<![CDATA[Kim Ashley Photography - New Blog]]>Sat, 19 May 2012 13:49:55 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[Digital Photography--So Easy a Monkey Can Do It]]>Fri, 14 Oct 2011 05:32:51 -0800http://kimashleyphotos.com/1/post/2011/10/digital-photography-so-easy-a-monkey-can-do-it.html
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Ever since George Eastman came out with the Kodak camera and the advertising slogan, “You press the button.  We do the rest,” photography became the art form of the masses.  

Then came the digital photography revolution in the 1990’s and now, according to a recent survey, snapping photographs ranks third among preferred adult activities behind, you guessed it, having sex and dancing.

This has led some to argue that digital photography is no longer an art form since anyone can do it.  Sadly, a recent story on NBC’s Nightly News with Brian Williams seems to confirm this allegation.

Exhibit A is this self-portrait taken by a macaque monkey in Indonesia.  According to the report, wildlife photographer David Slater spent three days hiking into the remote jungles of Sulawesi when he came across an incredibly friendly troop of crested black macaques.

One day, Slater turned his back on his camera, and one of the more inquisitive macaques started admiring himself in the reflection of the lens.  Then the monkey accidentally hit the shutter button.  According to Slater, “the sound got his attention so he kept pressing it.  He must have taken hundreds of pictures before I could get my camera back.”

“Of course,” Slater offered, “most of them were out of focus.”

This latter comment is small consolation indeed to the thousands of digital photographers of the human species who struggle mightily with the new digital technology, trying to figure out all the jargon—ISO, white balance, aperture, histograms.  

We spend thousands of dollars on the newest equipment.  We join camera clubs, attend workshops, purchase photography magazines, read countless “how-to” books, for the sole purpose of getting just one compelling image.  Just one image that arrests attention and that compels others to say “Wow!”

In short, just one image like the one above, taken by a monkey in the remote jungles of Indonesia!

OK…we can chalk it up to luck.  Beginner’s luck.  That, at least, salvages some human pride. 

In the meantime, we continue our quest to study this newest art form—digital photography—an art and a craft that is supposed to be so incredibly easy and yet remains such a mystery to many of us.  

In the end, however, I hope we don’t lose ourselves in the books and the technology.  I hope our heads don’t rule our hearts.  I hope that we each get a chance to stand, for at least one moment, in the hairy feet of that Indonesian monkey and take one glorious photo for the sheer joy of it.

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]]><![CDATA[In Praise of the Lowly Snapshot]]>Sun, 10 Jul 2011 09:10:46 -0800http://kimashleyphotos.com/1/post/2011/07/first-post.htmlPicture





















                                      In Praise of the Lowly Snapshot

It could be argued that the snapshot had its birth in 1888 when George Eastman introduced the Kodak camera.   Eastman marketed the camera to the general public with the slogan:  “You press the button, we do the rest.”   Prior to the Kodak camera, photographers had to master the arcane knowledge of wet plate chemistry.  Afterwards, photography became accessible to the masses.

With Eastman’s invention, photography also became the most democratic of the visual arts.  People of every social status started taking millions of photographs, usually of ordinary subjects—family life, friends, lovers, and celebrations. 

And, with faster exposures, spontaneity became the fashion.    Subjects no longer had to be posed in a locked position for several minutes, staring blankly.  For the first time, the fleeting expression of a smile could be captured.  And with the first photo of a smile, the snapshot was born. 

But snapshots, in terms of dignity, have had a soiled reputation.  They have been the bastard child of photography.  From the beginning, snapshots were disdained by art critics.  “How could a camera produce a work of art when even a child can take a picture?” they asked.    

And by the early 20th century, snapshots were even disdained by a group of photographers known as the Pictorialists.  They were photographers, such as Edward Steichen, who sought to distinguish themselves from the vulgar mob of snapshooters by creating works of photographic art.  The Pictorialists forged a new style, characterized by soft focus, darkroom mastery, and artistic expression.  And, for subjects, they rejected anything mundane, preferring, instead, the classical subjects of high art—delicate maidens, modest nudes, and misty landscapes. 

Thus is the story of the lowly snapshot—the most popular type of photograph, yet the least respected; the boon of amateur photography, the bane of professional photography.   

