Image-making today is generally and for the most part rather banal. Viewers and practitioners alike for whatever reasons are satisfied with this state of affairs. Images are created and consumed at a hellatious rate. Billions of little banalities are posted every day across the 'net. To what end? For what purpose?
It wasn't always this way. In fact, "things" used to matter a bit differently back in the day and these things could be sometimes hashed out in public. Peoples egos were inflated or bruised, depending on the individual sure enough. "Stuff" happened. Lives were lived. Histories recorded. A few of the participants got famous (and rich). Others languished into the back of the deepest caves of photographic history.
The following William Mortensen Camera Craft article from 1934 is particularly interesting in this regard. It's interesting to me he was so often denigrated and not celebrated. Ansel Adams later wrote he wished Mortensen dead. Could this specific article be related to that desire?
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Venus and Vulcan ~ William Mortensen
An Essay on Creative Pictorialism
4. Fallacies of "Pure Photography"
There have always been purists in art just as there have been puritans in morals. Purists and puritans alike have been marked by a crusading devotion to self-defined fundamentals, by a tendency to sweeping condemnation of all who over-step the boundaries they have set up, and by grim disapproval of the more pleasing and graceful
things in life. Both of them, in their enthusiastic zeal for putting down gross abuses, are prone, in Savonarola fashion, to throw everything onto the fire. So, instead of merely fulfilling their salutary function of clearing out rubbish and getting down to basic principles, they have set themselves perversely in the way of further progress.
In the field of photography there had long been many sins committed with the aid of a camera that cried out for correction. The snap-shooter was busy giving perpetuity to banalities. The photo-artist of the Fuzzy-Wuzzy school was, with the aid of diffusion lenses, expressing himself in terms of cotton wool. An aimless dilettantism marked the efforts of the average amateur, and a bare-faced ignorance of technical fundamentals marked the efforts of many a one who called himself a professional. And finally there was an emphasis on the quick and easy, cheap and nasty commercial aspects of photography.
Here, surely, was opportunity for the reformer and his torch and a rousing 'bonfire of vanities". Such a reformation movement was forth-coming in the work of the so-called purists. Rationalizing their prejudicesinto a definition of the aim of photography, they found it to consist in an objective rendering of fact free from any "conceptions reminiscent of other mediums". Manipulation or retouching of negatives or prints they
shunned as the plague. They stressed the need of simplicity and sincerity, and the vital importance of solid technical knowledge. Their work is uniformly hard and brittle, shows technical competence, and consistently avoids any subjective interest. And after the perennial fashion of reformers, they have duly erected their reforms into a code, and have chosen to regard a good clean contact print as the end of photography rather than as its indispensible beginning.
In earlier articles of this series I have endeavored to outline somewhat the positions of the Realistic (or purist) and the Non-realist (or Creative) groups in photography. In the present article I intend to examine critically the major tenets of the Realists, with the view of pointing out some of the fallacies that, it seems to me, infect their thinking.
In so doing, I, for the most part, omit from consideration the crowning fallacy of all
a would-be art that is unselective; for this aspect of the — matter was largely covered in the last chapter.
The Realists have laid great emphasis on the purity- of "pure photography", unpolluted by any of the methods, mannerisms, or qualities of the graphic arts of painting, drawing, etching, etc. "Purity" is conceived to consist in limiting photographic expression to the mechanically objective representation that is inherent in the uncontrolled camera, and in limiting processes to the simplest and most primitive type. Thus the photo-chemical process, seizing its tail in its mouth, finds its realization in itself. Purity in art is an ancient topic for argument. In the fifth century before Christ, Euripides was sharply taken to task for bringing human problems into his plays and thus debasing the severe purity of the dramatic form. Shakespeare, in Voltaire's opinion, was a talented barbarian who understood nothing of the niceties of play-writing. Beethoven and Wagner were both charged with violating the purity of their medium Beethoven by bringing a philosophic element into his music, Wagner by developing his music on dramatic lines. However, it seems exceedingly doubtful that purity in art is either possible or desirable. Imagination is a wayward and wilful wench, and when she is on the loose she is not to be held in check by any arbitrary boundaries that divide one medium from another. The best work in any medium often contains "conceptions reminiscent of other mediums". Michael Angelo, the sculptor, brought sculptural qualities to his painting. Rembrandt was a master of both painting and etching, and used the two mediums to obtain similar effects. The quality of Beethoven was unchanged, whether he wrote for piano or symphony orchestra.
