We construct what we see

I’ve been reading ‘Visual Intelligence’ a book by cognitive scientist Donald D. Hoffman. It is a fascinating book about the cognitive processes that are at the core of our visual system. 

The premise of Hoffman’s book, is that we ‘construct’ in our minds what we see. In essence, light comes in through the pupil of our eye and hits the retina, but from that point on, there is a lot of ‘visual processing’ that happens immediately, and in such an innate manner, that we aren’t even aware of doing it.

Let's consider these two statements from Hoffman’s book:

"The image at the eye has countless possible interpretations"

and

“The image at the eye is always two dimensional. You construct the third dimension”

In the famous Necker cube we see here, we are given a rare opportunity to observe our visual-intelligence working. Let's look at the cube:

The Necker cube is an optical illusion first published as a rhomboid in 1832 by Swiss crystallographer Louis Albert Necker. If you look at it for a while, you may see the cube in two different ways. Keep looking!

There are actually two ways in which we 'see' the cube. Sometimes we visualise the square marked here with letter A as being in front of the square marked here with letter B. Other times we see them the opposite way around. If you don’t, just keep looking. 

Donald Hoffman's book about visual intelligence. If you're interested in why we 'see' the way we do, and why our brains are fooled by certain optical illusions, then this is the best book I've read to date on the subject of our visual system.

I’ve been thinking for a long time, that the problem for us photographers is that our visual intelligence is so innate, so immediate, that we sometimes don’t actually ‘see’. 

I believe that our ‘visual-intelligence’ helps us only so far with our photography. And from a certain point it starts to hinder us. The adage that looking is not the same as seeing rings true here. We really have to work at being more visually aware because our visual-intelligence has its own agenda and often hi-jack's us into seeing things in a way that does not help us when creating images. 

For instance, our camera sees in 2D while we do not. So in order to be able to visualise our images we have to be able to look at a scene in 2D. This is very hard because our visual intelligence is so innate that we can't help ourselves but see everything in 3D. It takes effort to see something in 2D. (Interestingly each of our eyes receives a 2D visual image and it is our visual intelligence that is responsible for automatically constructing a 3D interpretation).

To be a good photographer, we almost need to un-see the 3D construction that our visual-intelligence innately makes for us, so we can notice if one object that is in front of another will merge when flattened down in to a 2D image.

If you’re interested in this subject (as I feel all photographers really should be), then I’d recommend Hoffman’s book. It’s very well written.

Please Sign the petition: Central Highlands of Iceland under threat

The Icelandic wilderness is under threat with plans to build highways and power lines, despite the will of the majority of Icelanders to make it into a national park. Bjork, the famous Icelandic singer is leading the opposition and calling for help from all over the world to sign this petition in order to put pressure on the Icelandic government. 

The central highlands of Iceland is like nowhere else I know: it is a vast landscape of natural wonders, and what I love about it, is that there is very little in the way of development there. Some of the regions like the Fjallabak nature reserve and Vatnajokull National park do have protection status for good reason. But there are many, many other special areas of this region that I think need protection also.

You can sign the petition here: http://heartoficeland.org/

The yellow areas are the central highland region, and the grey and yellow I believe, show where the proposed areas of development such as power plants and power lines.

When you think you're just about lost - you're probably nearly there

Last week I posted this article about keeping objectivity in what we do.  As a response to my post, I received a few emails from readers who were preoccupied with a more fundamental aspect of their creativity: that of knowing whether any of what they do is any good. The nature of the questions I received were more along the lines of 'what if you think all of your work isn't any good?' or 'how do I know when I should give up on something?'.

I came here on a hunch. I had no guarantee's that anything I would shoot in the Puna regions would be any good. I also found that the majority of what I did shoot wasn't any good. The final portfolio on this site is only a tiny fraction of what I did shoot, and it took me a while to see there was still something of value - because upon first review, I had assumed I'd gotten nothing.

No one is alone in feeling that their work sucks from time to time. I fully sympathise with these feelings because I get them just like everybody else does. In fact, I think it is part of the natural process of being a creative person to have doubts and feelings of dissatisfaction about what you do from time to time.

There are often spells in my own creativity when things don't happen, or that I am dissatisfied with the results. But the thing is: I understand that I am at the mercy of my own creativity. I can't control it, and I just have to accept that sometimes I am going to suck. I've just over the years realised that it's ok to suck.

I've been a creative person all of my life: whether it was drawing and painting as a kid, music composition during my teenage years and 20's, and photography since my 30's, to know that creativity has an ebb and flow to it. I can't control it. So it's best to ride it out. 

Besides, sometimes when I find the work is not going the way I wish it to, it's usually because of a change within me. Sometimes the reason why new images don't seem to work is because I'm on the cusp of something new. Other times it's just because I'm tired, or maybe needing a rest and it's time to do something else for a while.

