Around 2% vision, Iceland

I'm not usually prone to making telephoto shots in my photography. It's an admission that i'm none too proud about and I've often wondered why I prefer wide angle and standard lenses for composition.

I have a theory why most landscape photographers shoot with wide angles and standard lenses. I think that pictures are more believable if we feel we can step into the scene. Most wide angle shots start a few feet away from the camera, so it's not too hard to imagine you can step right into the frame. Similarly, but perhaps less so, with a standard lens, we get what is equivalent to the focal length of the human eye. It's a comfortable view of the world, so although we may not see the immediate ground that connects us to the final image, we're still able to make that leap from viewer to being there.

Telephoto shots lack the context to make us feel we're there. They are by nature, detached. But this is no bad thing, as telephotos allow us to separate out what is important, and in the case of wildlife for instance, we get a lot of presence if we can get a real close up of an animal. For me though, in terms of landscapes, I find it hard to get too excited about most telephoto shots unless there is some way for me to get context and feel I'm there.

Most beginners are poor at composition for the reason that they're not able to isolate what's important. Often images have everything in them, not just what they were attracted to, but the whole kitchen sink as well. I've heard that the human eye has a tendency to pay attention to around 2% of its field of view, meaning for instance, that if you were to pay attention to a friend you were talking to, you'd notice that you are only looking at one small area of their face - usually the eyes (one at a time!). Amateurs tend to see particular, very isolated areas of a scene and concentrate on that alone, take the image, and once home, realise that they got a lot more in the frame than what they were looking at.

If we look at my image above, taken of Reynisdrangar from afar (I was actually at Dyrhólaey at the time - a bit further west), you can well imagine that the entire focus, or point of the shot is the sea stacks of Reynisdrangar in the distance. Certainly, our eye naturally ends up at them and if we consider just how small an area they are of the frame, then it's fair to say that it's a tiny percentage. While I was there though, that is mostly all I could see. My eye was attracted to Reynisdrangar. However, I know from experience that it would be less prominent in the final frame, even though my visual system was using it's 2% to concentrate on it.

The key: I've learned to look at the periphery.

To see what else is in the frame, and try to use that to give the main part of the image context. I try to weigh up everything that is happening inside the image and think about how each object relates to every other one.

Firstly, I was high up on a cliff, so I used the white snow cliff edge as an anchor or framing reference point to give my eye some form context to where I was as a viewer. Secondly, I figured that the jeep tracks on the black sand were attractive and could sit nicely in the middle of the frame.

In fact, subconsciously, I think that the real reason for making this shot was actually the sweeping curves of black sand against the snow areas on the beach. I've fooled myself into thinking the whole shot is about the far off sea stacks - perhaps something for another posting on the blog some day.

This image was made with a 120mm lens on a Hasselblad. So it's equivalent to a 60mm in 35mm land. Slightly more telephoto, and just enough to pull in the far off sea stacks, while not too magnified to stop me from getting context to where I was standing (the snow foreground).

I remember not being sure if this image would work at the time, but my gut was compelling me to take it all the same: I simply could not - not take it. Sometimes things are never so clear in the image making process for me, and I'm always hesitant to put on lenses that are a little more magnified than my own vision is, because I often don't see compositions that way. Using a wide angle  would not have worked -  the sea stacks would have been pushed further away, into the distance, almost to the point of not being noticeable, and the whole image would have lacked presence.

So maybe the point of this post is to recognise that we only concentrate on a tiny part of the frame at one time, try to look around the periphery and judge how each object in the scene relates to the others, and think about getting out of your comfort zone of using just wide angles and standard lenses. It does take time to master each focal length (one of the many reasons why I don't like zooms - something to be discussed at another time perhaps).

Pareidolia during the act of image creation

Pareidolia:

"a psychological phenomenon involving a vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) being perceived as significant"

- Wikipedia.

Following on my post a few days ago, where I described how I like to abstract a scene into some meaningful story (in this case, I let my imagination interpret a piece of ice on the shore as an animal that was attempting to reach the water), I'd like to discuss another image I shot whilst in Iceland this January.

I'm always seeing faces in clouds, in stones or in abstract patterns. It actually has a name - pareidolia. Pareidolia is slightly different from anthropomorphism (my friend Mike Green wrote a really nice article about it on his blog, which you might care to read).  Pareidolia is described in wikipedia as 'a psychological phenomenon involving a vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) being perceived as significant'.

I think most of my image making I would identify with as a reaction to  'perceiving something as significant'.

I'm sure on a subconscious level, I see shapes and patterns that work to make good compositions, and I also see the shapes of animals in static objects such as stones, clouds on in the case of the image above - ice. When I made the image above, I wasn't really aware of the ice-walrus playing with the ice-beach-ball. I was just attracted to the scene as 'something significant', and it's that essence I feel, that is at the heart of most image making. We have to feel that what we are shooting has resonance .