Photography as a technique and an art is very young, much too young for any one to say just what is "photographic". So, even if it were desirable, it would be an exceedingly presumptious act to fence in a narrow tract and label it "pure photography". Regarded merely as a means of objective representation, photography is a shallow medium
possessing neither breadth nor emphasis. To confine oneself to this aspect of photography is to be guided by the weakness rather than the strength of the medium.
In many cases the finely enunciated precepts of the Realists are contradicted
by their own practice, oftentimes because these precepts are impossible of realization under the limitations which they have laid upon themselves. "Honesty and sincerity", for example, which the Realists mention as being among their aims, are certainly worthy objectives, and are certainly essential qualities of great art; but honesty and sincerity
are not to be achieved by mere repetition of superficial facts. It may be a fact (let us say) that Mary Jones has a pimple on her nose; but to portray the pimple in all its effulgence would be neither honest nor sincere, for to do so would imply that the pimple was as important as Mary, and even might be regarded as suggesting that Mary partook of the annoying nature of her blemish. For reasons that I will discuss when I come to the matter of texture, faithful representation of surfaces often vitiates or even contradicts the essential character of the subject.
"Staticism" 'in portraiture is another quality sought by the Realists. By this expression they mean photographing a head or figure in objective terms as if it were a piece of sculpture. Given appropriate subject matter, such impersonal handling may be very impressive; but here again the Realists are betrayed by their unselective and literal rendering of details. Accidental, temporary things thrust themselves into the attention. A wisp of hair out of place, a skin imperfection, an assertive pattern in the dress and the desired static, sculptured quality breaks down into a mere conglomerate of detail.
"Simplicity" is another excellent standard which the Realists have set themselves - simplicity in equipment and rendering. Unquestionably such simplicity characteristizes the best in art. But, with the Realists, simplicity in rendering is often lost through their passion for irrelevant detail. As to simplicity in equipment this seems to be an ideal to which they pay lip-homage only. In a recently published exposition of purist technique and methods, the author lists in his simplified equipment three cameras and six lenses. Three very similar portraits are shown as the product of two cameras and three lenses. Simplicity of equipment is of value only because it enables one to be master of his tools and concentrated on the sole end of photography the making of pictures. To thoroughly master three cameras and six lenses in all their permutations would require a considerably longer life-span than Providence has allotted to photographers. An imperfectly mastered tool is largely master of its user. So great is the technical obsession revealed by some of the purists home that it seems not illogical to suggest that they keep their prints at and send their cameras to the salons.
A further curious conflict of principle and practice appears in the Realist's identification of tone with emotional characteristics. That tone has such emotional qualities I do not deny: but how came such an untamed maverick as emotion to stray into the chaste pastures of the purists? Emotion is a subjective quality, and is strange, not to say danger-
ous, company for "pure objectivity". Emotion is a very unruly critter, and is likely to play hell with the purist china-shop. Indeed, there is evidence that the destructive work has already begun; for the exposition of Realist technique to which I have already alluded refers to tone as something admitting of control. This is, of course, a fatal concession, and
gives the whole show away. For if an objective "record of reality" is the aim, then a "photometrically accurate presentation" is the only possible presentation, no matter how aesthetically distressing it might be. If tone is granted to be subject to control, why not line also, which has equal emotional significance? And if line, why not shapes and forms?
And if shapes and forms, why not allow elision or emphasis of detail? And if all these things are allowed, what becomes of the "record of actuality"? ... Sunk without a trace!
