Whether you view photography as art, craft, or some mix of the two, it’s useful to bear in mind that it does follow certain rules. As with the rules that apply to any other part of life, some will view them as inviolable while some will swear that each one’s made only to be broken. The truth probably lies somewhere in between; these rules of photography have lasted as long as they have because they can be very useful, but breaking them won’t lead to your gear being confiscated.
As with anything else, you can pull up Google (or your search engine of choice), search “photography rules,” and come back with hits in the tens of thousands. One reason for this is that there seem to be nearly as many rules as there are photographic genres, and photographers. Some apply to settings (Sunny 16, for instance), some to composition, and others still to things like the ethics of photography. That’s not even counting the things that we devise as individuals, some for practical reasons and others out of a sense of superstition, to keep our process flowing smoothly.
Do we really need all those rules? I’d argue that they’re useful on a number of levels. As photographers, they give us a sense of focus, and a convenient means of learning the basics of composition and exposure. As a viewer of photography, they help us both to read and critique photos, giving us the tools to realize when and why a photo works or doesn’t. It also allows both photographers and viewers to step into the other’s shoes for a moment; the latter get to realize some of the challenges of making a good photo, while the former have an easier way to ensure that the point they intended to make gets across.
When you are dealing with a mature medium, it’s natural to think that it’s all been done (if we’re going to be honest, quite a lot of it probably has been) and to think that we might stand a better chance of doing something fresh or original if we throw the rules out the window. With that said, I’d argue that there’s actually a right way to break the rules, and it starts by knowing them. After all, if you’re not familiar with how and why a photo is put together, you’re not avoiding cliches by “breaking” the rules… instead, you end up with a lousy photo, or you end up with one that’s quite good, but that simply follows rules of which you may have been unaware.
There’s some validity to leaving behind, or actively breaking, the rules of photography, and I’ll have more to say about that this time next week. But for now, start by learning the rules, and knowing what makes a photo “work,” so that you can avoid some of the things that keep your shots from looking half-assed or ill-conceived.
Small World: Greece, Athens, Acropolis. 1991 (Martin Parr)
The quotation in the title exists in many forms, and dates at least as far back as Roman times. The rhetorician Quintilian (35 CE – 100 CE) said, “The perfection of art is to conceal art.” Another quotation — unattributed, but probably contemporary — says, ars est celare artem (“True art is to conceal art.”) Centuries later, Oscar Wilde said, “To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.”
The idea obviously has considerable durability. Why? What’s being said here that manages to resonate across different cultures and ages, and what does it have to do with us? Here’s my $.02 worth:
When you love your craft — whatever it may be, but let’s assume photography for now ’cause, well, that’s what we do here — at some point or another, you’ll find yourself wanting to move beyond “mere” craft to something that’s closer to art. You work your tail off finding or developing your style, maybe engage in a little self-promotion. However, if you’re going to make a photo that’s artistic — or done with artistic intent, let’s say — you shouldn’t call attention to the fact that you’re doing something artistic.* People who like your work are going to be drawn to its honesty (real or perceived) versus its artifice, generally speaking.
Let’s get specific about this and compare two photographers, chosen more or less at random. At one extreme, you have Magnum photographer Martin Parr. Parr’s built his reputation on street and documentary photography, catching people in their element (and often, one suspsects, completely unawares). There’s a simplicity and honesty about his work that works both as document and as art because it’s honest, and refreshingly free of artifice.
Mary Kate Olsen by Terry Richardson
At the other extreme, you have someone like Terry Richardson, the photographer whose style has come to define Vice, and without whom American Apparel would no doubt have to find a much different aesthetic sense. Like Parr, he’s got an instantly recognizable style; unlike Parr, Richardson’s style is like a Fabrege egg: all surface, but totally empty if you try to look any deeper. Richardson’s schtick, essentially making every photo look like a prepubescent heroin addict’s mugshot, gets old quick. To me, he’s a great example of what happens when you draw attention to the act of photography, explicitly calling attention to the “art.” To extend the comparison between the two photographers, Parr’s photos are about their subjects, whereas Richardson’s photos are very much about Terry Richardson.**
My take on this, for what it’s worth: worrying about whether something is art is a bit like worrying about whether something is authentic. Similarly, trying to make something an art object is like trying to make it authentic. In both cases, you end up worrying about the concept so much that you end up losing sight of the thing itself, or overdoing it in order to make it something you think it ought to be rather than letting it simply be what it is, as it is. Focus on your craft, and on doing what you do to the peak of your abilities (making sure you’re always stretching your abilities to expand the boundaries of what’s possible). The art, at that point, will take care of itself. If you call attention to the art of it, you’ve just moved beyond art to artifice, which ensures that both the art and the authenticity about which you were worried go straight out the window.