Again, I'm wondering how much psychology is involved as a deep undercurrent to my image making decisions. Am I directing the camera, or is there something deep within my mind, directing me?

As I said a few days ago, I like to make up little stories about objects I find in a landscape. by doing so, I'm able to work with them more closely and understand how they live within the landscape. I don't simply choose any old rock, because 'it will do', I choose one, because it has a character - because it has directed me to do so.

I think that this is all very obvious, but through my workshops, I'm aware that others simply don't feel these things or see them.

By being able to feel something significant in the landscape, and let it take on a persona that we can relate to, I think we are practicing a form of pareidolia. We must be able to lose ourselves in a dream world and let things be conveyed in a less than literal way. It is part of the creative path.

Le Voyage Dans la Lune

This week, the french music band AIR released a new album - a soundtrack to accompany the recently reconstructed hand coloured version of the 1902 film 'Le voyage dans la lune'. The hand coloured version was found in a decomposing state in the early 90's, and it's taken some time to fully restore it - frame by frame.

I think this must have been a terrific project for AIR to work on. As creative people, having a defined goal in mind when they set out to create the new sound track - something new to fit something old, must have been a really interesting experience for them. I understand that they preferred to do the entire recording live, so that the music had a more fluid feel to it.

I'm of the opinion that writers block is what comes from setting the bar too high for your own abilities, but it can also be a symptom of not having anything in mind which is inspiring to work on. I've not seen an album from AIR for a few years now, and I might be talking out of turn here to suggest that they've been taking a break, wondering where to go next with their creative force. I think making a new soundtrack for 'Le Voyage Dans La Lune' has probably been an extremely cathartic experience for them, and a break from working on the usual album/tour/album/tour routine.

If you don't know about AIR, and like to hear something quite atmospheric and mellow, then the last video here is a clip of one of their first hit-albums. It's got quite a retro feel to it - as if it might belong to the 70's.

I like the idea of mixing the past with the present. It can bring some very interesting results. I think that's why I love to shoot film, and use old film cameras such as my Hasselblads, Mamiya 7 and Contax 645. From the past we get things that work, that are classic, and tried and tested. We know they will stand the test of time. While from the present we get what we're thinking and feeling now.

I don't like fads, because they become dated too quickly, and so, if I were to work on some material, I would use methods that I know are tried and tested, classic even, and by simply using them, they still speak very much of 'me', only I'd like to think they will also have a classic feel to whatever it is that i'm creating.

Like an animal

I love abstraction in images. When there is an underlying skeleton or framework that suggests a fine composition that your concious mind is not aware of - is just great, but sometimes it's just nice to be a little more forward and be very literal: I found an ice-animal on the beach at Jökulsárlón. It was trying to walk its way back towards the shore, and for some reason, had been left behind by the other tiny, translucent animals that were further on towards their ultimate destination of the sea.

He didn't appear to have a head as such, but I knew he was looking out towards the other little bergs, and wondering if he'd catch up.

I tend to find I can make up stories like that about the objects I'm shooting. They're not just objects, but instead, they have something about them that triggers my imagination.

My little ice animal was very beautiful all the same. He had such a vibrant coat of glass ripples that I knew I had to spend some time with him.

So there I was, lying on my tummy on the sand with my wonky Hasselblad camera, figuring out just how to tell a story about him. His siblings were the perfect back drop for him, so I shot the entire picture on a shallow depth of field (why is it that so much landscape material is always sharp from near to far? Surely shallow depth of field can also help draw the eye towards and also away from subjects within the frame). I deliberately ensured his siblings were out of focus.

Square format seems to be happy to have objects placed in the middle of the frame too.

I'm enjoying very much the freedom to break some self imposed rules to my compositions by using the square aspect ratio. But I feel it's not a replacement for my trusty 6x7 and 5x4 aspect ratios. It's simply just another string to my bow, and by using square at the time of capture (rather than cropping later), I feel I'm forced to look at my surroundings in a different way.

As I've said in the past, and particularly in my Aspect Ratios e-book, the shape of the frame you compose with, really does have a massive impact on your choice of composition. For me, the aspect ratio of the camera is an often overlooked, fundamental influence on your picture making abilities. Buy a camera with an aspect ratio that you do not understand, or have no eye for, and you're goosed.

Back to my ice-animal.

Like so many bergs at Jökulsárlón, he was simply just one of many casualties that had been thrown up onto the black sand beach. Strung out to dry and postponed from the inevitable, I knew that one day he would eventually become, just another part of the sea.

