot of restrictions enforced on me. Chronic financial problems have meant that for the past eight years I’ve had one camera body and one zoom lens, plus a Lensbaby. I haven’t had the money to travel to exotic places, or even anywhere different, and so I’ve mostly been restricted to what’s on my doorstep. I may have felt intensely frustrated by this at times, but I’ve come to realise that it’s worked in my favour. It’s forced me to really look at my surroundings and see them differently, and to use what equipment I have to its full capacity, and that’s been a real gift.
Many wonderful images and some new techniques have arisen out of limitations. Ernst Haas is known for being a forerunner in the area of intentional camera movement – see some of his ICM work here – but this happened because of the limitations of colour photography at that time. It was impossible to get a fast enough shutter speed to freeze the action, so instead of railing against this, or giving up on the idea, he went with it and explored the possibilities. The resulting pictures were radically different and original for their time.
Andre Kertesz, another hero of mine, was confined most of the time by age and infirmity to his New York flat. His wife had died and he was heartbroken, lonely, and had given up photography. One day he bought a little glass bust that reminded him of his wife, and that coincided with the gift of a Polaroid camera from a friend. He began to photograph the bust on the window-ledge of his room and this ultimately led to a collection of small and very beautiful gem-like images which were later collected into the book Andre Kertesz: The Polaroids. Although he later introduced other elements into these images, he started with only three things: a Polaroid camera, a glass bust, and a window-ledge. And just to remind us of the therapeutic power of photography, this is what he had to say about it:
‘I began shooting slowly, slowly, slowly. But soon, going crazy. I worked mornings and late afternoons. With the morning light, the sky is nice, and in the later afternoon full of variations. I would come out in the morning and begin shooting, shooting, shooting; no time to eat. I discover the time has gone, and no breakfast. The same in the afternoon….I forget my medicine. Suddenly I’m losing myself, losing pain, losing hunger, and yes, losing the sadness.’
Kertesz continued to photograph until his death, six years later, leaving behind this one last powerful body of work, which I was lucky enough to see in person at the Royal Academy a few years ago.
Many years ago I read an article about photographers with physical disabilities, including one who had Parkinson’s and valiantly struggled to hold his camera still enough to get a sharp shot. The article was very touching, but I wondered at the time why he didn’t exploit the shakiness, which would have resulted in something original, instead of fighting it so that he could produce the same sort of thing as everybody else. Some limitations are thrust on us, and some we choose. Either way, it can be a very positive thing.
Accepting and working with limitations that you haven’t chosen yourself is very much in the ethos of contemplative photography. Accept them, open yourself to the possibilities, and wait for them to give you their gift – there will be one. Imposing limitations deliberately is a more calculated approach, but equally effective and perhaps a bit easier on the acceptance front – if it doesn’t work out for you you can always try something else and, whatever else, the experience will be valuable.
Exploit your natural limitations – where do you see yourself as lacking in your photographic practice? Is there some way in which you can work with this and make something of it? Personally I’m not good at sharpness, so I’ve gone down the route of softness and blur – something I tend to prefer, anyway. On the other hand, I have a photographer friend whom I’ve always envied because her images are so beautifully sharp and clear, only to find out that she felt unable to produce the kind of blurry stuff that comes easily to me. I’m also hopeless at getting horizons straight – no matter how hard I try it rarely works out – so I often leave them out and concentrate on more intimate shots.
Exploit your lack of gear – only got one lens? or an ancient camera? Push it to its limits and find out what you can do with it. There’s a reason why many people love Holgas and other ‘toy’ cameras – they’re among the worst and most technically limited cameras you can buy but they can also be the most fun and the most creative.
Exploit your neighbourhood – if you’re stuck where you are, look at where you live as if you’re a visitor to the area. How does that change the way you see it? For inspiration, read Alexandra Horowitz’ book, On Seeing, in which she takes a look at her own neighbourhood through the eyes of some very different people and begins to see things she never saw before. A simple exercise is to try various physical perspectives – what does it look like from a very low, or a high, viewpoint? How does it look driving through it? Or cycling? How would it look to a dog, a Martian, a baby in a pram, someone from another continent? What would they notice that you don’t?