*Unless you’re cranking it up to 11 as a commentary on the fact that you’re doing art, but even that gets tired after a while.
** I say this with the awareness that any photographer’s work is, of course, quite telling about the person who made it. Having said that, I think that each photo also says a lot about where the photographer’s placed their priorities. Some photographers make what’s going on behind the camera every bit as much a locus of attention as what’s going on in front of it, which makes the photographer’s role every bit as central as the subject’s. I’m also aware that this is a highly subjective judgment on my part, and your preference/mileage may vary.
I like minimalism. Just not too much. — Robert Wyatt
Certain photographers inspire because their vision was all-encompassing, and they had subject matter to match. It’s something you find a lot of in landscape and architectural photography. There seems to be an entire genre of photography dedicated to impressing us all with the regal hugeness of everything.
It’s easy enough to find a money shot in a mountain range or skyscraper. What’s more challenging, I think, is finding those small but telling details. Sometimes, it can be fun to find the smallest thing that can tell the story of the whole, while at other times, you may find that the detail you’ve chosen has something all its own to say.
Best of all, this doesn’t require fancy or expensive gear. Granted, macro lenses are good if you want to get close enough for an ant’s antennae to tickle your nose, but for the most part, this is more about patience, persistance, and close observation than it is about gear. I started shooting this way out of necessity; my first digital camera didn’t have much zoom range to speak of (it only went to the equivalent of 111mm), but it did a respectable job of macro shooting. Consequently, I spent a lot of my time getting nice and close to my subjects, looking for subjects within larger subjects.
What started out as a matter of necessity became something done more for the fun of it, and a technique that I’ve taken into most of the shooting I’ve done. While I love a good sunrise, sunset, or landscape as much as the next person, every so often you’ll want, or need, to get your lens out of the clouds and focus on something a bit more down-to-earth.
Three tips:
1. If you’re in the habit of using your zoom to compose, try doing it without the camera. Begin by seeing the big picture, but don’t stop there. Don’t stop with the first thing within that scene that draws your eye, either. “Zoom in” not with your lens, but with your eyes and your attention.
2. If you’re using a compact, check to see if it has a macro mode (often denoted by a flower icon). In this mode, the camera will allow a shorter focusing distance.
3. Regardless of what kind of camera you’re using, check out the minimum focusing distance of the lens. Most compacts with a macro function will allow you to get as close as one centimeter. SLR’s, unless you’re using a dedicated macro lens, generally require more of a focusing distance. Not every shot calls for macro, but it’s a nice option for those times that you’d like to get in close and still have a sharp photo.
It can be hard to be objective about your own work. We’ve already discussed what happens at one extreme, where we can be our own worst critics, refusing to acknowledge when we’ve done some of our best work. It’s easy to be so focused on how far we’ve yet to go that it’s just as easy to be blind to how far we’ve already come. At the other extreme, there are a number of circumstances in which our work isn’t at its best, and we can be just as slow to acknowledge that.
Not least of these is subjects about which we’re passionate. Especially if your subject is something that’s already inherently photogenic (kids or pets, for instance), it’s easy to get caught up in that and overlook otherwise glaring flaws in your photos. In my case, having an abiding interest in history and architecture, a photo like the one above of the Statue of Liberty is a no-brainer. Of course, when you’re dealing with a subject as frequently photographed as Lady Liberty, there’s a challenge in getting some new angle or shot that nobody’s gotten or thought of previously; suffice to say, this photo doesn’t really fit either of those criteria. It’s not incompetent, but it doesn’t have anything about it that’d make someone sit up and take notice, either.