Adrift - 2 variations, 2 studies

You may have noticed the banner change to the blog, and also the banner change to the main web page. If not, then do a refresh or reset the cache of your browser. The banners have been updated with images from Iceland this December.

I'm currently in Bodø, on the mainland of Norway, getting ready to take the 5am post flight tomorrow morning to Lofoten. It is -15 outside, and that's before you add the wind chill factor. It was painfully cold outside tonight!

Anyway, I thought I'd share these three images with you, taken on my wonky Hasselblad this December/January in Iceland. I like the first out of the first two the best, but I think it just goes to show that taking the same shot twice, and considering the timing of waves, can reap dividends. I'm not saying one is better than the other, but certainly each one of them has a different character. The first image in this posting has more movement to me, and that really does justify the title of 'adrift' here.  The second image less so, because there's no wash around the ice bergs. However, in the 2nd image those sweeping curvy lines in the composition are just *wonderful* in my book.

I'm very much in love with this location. It has the most amazing, stark contrast between light and darkness.

Anyway, here's the third image, shot at the same location, which also suggests the notion of being adrift too. In fact, with this one, the ice berg almost looks as though it's floating on top of the sea, being carried away. I think this is also further compounded by the ice berg being very craft-like in shape too. It almost looks like a vessel that can indeed float on top of the water.

I think this one happens to look this way because the ice berg is actually sitting on black sand, but I caught it just as the water was flowing back towards the sea (I often prefer to wait until the tide is all the way in, as the receding movement is usually of a more ordered nature, providing simpler lines during a long exposure).

Anyway, I'll be announcing news of an Icelandic photographic safari by the end of the week through my newsletter first, so keep your ears pinned back (and if that looks too silly, then just check your inbox for a newsletter from me).

Not subscribed to my newsletter? Then do it here.

Cold & Warm

Sometimes it's simply all about observing the quality of the light. Whilst in Lofoten last December, I remember standing on the frozen beach at Flakstad, and watching the mountain you see in the distance being illuminated in the twilight. The mountain had a ghostly effect to the upper ridges of it, which I feel, I haven't really managed to convey in this edit so far.

But I think one of the aspects about image making, is to not be too possessive of it. Let it be what it is. I don't consider images failures, just different personalities from the ones I'd hoped for. You can't force your children to be something they're not. I did however, find during the editing of this collection of images, that I seemed to go for a more uplifting, brighter feeling. I think this has a lot to do with how I felt on the days during the editing, and my general frame of mind. There was the occasional image though, that didn't really fit uplifting, and required a darker mood to it, to convey what I felt at the time - that of deep crimson tones in the sky and landscape, as you can see here in this photo of Oldstind mountain.

The edits are nice, and I'm happy with them. But comparing them to the images I shot last March is interesting. I've noticed that there is much more drama in the edits from last March, and that is down to the fact that the weather was completely wild back then. I was getting snow and sleet thrown at my lens and I often had to run for cover during the shoots. You can't force your images to be moody and dramatic if the subject wasn't. As much as I love the edit of Oldstind above, it's still a rather pleasing, calm photograph.

So I'll be back in Lofoten this week for a personal shoot, before I meet my clients for the trip I'm doing with them. I'm curious to see just how different the light will be.

As photographers, we respond, first and foremost to light, and that is purely dependent on the elements around us.

Near Leknes

Do you ever have those moments, when you see something from your car window and you go 'ooh, that looks good', but for some unknown reason, you decide against stopping?

I often find myself doing just that, and on the occasions when I force myself to stop, I very rarely actually carry out the entire motivation. There seems to be some form of weighing up the effort of stopping the car, walking back to the location that grabbed my eye, against the effortless motive to keep on going.....

I could perhaps turn this question around and ask - how many photos are made near the roadside? Should we not call landscape photography 'car boot photography' or 'lay by photography'?

The image above, taken just outside Leknes, in Lofoten was one of those occasions where I saw something, and thought it looked like a great photo, but passed on by. I did it several times, and each time I did it, I wondered why I did, and why I was also, each time, attracted to the location.

I have a theory. Some places are very magnetic. You can't stay away from them. They tend to be iconic, and require very little effort in recognising that there is something of value there. Other places, like my little photo above, are anonymous. They don't register in the same way that iconic places do. But they're beautiful in their own, understated way.

I loved the collection of little red buildings on the far left shore, and there was some minimalism evident to me in the space the sky and water provided. I needed to experience this for myself, and so I parked the car down a side road on a sheet of ice, walked precariously back onto the main road and set up my camera on a steep embankment overlooking the bay. I get myself out there by telling myself that it's beautiful to just sit and watch the landscape, even if there's no stunner of a photography behind the motivation.

And once I was there, I just grew into the moment.