Work with the weather and light – instead of waiting for what’s normally regarded as good light, work with whatever light you have and whatever weather happens. Rain, and grey flat light? – go out anyway and see what rain does to colours and surfaces. Harsh bright sunlight? – look at shadows, intentional lens flare, sparkles and bokeh. Wind? – try to capture the movement. The key is to accept whatever weather or light you’re presented with, and figure out how you can work with it.
Explore one subject or theme – this is my favourite sort of restriction. It’s too easy to get a great shot of something and then pass onto the next thing. Sticking with one theme forces you to explore, to stretch yourself, and to produce more creative work. It has to be something that interests you enough to keep you persevering, and it has to offer a lot of different options and ways of interpreting it. My 52 Trees project is one example of this.
Restrict your equipment – choose just one lens and keep it on your camera for a month. What happens when you have to take all your shots with it? If you have a zoom lens, pick a focal length and tape the lens so that it can’t be moved from that, and take every shot with that focal length. Rather than adapt the camera/lens to what you want to do, adapt yourself to what it’s able to do at that focal length. You could also choose just one camera – perhaps something you wouldn’t normally use, like a point-and-shoot compact, or a phone camera, and see what you can do with that. Something else that works for some people is to restrict the number of shots they can take – inserting a small memory card with limited space on it might make you think harder about what you choose to shoot, and work more slowly. I have to admit this one doesn’t work for me – I end up taking nothing at all because I’m so anxious about using up my limited space – but it might be different for you.
Stick to one area – it’s up to you how big or small you make it, but the biggest rewards often come from the biggest restrictions. You could choose a park, a small area of countryside, a river, the street your home is on, your garden, a city block, a building, a bridge, or anything else that takes your fancy. Having just come up with it, I rather like the idea of a bridge – so many possibilities, like the bridge itself, whatever runs underneath, the people and vehicles that use it, how it appears at different times of day, and so on. Another idea is to photograph out of one window – I’ve done this many times and found it surprisingly rewarding. If you really want to stretch yourself with a limited location, Freeman Patterson uses an exercise where he gets his workshop participants to throw a hoop at random, then photograph only what can be found within the hoop.
The images in this post were taken either while it was raining or shortly afterwards, in a small area in and around the market square in Newark.
I know, I missed a week – I wasn’t feeling well, then my cat got sick, then my internet connection disappeared. Eventually I surrendered and accepted that it just wasn’t meant to be. I’ve taken on far too much lately. My Airbnb room has been booked almost solidly, and I now have a long-term booking till September. The long-term thing is a relief, as I’ll only have to clean and change sheets once a week, and I’m not doing breakfast at all.
I have this weekend to get through before that, however, and it’s typical of what I’ve been doing over the last 2-3 months. I have someone staying at the moment, till Thursday, then he leaves at lunchtime and my next guests turn up at 3.00pm. They stay till Saturday morning, and another guest arrives Saturday lunchtime. Then she leaves on Sunday morning and my long-term guest is installed sometime on Sunday afternoon.
Sometimes I feel like I do nothing much other than change beds, wash sheets, iron, clean, and shop, but I’m also still working in the library and doing occasional photography work for the Town Hall Museum, as well as tending the rest of the house, looking after our large garden, keeping the rabbits and the cat alive, maintaining some sort of social life, and trying to keep up with blog posts. Oh yes, and squeezing in the occasional bit of photography. Frankly, I’m tired.
It’s not just the physical work that tires me, it’s the fact that, as an introvert, it’s very wearing for me to have strangers constantly in the house. I’m a very sociable introvert, and I do enjoy meeting the huge variety of people that visit, but sometimes I long to be able to do what I want to do without having to think about how it will impact on my guests. I long to be able to go down to the kitchen in the morning and make a cup of tea, without having to put on my hostess face and make conversation. I long to be able to take a shower when I feel like it, rather than working around my guests’ schedules. I long to be able to go to bed and leave the kitchen in a mess until the morning. Most of all, I long just to be in the house on my own for a while without any obligations.