Yauco, Puerto Rico
Another challenge arises when a subject has strong memories, or a compelling story, attached to it. This is especially true of older photos you may have taken. Take a gander at the picture at the left, taken in 2009. It was taken on my honeymoon while we were passing through Yauco, in Puerto Rico.* We passed by those colorful, cheery-looking houses several times, and that scene would probably be burned in my memory with or without the photo. Does it have a sentimental value to me? Sure does. Would someone else buy it if I framed and matted it? Don’t bet on it.
If you have the time to explain the story, the image can still work on some level. But if you’re showing your 2,354 vacation photos to your in-laws, they’re not going to have the patience — or, probably, enough caffiene — to sit through the lot if you’ve got to explain each photo because you’ve come to realize it doesn’t stand well on its own. That goes double if you had in mind to turn those vacation snaps into cash. Some images work because, by themselves, they have an undeniable sense of place about them; others may work even if there’s nothing that immediately identifies them as being from somewhere in particular just because the image itself is compelling. In either instance, if you find yourself having to speak for your photos, they’re not working as well as you think no matter how much fun you had in Podunk.
If there’s a lesson in all this, it’s that we sometimes need to bring some objectivity to our own work. Try to view your own work the same as you would anyone else’s, not necessarily looking at it not through the lens of its (or your) history or backstory, but rather through the criteria of what makes a good photo regardless of who was behind the camera. Is the subject compelling? How about the composition? Is it technically proficient? With that, I’d add a simple caveat: don’t be so cold or clinical about your own work that you get rid of something that has a sentimental attachment for you. Just realize that once you’ve decided to set your photography loose on the world, those feelings and meanings may not be as readily apparent to someone else.
*If memory serves, we were waiting para la policia after a minor fender bender.
There’s nothing like space limitations to impose a little discipline. Your camera’s memory card, your computer’s hard drive, and even an external hard drive are each capable of storing quite a number of photos, but in each case, the amount of storage available to you is finite. What that means, of course, is that sooner or later, you’re going to reach the upper limits of your device’s capacity.
There’s an initial temptation to find workarounds. If your memory card only holds 275 photos in JPG Fine, for instance, you may be tempted to shoot in a high-compression/high-loss format for the sake of saving space. Yes, you might be able to fit 1,000 photos on the card by shooting in JPG Low, but try going back to edit, or God forbid crop, some of those images later; the quality suffers considerably. So you spring for a larger memory card or three… your shot discipline suffers a bit, plus you’ve lost a lot more images if a 16GB card fails than if a 4GB card fails. Backing up your images means going through a lot of DVD’s (if you’re using 4GB cards, each time you fill one, you’re also filling a DVD) or ending up with a choke of images on your computer’s hard drive that slows your system (and can vanish in the blink of an eye if something goes wrong with your system). Even a decent-sized external drive can fill up faster than you’d think.
There’s an easy solution to this. Stop saving so much. Be honest about your work, and develop some kind of workflow around sorting and storing your images. It helps your sanity, but also makes it a lot easier to manage the tremendous pile of photos you’re going to accumulate before you even realize how many you’ve got.
This can be done in a few stages. You can even start in the camera. If you’re photographing a subject that isn’t going to change too much or too quickly, check your images at regular intervals. The purpose of this is twofold. On one hand, if there’s something you’re doing wrong with your settings (you’ve set your exposure compensation without realizing it, you’re shooting at ISO 3200 on a sunny day), you’ve a much better chance of catching it. On the other, it’s a good chance to cull some of the shots that don’t work. While I’ll be the first to admit that viewing your photos on a 3″ LCD isn’t the same as viewing them on a 17″ monitor, think of it this way: if you can tell it doesn’t work by seeing something on that tiny screen, it probably isn’t going to work on a larger one, either.
Next, you can further winnow down your images before doing editing. Some programs, like Lightroom and even Google’s Picasa, offer a number of options for rating and tagging photos. Come up with a system that works for you (five stars for your best work, four for stuff that might need small tweaks, three for something that might work with serious intervention, and two for everything else, for instance) and stick to it. If it doesn’t fall into one of the first three categories, you could probably get rid of it; if you’re unsure, get another pair of eyes on your work, or set them aside to be viewed another time. Sometimes, taking some time away from something is a great chance to see it a bit more objectively when you come back to it again after a time.