But is this the whole story?  The final verdict?  I think not.  Here are a few words on behalf of the snapshot.  A word of praise, so to speak.   Let’s consider three factors:  technique, authenticity, and emotional impact. 

As a photographic technique, a snapshot is a photo that is taken spontaneously and quickly, without forethought.  The word snapshot, in fact,  derives from hunting.  It refers to a shotgun  that is aimed and fired quickly at a target that appears suddenly and briefly.  The snapshot is, therefore, an instinctive reaction rather than an intentional response.   

As a technique, snapshots are invaluable in portrait photography, where gestures, expressions, and moods are fleeting.  They are invaluable also to photojournalists who must faithfully capture the rush of events that are often unpredictable and, sometimes, chaotic.    

Snapshots are also the stock and trade of  combat photographers who are tasked, for instance, to record a search-and-destroy mission.  With mortars shaking the earth,  red tracers screaming overhead, fingers trembling, heart pounding, and ears ringing, there is no time to pose or to reflect.  You simply react to the event, hoping that one or two shots turn out.  In memory of my fellow combat photographers who served in Vietnam—some alive, some fallen—I do not disdain the lowly snapshot.  For if I did, I would disdain their heroic work. 

Another reason to praise the snapshot is this—snapshots are the most authentic photograph.  Snapshots are unpretentious.  They do not pose as art.  They simply are.  They record everyday life and common things.  They are vernacular, the language of the ordinary person.  And they are ubiquitous, like Whitman’s leaves of grass.  

Snapshots are authentic, also, because they do not attempt to beautify.  They simply witness.  They accept the moment as it is.  They make no attempt to alter or to optimize.   

Several years ago, Paul Simon wrote a song called Kodachrome, in which he describes a character who prefers to live in a fantasy world beautified by Kodachrome color because “everything looks worse in black and white.”  Unlike the Kodachromed image, snapshots have one imperative:  Do not deceive.  Record  life faithfully, warts and all. 

Finally, snapshots have a latent emotional power that posed photographs sometimes lack.  Have you ever flipped through the old photographs of your high school class?  Which photos connect with you emotionally?  Is it the official class picture of a friend, stiffly posed and highly brushed?  Or is it the snapshot of the friend?   

Right now, I am looking at a snapshot of Julie, a childhood friend who had curly red hair and freckles.  I remember our first dance in the junior high gym and the light falling on the bridge of her nose.  Green eyes and freckles.  How soft and lovely she felt in my arms, twirling and laughing.  Now I pick up the class photo of Julie.  There’s no twinkle in the eye and all the freckles have been brushed away.  I toss the photo aside.  It does nothing for me.   

This is one of the unique powers of snapshots—they have the capacity to trigger memories and deep emotions.  They preserve a moment in time, and because they are natural and unadorned, they retain the impact of truth.   

Now I am looking at a snapshot of my mother and father playing leapfrog on the beach.  They are in the bloom of their youth.  How slender they look to me.  How athletic.  How  happy.  In time, they will grow into their eighties and pass away, suffering the disease of Alzheimers.  And I will take care of them, feed them and bathe them.   

But, now, the snapshot of them playing leapfrog on the beach makes me think of the joy and splendor of  their youth.  I delight in their happiness.  And I recall my own youth on the beach, building sandcastles, playing frisbee, walking barefoot with Julie.  And in the background of the snapshot, I notice a small dark cloud hanging low on the horizon.  And my thoughts turn in another direction, to mortality and to the relentless passage of time.  For now I am in old age, my youth has passed and so have my parents and my friend Julie. 

Thus is the power of the lowly snapshot to evoke emotion.  To bring us face to face with the necessary losses we all must endure and with the mystery of life, its splendor and its travail. 

In another song, Old Friends, Paul Simon wrote these lyrics in praise of the snapshot’s power to evoke the love of an old friend.  I sing these words to Julie. 

Time it was and what a time it was,
A time of innocence,
A time of confidences,
Long ago it must be,
I have a photograph,
Preserve your memories,
They’re all that’s left you. 

So let’s not scorn the lowly snapshot.  Let’s  not impose our judgments on them.  Let’s not make them conform to the conventions of fine art photography.  Let’s not  burden them with the rule of thirds or with cropping or sharpness.  Let’s simply accept them as they are, unadorned and uncontrived.   For they are the first and most authentic photograph, the remnants of memory, and the pathway  to our deepest feelings.

 
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