Normally I make sure I have some gaps between bookings, and this has kept me sane over the last year or so of hosting, but an offer I couldn’t refuse – of an ongoing Sunday to Thursday let – has filled in all the gaps and given me no respite. My home no longer feels like my sanctuary, but more like a workplace with no off-duty hours. Unable ever to switch off completely, I have worn myself down and worn myself out, so I’ve made the decision now to rent the room on a more long-term basis and hopefully free myself up to concentrate on those things that really matter to me. The potential income is less, but it’s enough, and the lifting of pressure should more than make up for it.
Since this is all about what’s been happening on the domestic front, this week’s image continues on a domestic theme. There’s a beautiful silver birch tree just outside the kitchen window, and in the evenings the sun shines through it, projecting the movement, light and shadow of its leaves and branches onto the kitchen wall. It just so happened to work rather nicely with the green wall and the red tea cloth.
On a technical note, the combination of strongly contrasting light and shade and that dreaded red colour, make this a difficult choice of subject. There are two areas where the highlights have blown somewhat – one bright spot near the top left, and an area of the red cloth near the bottom. (Oddly enough, the other bright spot to the right of the towels hasn’t actually blown, although you might think it had.) Short of using HDR, there really isn’t any way round this – maintaining the detail in the highlights would leave the overall exposure too dark. However, I might have been able to claw back more of the detail in the blown areas if I could have worked with the Raw files – still haven’t got round to buying a new version of Elements!
I subscribe to an excellent online photography magazine called On Landscape. Each issue they publish four sets of four photos on a theme, from four different photographer/subscribers, and a little while ago I sent my four off with fingers firmly crossed. I didn’t hear anything for weeks, and guessed that they hadn’t been accepted – disappointing, but the standard is high and I wasn’t totally sure that I met it. However, next thing I knew, I got an email from the magazine saying they’d been published!
It’s the first time I’ve tried to do anything like this. Posting photos on my blog or on Flickr feels safe, as basically people who don’t like them will usually just go somewhere else. I’m not terribly good at handling rejection, even on the minor level of not being accepted by a magazine, so it took a bit of courage for me to put these images out there. I’m so glad I did. It’s given me a real confidence boost and has encouraged me to try again elsewhere.
It was surprisingly difficult to get the entry together. First of all, I had to choose what I thought were the best shots out of over a hundred similar ones. Not being great at decision making, that was tough enough, but the hardest part of it was making sure that they all held together and looked like a set. This meant that they all had to be taken from roughly the same focal length – it would have looked strange to have some very close-up and some at a distance – and they all had to have the same sorts of tones and processing, which was the really difficult bit. In the end I had to re-do them all so that they worked as a coherent set.
I now feel like trying again in other places – I figure that having had one success will sweeten the blow if I don’t get anywhere with subsequent ones. I’m feeling braver. I’ve now entered the same set of four, plus an additional two, into a book project/competition called Seeing in Sixes which is running under the auspices of Lenswork Magazine. The photographers who’re chosen will have their images printed in a six-page spread in the resulting book. I’ve included the additional two images here – the first four are the original choices for On Landscape, and the last two are the extra ones that make up the six for Seeing in Sixes. Wish me luck.
This is the first image I’ve posted that’s been taken with my new Sony a6000 – I finally got it about two weeks ago, and have been getting used to it since then. I knew my old camera inside-out and could adjust settings without even looking or stopping to think, so it feels like going backwards a little. In fact, I deleted all the pictures I took on my first outing with it, as it was more a case of getting used to it than trying to do anything artistic. But I’m getting there, and the camera itself is brilliant.
It’s so much smaller and lighter than my previous one, while at the same time having far greater low-light capability, a lot more pixels to play with, and extra options I haven’t even investigated yet. As my old camera is so old that it’s worth nothing now, I’m going to keep the body and use it as a dedicated Lensbaby camera, meaning that I can simply grab it and know it’s all ready to go instead of the faff of changing lenses and altering settings.