Finally, back up your images. This is a best practice for two big reasons. First, storage systems fail. It doesn’t happen often, but it only takes once. Second, this can be another good time to further narrow your files. If you’re backing up on DVD’s, that might mean having 5GB of images when only 4GB will fit on the disc. See if you can cull a gigabyte’s worth before backing up.
It’s been said that the difference between an amateur and a professional is that a professional won’t let you see their mistakes. Our mistakes are numerous no matter what our level of experience is, but as long as you’re learning from those mistakes, there’s no need to hang onto them, and to keep reminding yourself of them. Unless you have a really compelling reason for hanging onto something, consider lightening your — and your computer’s — load.
I tend to be a bit of a night owl. Staying up “past my bedtime” would likely mean being up ’til about 1:00 in the morning versus hitting the hay around midnight. Of course, one of the side effects of being nocturnal by nature is that rolling out of bed in the morning can be, ahem… a bit of a challenge.
Maybe you’ve had the same issue, or maybe you’re an early riser during the week for work and like to sleep in on weekends (no shame in that, either). Try to break the habit, if not constantly then at least often enough to give yourself more photo opportunities. There are a few reasons to do this.
One, of course, is sunrises. When the clocks are turned back a couple of weeks from now, you’ll have a brief window when the sun will be coming up slightly later than before, but as the days grow shorter, you won’t have that luxury for long. Granted, unless sunsets are your stock in trade, you may not be doing this sort of thing constantly, but it’s nice to have the option every now and again.
Besides sunrises, there’s another reason to be up early: the “golden hours.” Some of your best lighting — lovely, rich sidelighting that you won’t find when your subject’s being washed out by the midday sun — comes in the hours around sunrise and sunset. Sunsets are easy enough to catch (we’re already up and at ’em by then, after all), but if you’re missing out on the dawn hours, you’ve cut your chances of taking advantage of that type of lighting in half. This is, of course, compounded when you stop to conisder that a subject that isn’t lit quite right at dusk might be perfectly lit at dawn.
Of course, if you don’t have to be at work the next morning, you also don’t have to limit yourself to setting the clock for six A.M., either. Try about four hours earlier. Photographing that late (or early, depending on how you look at it) also has quite a bit going for it. If you’re in a city or town setting, it can be fun wandering the deserted streets with your camera, as long as the area’s sufficiently safe to do so. In addition, light pollution is generally a bit lower in the evening, so it can be easier if you’re trying for photos of the night sky.
If you’re not a morning person, or a very-late-in-the-evening person, it’s not as though you need to make a drastic change to your habits. Stick to what works for you and your body. But every so often, try to change things a bit. Doing something as simple as setting your alarm earlier and getting out with your camera can be a small, if temporary, change that has a significant impact on how you photograph the rest of the time. Not only is it a great education in using available light, it might also present you with shots you might not otherwise have gotten.
I have to admit, I experience travel envy. It’s the season for street fairs, which invariably means photographers showcasing their work.* Some shoot scenes with which I’m already well-acquainted (in and around Manhattan, for instance, or various locales on the Jersey shore), but some also have gorgeous shots made in Italy, Spain, and elsewhere, and that’s where the envy sets in.
Gimme a ticket to Barcelona, or Buenos Aires… hell, even Boston, I think to myself, and then I snap back to reality. In photography, as with so much else, you’re always where you’re supposed to be, even if you’re not always immediately sure why that is. And that’s part of the problem, in a way; it all starts with the why. Figure out your why, and the other questions start to fall into place (what goes in the viewfinder? How do I frame it?), but without it, your why might as well be, “Why take this photo?”
I understand the restlessness, believe me. I photograph quite a bit on foot (and there are reasons for this, which I’ll take up later), but when you’re photographing within walking distance – whether it’s a walk from your home or from your car – the grass is always greener, the scenery or the people that much more interesting, somewhere just out of reach. Cut that out, because if you keep doing that, you’re not going to be present in the moment, or present to your surroundings. Your eye’s in the viewfinder, but your mind… well, it’s wandered off somewhere else, and at some point, your photos are going to reflect that. Being an absent-minded photographer can be bad enough (I speak from experience), but taking absent-minded photos isn’t helping you either.
