Walking in the winter with Diana and Brendan; I'm not going to not see the Callahan trees surrounding me. Automatic. Can't help it. I know it's cliche. Sorry about that. But there's history here too. The contrast, the sequence, the rhythm, the simplicity. Those Callahan pictures from the 1950s resonate for me; they come to back to me from my earliest thoughts of pictures and photography. Do an image google if you're not sure what I'm talking about. And do you remember the conversation that's in the background, especially of the series of weeds in snow? The story as I recall it is around Callahan's introduction to photography at a workshop in Detroit by Ansel Adams. Apparently there was a long discussion about how to expose properly for snow — how to keep the detail in the negative but not underexpose, how to compensate in the developing, how to print it just down enough to make it feel bright but not too bright. Even if you've never done ...
I want to remember the first photograph. Not the first photograph ever, but the first photograph I ever made that made me feel like a photographer. One of the most challenging parts of my job as a teacher is to convince people to give up some of the self-emphasis and let the process evolve organically, intuitively, from a place beyond themselves. Sometimes the tools require so much practice and instruction that intuition—even the memory of intuition—becomes buried. It takes a long time to get comfortable with all these buttons. But that's the target for me: to return to finger-painting. That's when I suggest setting the camera on full-auto and going to a party or taking a walk. Maybe you remember riding a bicycle. The first time? Very scary. So off balance. If you don't have access to this memory personally, go to the park this spring and watch moms and dads getting their four-year-olds on two-wheelers. My point is, the equilibrium is learned. Keep practicing. Remember the ...
Toronto 2010, from our recent vacation. I've been thinking a lot about perception lately, as I always do at the start of the new term. The puzzle comes back when I begin to map a course: how is it possible to picture a round world in a flat rectangle? The projection of one onto one feels miraculous and ordinary. That paradox is thrilling, intoxicating! I want to share it with you. But for you to see it, to do it, first I've got to make the process visible. And yet I'm filled with doubt. How can I do that? That is, what will you (in class) perceive as I waltz through my material, the rant of my lecture, the pictures on screen, the assignments, and my reactions to your assignments? And, how will I perceive that you're seeing anything? Even seeing that you're paying attention is difficult. (Although it's easy to see when you're falling asleep in class...sometimes.) At the start of each new term it comes back to me that, really, the project of learning...
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