One of my problems with the new camera at the moment is that the version of Elements I’ve got won’t recognise and process the RAW files. Normally this isn’t an issue and you just download a little bit of software to update it, but my version of Elements is so old that it’s not supported any more. This means that until I buy a newer version, which I’ll have to do soon, I can only work with the jpeg files. It’s surprising how frustrating this is, as I know I can get much better results working with RAW.
The viewfinder of the a6000 is beautifully bright and clear – that is, until you’re in a poppy field in very bright light and your photo sensitive glasses have significantly darkened (next time I change my glasses I’m going clear)…………..it was almost impossible to see anything – couldn’t see which settings I was changing or what they were doing, couldn’t see what was in the frame, couldn’t see the resulting image on the LCD screen, and felt as if I were shooting blind. The results were surprisingly acceptable, considering.
This was my desperate attempt at the weekend to find something for my tree post this week, as I’ve failed to produce anything new the last couple of weeks and have relied on my backlog from the New Forest. This field is a couple of miles up the road, and last year the poppies were so spectacular that cars were continually nipping into the nearby layby so that their occupants could stop to take a proper look. This year, not so much, but there are still plenty of poppies. This image is really more about the poppies than the tree, but it does need the tree – try blocking out the tree with your fingers and you’ll see it loses something. The two images below are more what I had in mind, as the tree is more important in the frame, and I wanted to get across the idea of the poppies being sheltered by it. However, the first has an unwelcome smudge of lens flare, and the second isn’t the best composed, so I opted for the less interesting but undoubtedly cheerful image at the top of the post.
Another image from the New Forest this week. I saw this little tree growing in a clearing, surrounded by the other bigger trees who almost looked like they were protecting and taking care of it. I liked the ferns that surrounded it, too – they appear to be leaning towards the tree ever so slightly, and the tree echoes their shapes. It looks to me like it’s dancing with its friends while the adults look tolerantly on.
To the eye, the small sapling stood out clearly and even looked spotlit by the sun. However, when I saw the picture onscreen the little tree merged too much into the background and didn’t clearly take centre stage, which was how I wanted to show it. What to do? First of all I softened the image slightly using the Orton technique which, applied subtly, made the greens richer and emphasised the contrast in dark and shade a bit more. Then I added a vignette to the corners to darken them and thus make the brightly lit tree stand out. I think it’s worked.
It’s been another very busy week. I had an Airbnb guest staying all week, then friends staying Friday night, then relatives arriving Saturday morning and staying over as well, so there’s been an awful lot of laundry, bed-making, cleaning, and food shopping going on, as well as serious attempts to conquer the garden before it becomes completely impossible to get up the path that runs through it. I also had a day at Patchings Art Fair where I managed to catch the last ten minutes of Valda Bailey giving a talk, and on Saturday we went to Southwell Folk Festival, of which more in a later post.
While all this was going on, I was trying to put together an entry for Seeing in Sixes – a competition/book project asking for submissions of six themed images, with the successful entrants having their images published in a book. The deadline for entries is the day this post appears, and as this is another very busy week I’m not sure if I’ll get it done in time. I also have a backlog of pictures and blog posts in the queue, some of which I’ve even started to write but have never got back to since then. These things seem to operate like the life equivalent of chilled butter – it’s impossible to spread them nice and evenly around and instead they form into awkward clumps where there’s either too much or too little. I guess that’s just the way it goes.
Cheating slightly again this week, as this photo was taken while I was away in the New Forest a couple of weeks ago. It’s been an unusually busy week, so I’ve had no chance to get out and about. Among other things, I had a photography job to do for the Newark Town Hall Museum which I was rather dreading – quite rightly, as it turned out. I had to photograph forty-five, mostly glass-fronted, prints and drawings, in a storeroom with a mixture of lighting sources and hardly any space to move or set anything up.
