All in The Slow Approach
This simple act of stopping, noticing, and identifying has helped me find perspective, even purpose, when I’ve felt scattered and creatively lost in the woods. It forces me to physically pause, use my mind, and assign words to things that bother or elate me. And more often than not, it helps me to see what I couldn’t before.
To understand the subject is to move beyond it being a mere object. On the other hand, a misunderstanding of the subject can, unfortunately, lead to treatments of beautification and decoration to fill that void.
Like many landscape photographers, I spend a lot of time outdoors, surrounded by the beauty of our natural world. These experiences can be deeply moving and intimate, and when the conditions are right, even poetic. We attempt to capture these moments using the camera’s lens but sometimes images alone cannot convey the entirety of what we are seeing and feeling as the shutter is clicked. Recently, I have turned to composing haiku as a way to add depth and meaning to the images I shoot.
Familiarity may increase the probability of coming away with a “good” photo, but it can be the bane of creativity. By familiarity I don’t necessarily mean locations or subject matter. Rather, are you seeing subjects in the same familiar way and/or employing the same familiar techniques over and over? Are you seeing beyond what you’ve done in the past and imagining new ways of expression, or is it just the same old same old?
Our culture, while shifting, has traditionally valued nature photography that represents the daring, ostentatious, and conquering perspectives over the observant, nurturing, and subtle ones. When we use cameras in this way, the purpose of nature photography demonstrates the power we have over Mother Earth’s bounty and we miss opportunities to connect more deeply.
Every time I look at nature, whether it’s flowers in my backyard, a crescent moon in the sky, or old images on my hard drive, it reminds me that despite the global pandemic, Mother Nature soldiers on, and this is just a season we’re in. I find it strangely reassuring that our collective increased awareness of COVID-19 really ramped up and took off during the earth’s transition from winter, a season of dormancy, to the vernal equinox, the very season of rebirth and renewal.
I had been forced to slow down, first due to being heavily pregnant, and then by having a small baby in tow. This was when I started making images that were truly my own vision, and to which I feel much more strongly and personally connected.
Ultimately I have learned that the main reason I practice photography is personal growth. I have always held a deep admiration and envy of those who have a talent that stands out, especially in music. Photography has afforded me the opportunity to explore the boundaries of my limitations and strive to move beyond them.
I have been very pleased with not only the technical quality of the digital images I’ve produced while adopting a slow photography philosophy, but with the artistic quality. I feel that the images I am creating now even surpass those that I took with my large format camera. But there is something more that comes from adopting this philosophy: there is a freedom that comes from allowing yourself as an artist to become aware of where you are, and of what that place is saying to you.
The images should not be the primary goal. It should really be about meaningful experiences, about living the life, as it were; this was a novel idea to me. Those experiences, that life, is different for every person, but the unifying truth is that for all of us it is about much more than the photos. The images are the means, not the end.
Being forced to slow down during this brief period of infirmity helped me to appreciate small details, caused me to “see” more and “look” less, all through a lens of deeper empathy and inspiration.
Waiting with crossed fingers for the possibility that Mother Nature will deliver a show is often a good enough reason to stick around. Yet I believe there is another, maybe better reason to practice patience as a photographer, one that presents a good creative challenge. It is the potential to see and frame your subject completely differently, or even find new and unexpected subjects nearby.
The pace of my life was moving so fast I didn’t even realize it anymore. This trip was just a microcosm of what every day had been like the past four years – trying to cram as much as possible into the time available. Soon, a moment in Monument Valley would show me that the slow approach is as beneficial for photography as it is for everyday life.
As photographers, there are places we visit with which we feel a clear, immediate connection. Moments spent in those spaces deepen our love for nature and stir our emotions while we photograph them. When we get to visit such locations, we get excited, and it is easy to become overwhelmed. Yellowstone National Park is one place that I find very special.
I’ve decided to create a platform for those who share a passion for a slow approach, both fellow photographers and the community with which we share our work. I want to build a space that encourages a slow and engaged approach to photography; one that focuses on the quality of the photographic experience in a way that enhances the end result.