So much for the inherent contradictions of the purist position. More serious are the deviations of the purist tenets from basic art principles. Especially fallacious is their assumption that artistic truth lies in a complete rendering of literal detail, in a "record of actuality". Truth in art — lies in the rendering of experience or rather in the rendering of things-as-they-are-experienced, not of things-as-they-are. Psychological truth, not scientific accuracy, is the species of veracity with which art is concerned — conformity not to fact, but to the mind's way of apprehending fact.
The mind in apprehending a thing does not grasp it as a collection of details simultaneously and equally important. Rather, the mind moves. by the momentum imparted to it by the initial impression, to an apprehension of the thing as a whole, not only as it is, but as it has been previously experienced, and even as it has been coloured by emotion. This sort of mental movement (which is what the psychologists call "per-
ception") may follow either of two different patterns. (1 ) A few details or attributes may be developed to a completely filled outline. (2) A suggestive or familiar shape or configuration may be supplied with necessary detail. As an example of the first sort of pattern: I see a girl crossing the street a block away, and I recognize her as my old friend,
Mary Jones. As a matter of fact, her dress is the only thing that I recognize; but from the momentum given by this suggestion my mind moves to a convincing presentation of Miss Jones the colour of her eyes, the way she does her hair, the kind of scent she uses, and what she said to me a week ago Tuesday. As an example of the second sort of pattern: I
recognize Mary Jones, not from a significant detail, but from a familiar quality of figure or posture. From this I fill in the essential detail. As an equally familiar and more striking instance of the second type I may cite the common human propensity for seeing "pictures in the fire", and finding faces, beasts, and monsters in accidental configurations of clouds or stains on the wall. Though the resemblance may be of the vaguest, so eagerly creative is the unencumbered mind that it moves instantly to supply detail...
"Methinks it is like a weasel.
"It is backed like a weasel.
"Or like a whale?
"Very like a whale."
Graphic art endeavors always to expedite and facilitate the mental movement of the perceptive process. This is the advantage of breadth of handling large simple forms and open planes wherein the mind can move freely through the picture. But if the forms are broken up and the planes cluttered with minute inconsequentials, the mind stops, baffled and resentful. For the mind in a mood of aesthetic contemplation is the mind on a holiday, and simply will not be bothered with the nagging logic of things-as-they-are.
Herein lies the particular fallacy of the Realist's preoccupation with the literal rendering of minutiae as textures. For in textures it is peculiarly evident that too much concern with things-as-they-are may prevent one from attaining the perceptive truth of things-as-they-are-experienced. To render flesh, for example, in terms of pores, hairs, and wrinkles, no matter how accurately it is done, fails utterly to give an experience of
flesh. Our perception of flesh is to only a limited extent made up of visual facts: impressions gained from other senses, such as warmth, smoothness and firmness, are just as important as surface topoqraphy. These qualities must be suggested to give the true experience of flesh texture. Such an experience cannot be given by a technique that invites you to trace the wrinkles and count the hairs.
With numerous references to the "logic of art", the purists have drawn attention to the fact that the camera is essentially a recording instrument, insisting that this fact should condition and limit the product. To my mind, the logic of art would indicate, rather, that this fact is an irrelevant one, just as irrelevant to the photographer as the fact that paint
smells of turpentine is to the painter. As well, by strict logic, define the etchers needle as "an instrument for scratching" and then limit his activities to nothing but scratching.
Although they allow themselves the unphotographic luxury of "spotting" their prints, the Realists protest bitterly against retouching of prints or negatives. Why this intense prejudice against retouching? It belongs to the selective method of all arts. Painters retouch. Etchers retouch. Writers retouch. The notebooks of Beethoven reveal the enormous amount of retouching that went into his work. For a photographer to foreswear retouching seems mere affectation.