The problem, of course, was reflections in the glass, and it took an hour and a half just to find a set-up that minimised the reflections. I would have much preferred to scan them, as that works brilliantly, but most of them were too big to fit the scanner. In the end, the pictures were hung, one at a time, on a metal grid that divided one part of the room from another, my tripod was wedged into the space between that and a metal shelving unit behind, so tightly that the legs wouldn’t fully expand. I had to drape the metal shelving with a large navy-blue fleece throw to prevent reflections coming from it and there wasn’t room for me to get behind the camera so I had to use the LCD screen to shoot, peering into it from the side.
Every image is going to need serious straightening out in post-processing, but it was impossible to frame accurately in that situation so I just left a wide margin around the edges so that I have some leeway to crop and straighten I can honestly say I never want to have to work in those sorts of conditions again! However, I did get the shots and there’s only the tiniest bit of reflected light showing in one or two of them.
I felt rather fraught when I got home, and was cursing the whole reflection problem, but reflections are normally something I like very much and the kind found in the image above calms me down rather than winds me up – evening light on the little stream just down the road from our holiday barn.
As time goes on I’m building myself a kind of creative manifesto: a set of fundamental principles that work to enhance my creativity. I think these principles are helpful to everyone, not just to me, and the idea came to me the other night – I couldn’t sleep – to bring them together in this space and explore them one by one. This week I’m going to look at the idea of cultivating boredom.
It’s not the first time I’ve mentioned this approach, but my recent trip to the New Forest really brought it home to me – visiting a new and lovely place rarely produces anything with which I’m particularly satisfied. When I stopped and thought about it, my most interesting and original work (at least in my own eyes) has all been done in places that are so familiar to me that I’ve become quite bored with them. Now intuitively this doesn’t seem right. Surely it’s much easier to be inspired by beautiful or unusual places and things? You’d think so, wouldn’t you? And certainly, places like that feel so much more inspiring and exciting. But here’s the thing: you get so blinded by how lovely/interesting/exotic everything is that you’re no longer able to properly see it.
When every view is a ready-made picture postcard, it’s hard to see beyond that, and it actually becomes much more difficult to develop an individual ‘take’ on it. But when you’ve been somewhere more than once, and you’ve seen all the obvious things to see there, you’re likely to become bored and a bit blasé about it no matter how lovely it all is. At this point a little bit of magic can happen.
The ‘monkey mind’ (to borrow a Buddhist phrase) has a short attention span, doesn’t like being bored, and will do what it can to avoid it. In terms of photography that means it will try to get you to go somewhere else that’s more immediately entertaining, or it will make you give up because ‘there’s nothing here’ – however it goes about things, it will do whatever it can to get you to present it with something that contains more novelty and excitement, or at the very least, it will get you to stop subjecting it to what’s in front of it at the moment. Mostly we don’t persevere beyond this point, and so we never see what can happen when we do.
If we don’t give in to our monkey mind’s demands for novelty and stimulation, it metaphorically goes off in a sulk and shuts down. There will then be an interlude where we feel a kind of blankness, or boredom. If we stick with it, at this point another part of our mind kicks in and it’s this part that holds our real creative power. I can vouch for this, and I’ll give you some examples of what happens when you allow the boredom to happen. I’ve often found myself in situations where, for various reasons, I’m pretty much stuck with what’s in front of me, and so I’ve been forced to persevere when I might not otherwise have done so. I’ll give you some examples.
The image at the top of the post, and the one immediately above, are part of a series I took of oily water in ditches. I was out walking in a wet, grey day, in the vast, empty space of the Dee Estuary, feeling flat and bored (of course). When I stopped fighting the boredom and allowed myself to feel it and accept it, I suddenly noticed the wonderful colours in the oil that polluted some of the drainage ditches. I ended up taking many walks after that, specifically to photograph these, and developed a bit of an obsession with the whole thing. Initially I saw small abstract landscapes in the oil pollution, like the one at the beginning of the post; subsequently I concentrated more on simple colour and shape – as in the image above.
