Copying

I’m working on a new project, and I couldn’t grow and learn without copying.

I love Austin Kleon’s take on copying.

“Don’t just steal the style, steal the thinking behind the style. You don’t want to look like your heroes, you want to see like your heroes.”

I love taking pictures and creating photo books. And while I wish I could take a class at Maine Media Workshops and study with Eliot Dudik, those opportunities come with hefty price tags that are simply out of my reach financially. I do all of my work at our desktop and don’t even own a laptop, so I’m not sure how I’d benefit from some of the courses on bookmaking I read about (I’m talking about you Mary Virginia Swanson). Money (or the lack thereof) is a powerful creative constraint. And I thrive on constraints.

So I set about designing my own curriculum, driven by the desire to read and learn and practice. I give myself permission to make learning fun and follow the path that seems right for me.

A little more from Austin Kleon’s, Steal Like an Artist.

“The writer Wilson Mizner said if you copy from one author, it’s plagiarism, but if you copy from many, it’s research.”

For my current work, I pull from people and work that speaks to me, transforming their work into something of my own. Adding something to the world that only I can add.

You can keep up with my current project, A Guidebook For Small Travels - how to know very well your own little place in the world, over here. I’m opening up my process and inviting you in.

Making The Best of Things

The longer I practice, the more I realize that photography is about making the best of things. Not waiting for or trying to schedule around the perfect light but making the best of the light that is available now. Not rearranging every element in the frame. Yes, to walking around the subject, climbing high or stooping low to eliminate the unwanted and include the essential. But mostly, making the best of the way things are arranged. Taking advantage of the magic moments when the clouds drift, the petal floats, or a person sashays through the frame. Not waiting until you can afford the “right” camera. Not waiting till everyone has their hair and make-up done. Not waiting till you feel you have something to say or a project to pursue.

Make the best of what you have. Now.

The Bigger Picture

Today’s favorite findings—

Best photography advice from Lisa Ryan-Boyle by way of the Sunday Edition of Photosnack.

Five things that work for me:

1. Seek out the work of other artists - any medium, not just photography-for inspiration;
2. Remain curious - try new subject matter, new places, old places with a new eye, new equipment, etc;
3. Share your work;
4. Make prints;
5. Find the support of fellow photographers and be generous in return with your support of them.

A subscription fee that was worth the price. MasterClass.

I signed up for an annual subscription on a really good sale around Christmas. Mostly, I signed up to watch and learn from Annie Leibovitz. (No one needs a link to find Annie Leibovitz).

You can read a review of this class, which coincides with my own opinions, here.

I’d wait for a sale. But I’ve more than gotten my money’s worth. The series, The Science of Sleep by Matthew Walker and Yoga Foundations by Donna Fahri are both excellent.

An article written for people like me.

Overcoming Perfectionism in High-Achieving Women by Annie Wright.

The Images That Made Me | No. 5

In my last few entries, I’ve shared the images that most influenced my development as a photographer and artist. Those images that helped me learn to see differently. But, there is, of course, another entire subset of photographs that made me the person I am, by which I am mean pictures from my childhood—parents and siblings, snapshots of family dinners, vacations, birthdays, and the like. The equivalent of today’s Instagram feed. The images that make us who we are overlap and intersect, compete and combine, and contribute to the way we see ourselves, how we talk to and treat ourselves.

LITTLE DAVID, BYRON PEPPER [1960]

For this fifth and final entry, I’ve chosen a small stack of film pictures of my husband, Dave, when he was a little boy. Dave’s family had a friend and neighbor named Mr. Pepper. Mr. Pepper was an amateur photographer who took his hobby seriously. He always had his 35mm camera at the ready. Out behind his modest home in Colonial Beach, Virginia, Mr. Pepper had a shed where he developed his film and printed his pictures. He often took snapshots where my husband and his younger sister were the subjects.

About 10 years into our marriage, my mother-in-law was cleaning out and and asked if I’d like to have some old pictures of Dave. I said yes (not wanting to hurt her feelings), but secretly wondered what I would do with another stack of not-so-great snapshots. I was surprised when she handed the pictures to me. Beautiful black and white 5 inch X 7 inch prints. My husband, all boy, in each of the images. Not self-conscious at all, his goofy little self shinning from within. This was the man I fell in love with, and I could see why.

These images made me in more than one way. I could plainly tell the difference between these gorgeous prints and the careless point-and-shoot photos I was taking at the time. In one fell swoop, I was swept off my feet by film and pictures to hold. I saw how the picture was not only about the subject, but also, the person taking the picture. I could feel the difference between an authentic shot and a forced one. I could plainly see that Mr. Pepper shot from his heart, and even though I never met him, I loved him for making these pictures.

But I chose these pictures for more than these reasons. Because they remind me that the person I chose to live my life with will always, by some measure, that little boy who was happy simply being himself. I’ve seldom experienced that kind of relationship with myself. Instead, I spent years striving and trying and fixing. He’s the one who taught me how to enjoy myself. There is that old trope of the tortured artist making poignant art from trauma and heartache. And I guess that is true enough. But isn’t it also true that we can make meaningful art from contentment and joy? I hope so.