The whole program of the purists inclines to overlook the basic truth that the final concern of art is not with facts, but with ideas and emotions. ll who talk glibly of new art forms and new techniques must be prepared to cope with that most laconically cruel of all questions: "And so what?" Or to put it less tersely: "What are you trying to tell with your
forms and your techniques?" Technically speaking, photography is a matter of facts. The image produced by the lens is an optical fact; fixed on paper, it becomes a chemical fact. A chemical fact can never become a picture unless an idea and an emotion are also present; and these are qualities that cannot be added to the developer.
Many a lowly news photographer in his illustrative embellishments of such themes as Love Nests, and Heiress Elopes with Chauffeur, and Scion of Wealthy Family Leaps to Death, has for years been producing technically perfect "records of actuality" because his job required it of him. It has never occurred to him to make artistic claims for his pictures. Yet now, like Moliere's Monsieur Jourdain, who was so amazed to discover that he had been talking prose all his life, the press photographer may learn, to his consternation, that he is a purist.
The principal fruit of the purist movement so far has been a series of excellent finger exercises in technique. This is well and good. Most aspiring pictorialists don't give themselves half enough hard, grinding work of this sort. But the purists (and here is my ultimate quarrel with) insist emphatically that their finger exercises merit artistic consideration. Such consideration, I feel, cannot be given them until they are through with ostentatiously playing scales in the key of C.
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It is a matter of common knowledge that Vulcan, the spouse of Venus, was lame in one leg. So far as I am aware, no one has ever told how he met with this misfortune. Thanks to my researches into Pompilius the Younger's monumental and little-known work on The Domestic Life of the Gods, I am for the first time able to offer an adequate explanation for Vulcan's deformity.
It all goes back to one quiet evening at home on Olympus. Venus and Vulcan were sitting in front of the fire, he twiddling his toes before the blaze, and she stringing beads of lapis-lazuli into some lovely thing.
After a long silence, Vulcan spoke. "Do you know, dovey," he said, "I have just heard of a new way of making pictures."
"Indeed?" said Venus absently, slightly wrinkling her lovely brow over her bead work.
"Yes," said Vulcan. "It seems one draws the picture with light instead of with a stylus."
"But are not all pictures painted so?" remarked Venus sentimentally. "... By the light that never was on land or sea?"
"Eh?" said Vulcan.
"Nothing. Just a thought. Pray proceed."
"I wish you wouldn't interrupt me, darling," said Vulcan irritably. "Where was I? ... Yes. One makes pictures with a black box and a burning glass and a few odds and ends of chemicals."
"Pictures?" said Venus skeptically. "What sort of pictures?"
"Damn good pictures," said Vulcan. "Pictures that look like what they are supposed to be. Not the sort of pictures that this Apelles paints, leaving out a lot of things that any fool would know were there. Now, I could make a picture " He broke off. "Just why are you smiling in that nasty way?"
"Oh, Vulcan." she said in slightly smothered tones, "you make a picture?"
"Why not?" said Vulcan defensively. "I understand chemistry and physics and optics. Furthermore, I am a good blacksmith.'' He paused. "For one as lovely as yourself, sweetheart,'' he said, with ominously careful self-control, "you have a most annoying laugh."
Venus, past reply, waved her hands helplessly.
"You don't think I could?" he stormed. "Why, I could take a picture of our back fence that would look almost as much like a back fence as our back fence does?"
A strangled shriek was Venus' only comment.
Vulcan lunged to his feet, his black beard bristling. "Very well," he shouted. "I'll show you. I'll show you, by Jove. I'll take a picture. I will take a picture, if I break a leg doing it." So saying, he stamped out of the room. Venus sighed, wiped her streaming eyes, and returned to her beadwork.
Two days later Vulcan clumped into her presence on crutches. "Precious lamb." said Venus, springing up, "what have you done to your leg?"
"Oh. damn my leg." said Vulcan, loftily. "Look at this?" And proudly he thrust into her hands a picture.
"Why. to be sure." said Venus after a moment, "this is your dear old demi-john isn't it? And surely this is a cabbage. And here is an egg." She smiled at him. "How terribly clever you are. darling."
... And that, my friends, is how Vulcan broke his leg.
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