Another grey day, drizzling, and I didn’t have time to go far from the house. After taking some very dull shots of nothing very much and feeling fed up again, something made me look down and I saw some pretty blue flowers lying in the gutter. This was the start of a whole series I called ‘Fallen’. I started with blossom and then extended my range to include anything natural lying on a man-made surface, and even to this day I still take the occasional ‘Fallen’ shot if I see something I can’t resist.
More recently, after taking so many walks round a small local lake that I was thoroughly bored with the whole thing, I started noticing patterns in water, and became quite fascinated with them. This is my obsession at the moment, and I’m not over it yet – it still seems to have plenty of mileage left in it.
While one-off trips to lovely places have given me some nice ‘one-shot wonders’, getting bored has rewarded me with cohesive bodies of work that I feel have far more depth and personal meaning in them. And as a little side note, if I can be said to have developed an individual voice at all, it has almost entirely come through these things that began with boredom.
‘But wait’, I hear you say– ‘are you saying that I shouldn’t go photographing anywhere appealing if I want to get creative?’ No, of course I’m not, and we all want to spend time in those lovely, visually stimulating places. What you’ll find, however, is that if you’re in the habit of being able to discover something interesting in what seem like boring things, you’ll have developed a creative edge that will stand you in good stead when you find yourself somewhere lovely. You’ll probably still have to get all the obvious, picture postcard shots out of the way first, but you’ll have trained yourself to come up with something far more individual eventually. You do have to stay long enough in one place for this to happen, though – taking a couple of quick shots and moving on to the next great thing will rarely produce much that’s worthwhile. And if you can come back again – the more times the better – you’ll see more and more each time.
So how can you apply this idea to your own photography? Here are some suggestions, many of which you probably won’t like the sound of at all but which are guaranteed to get you seeing differently.
Photograph tarmac. Yes, you heard right – start looking at tarmac (or whatever the ground is made of round your way – mud will do). If you really don’t like tarmac, you can choose bricks, or perhaps paintwork or walls, although the latter two are beginning to get dangerously interesting. Because tarmac is so intrinsically boring, you can fast track your creative mind to the surface by concentrating on it. I’m not going to tell you what to look for, because that would defeat the object, but think in terms of things like lines, textures, colours, shapes. Also what else can you see there? – is there a miniature landscape, or a face? Remember times when, as a child, you saw pictures in the clouds – well, you can still do that thing.
Photograph something you find ugly, repellent, or dull. If you don’t trust yourself to pick something you genuinely feel this way about, ask a friend/spouse/child to choose something for you. Now work at finding something interesting about it. This won’t be easy, and don’t expect to fall in love with your subject in the end – just try to come up with a few shots that you find interesting. You might want to ask yourself what it is about this thing that you dislike so much? How does it differ from the things you do like? If nothing else, you’ll learn something about yourself.
Lock yourself and your camera in the bathroom for an hour. I’ve actually used this technique with a group I once ran, and people were very surprised to find that their bathrooms were such interesting places. Compared to tarmac, they’re absolutely fascinating. You have to stay in there well beyond the point at which you think you’ve exhausted all the possibilities – believe me, you won’t have. I was amazed what people managed to come up with.
Walk twenty steps and stop. Leave your house, walk twenty steps in any direction, stop right there and find an interesting image. Remember you can swivel round, crouch down, look up, zoom in, swing your camera around, or anything else you can think of, but you must stay in that spot till you’ve got something you like. Now take another twenty steps and repeat, and another twenty, and so on.
Go to sleep with your camera by your bedside. When you wake up, pick it up and see what you can do. This is quite a good one, because first thing in the morning when you’re still half asleep your mind’s in a naturally more creative state. You also have the advantage of taking your shots from quite a different perspective from usual – the world looks a lot different when you’re lying down in it.
Finally, these are actually a whole lot more fun than they sound! If you can persevere through the initial boredom and frustration, you’re quite likely to find yourself in ‘flow’, really absorbed in what you’re doing, and actually quite excited about it.
There are no uninteresting things, only uninterested people. G K Chesterton
In a similar vein to my oilscapes above, William Miller made a whole series of lovely images from what was actually toxic waste in the Gowanus Canal.