Besides, if we created wonderful work all the time, then it would simply become our new 'average'. So I think it is natural to have this 'tug' of balancing one's own aspirations against one's own abilities.

Growth can often be painful.

If you feel your work isn't up to the standards you'd like it to be, the best bit of advice I can give you is to get it out of your system so you can move on. Everything we do is a stepping-stone - a mark in time. If you keep working endlessly on something that isn't working, then you are stuck. So best just produce it, even if the experience wasn't a good one, and move on.

I think creativity is all about letting go. It is about giving yourself permission to make mistakes and it is about deliberately getting lost. For being lost, means that you are somewhere new in your work, which is often an opportunity to learn.

Creativity is not about controlling the entire process and neither is it about knowing where you are all the time. If you want a guarantee about what you are doing, then creativity is not for you.

Each time I pick up my camera, I have no idea whether the results will be successful. So when I do start out looking for new images, I do so with an openness to failing. I fully accept that some of my images will be better than others, and because of this, I avoid giving myself a hard time about it.

So be kind to your creativity. When you feel it isn't working, best give it a rest and do something else for a while. The inspiration will return.

And also remember, that when you think you're lost with what you are doing, you're probably nearly there :-)

Short time critic

Now that I've completed work on my new collection of images - from the Puna de Atacama of Argentina, I feel it's an appropriate time to talk about being one's own critic.

Images from the Puna de Atacama. Shot in June 2015, and I didn't start to look at the transparencies until early October 2015. It is now early November, and I've had a few weeks to sit on them, periodically doing a review to see if anything needs to be changed. But doing it for short spells, because this is the only way I can remain 'outside' of my own work.

I've mentioned many times before, that I prefer to leave a lot of time between the shoot and the editing. I deliberately hold off sending my films away for immediate processing, and if I were a digital shooter, I would deliberately hold off editing my images for several weeks (preferably more). This I firmly believe gives me distance because with time, I gain a realistic sense of objectivity about what it was I accomplished. Editing straight away I feel does not give me the chance to truly see what the images hold, because I am too close to the work: I tend to suffer from a prejudice, often holding onto ideals of what I hoped the images would be.

Giving some distance to my work allows me also to be a more honest critic of what I've done. In fact, I don't just give myself distance between the shooting and editing stages any more. I do the same thing during the editing as well.

Editing is an iterative process. For each image, I tend to go through a process of edit, then review a day later, do another fine tune edit and leave it for several days then review. If I do any further editing, it is short and then I save them again, and repeat.

The issue is this: in order to edit my work well, I have to be a critic of my own work and to do this, I need to remain objective. The nub of the problem is that I'm only able to be an objective critic for a short while, because the longer I spend on the work, the higher the risk is, that I will become too lost in it. So I tend to review for short spells only. (tip: take note of your first impressions as they are usually right).

Being a good critic of my own work has required me to be able to step 'outside of myself'. This can only happen if I take time off between the edit and review sessions and more importantly, am brief when I do review. I believe a good critic is a short-time one. Don't overwork your work.

The Labyrinth Desert, Puna de Atacama

I've often felt that the more I get to know a place, the deeper the connection becomes. Over the years I've been traveling and making images, I have slowly built up a collection of places I love and keep returning to for that very reason.

This summer I visited the Puna de Atacama. It is a new location for me despite being, on the surface, similar to the Bolivian altiplano that I know and love so well.

One place in particular that I really found most interesting is named 'the labyrinth desert' - it's yet another high elevation landscape, but it was so far removed from all the other kinds I've experienced to date in the Altiplano of Chile and Bolivia, that I felt it has been overlooked somewhat.

It's difficult to get some scale to this landscape, and you may be forgiven for thinking that this area only encapsulates the mountains you see in my shots. The mountains are actually small pink clay hills - approximately around 30 to 40 feet high. Not that big at all, and so the scale of these photos is maybe a little deceptive.

But what you can't gather from these shots is just how selective I was in making them. This is only a very tiny section of the entire area. Due to the limited time I had here - one evening of good light which lasted for about 10 minutes, I had to quickly make these shots with the time and limited positioning I had. 

Research is key to good landscape photography. I only feel I've just become acquainted with this place, and really need to spend a lot more time here - because it's the only way I will know where the best locations are for the kinds of light that I like to shoot in (often with the sun behind me).

The other complication to this landscape was its fragility. It is made up from a very soft pink clay and gypsum. The gypsum is scattered all across the surface like broken shards of glass and the terrain is really fragile to walk on - when you do go anywhere, it's like walking across the crust of a chocolate pudding. Each footstep breaks through the surface and seems to leave what I was convinced was a permanent scar on the landscape.