This, for me, is the bottom line: the things that make a good photo are completely independent of geography. The fundamentals of exposure, lighting, composition and the like all apply whether you’re in Peoria or Paris. Yes, if you plunk a good photographer down in Salvador during Carnival, s/he’s going to get some breathtaking shots. But that same photographer could also, in all likelihood, walk out their front or back door and capture something that you’d want to frame and put on your wall. If, on the other hand, you take a bad or mediocre photographer, it doesn’t matter whether you give them a round-trip ticket to Venice or Venice Beach, they’re just going to come back with dull photos of exotic locations.
Try making the most of where you are. It can be challenging (or even trying, depending on how often you see the same stuff day in and day out), but that challenge can also be a part of what aids the growth of your craft. Besides, it doesn’t have to be exactly the same spot every time; if you can learn to appreciate, and find the photos in, your everyday surroundings, it becomes much easier when you’re in a fresh environment to find something that’s unique, or a unique way to approach the same stuff that we’ve all seen.
*It also invariably means at least one tent with some Peruvian guy playing Abba songs on a Pan flute, band accompaniment optional.
A little while back, I thought about entering a photo contest, but then thought better of it. I’d never heard of the people running it, the terms were disagreeable, and there was a high fee for entering, which is a priori ridiculous, because if you’re reputable, you’ve already got sponsors to front the money for prizes and that sort of thing.
Not too long after, I went back to the site and saw the winning entry. Immediately, my brain hurt, which tends to happen when I’m confronted by things that make absolutely no sense, and this… Well, listen. There was a writeup of the photographer, their motivation, what they and their photos were about. Those things aren’t somehow bad in and of themselves. If I like someone’s work, after all, I generally want to know more about them. What got them to that point? Who and what influenced them, and what might I learn from them? And what additional context might all of this provide for their great work?
These photos were something else again. Freed of the text, they fell flat. I felt nothing looking at them, and didn’t even get anything out of them on the intellectual level that you’d get from something you understand, and even appreciate, but don’t necessarily like. They had no substance; visually speaking, it was all empty calories, kinda like eating vegetable shortening from the can with a spoon.
I ought not to need an explanation, dissertation or manifesto telling me why the photo works, what I should think of it, or how I should feel about it. If your photo relies on any of those things for its impact, you have failed. For example, consider some of Cindy Sherman or Diane Arbus’s work.* As photographers, they’re as talented as they are polarizing. Neither of them is my cup of tea, but you can tell at a glance what they’re on about, and in some cases their work has an almost visceral impact. Both have also written very perceptively about their art – the what, how and why of what they do – but you could skip the writings and still understand the work.
What this means for us, rather simply, is that it helps to know what you’re doing, and to be able to communicate that clearly in your images. There’s always a place for ambiguity; I’d argue that for some works, it’s the key to their longevity and appeal, with the Mona Lisa being just one of a multitude of examples. However, you ought not to be ambiguous to yourself. If you’re not sure of the how or why of your work, what you intended to say, or at least some of the possible meanings you’d like someone to take away from it, you can’t expect it to be readily apparent to someone else. Consider your audience, their knowledge, frames of reference, and ways of seeing, and then if you find yourself having to explain your work, whether it’s to people who know you, or that you feel really should understand what you’re getting at, then it might be time to reconsider your approach.
*Both sites have images that are NSFW, just so’s you know.
What I’m referring to is simple. If you find yourself in a rut, whether it’s generally speaking, or just with a single subject/shot, there’s an easy way out. Take your photography back to basics. No pole or pasties required.
Usually when we think of composition, we’re taking into account several different things simultaneously: subject, light, texture, color, geometry, and any number of other factors. Sometimes when we’re looking at something, we can be overwhelmed (or, conversely, completely underwhelmed, wondering just what it is we should be seeing) by everything within and outside the frame. Suddenly, we’re stuck.
When this happens, one solution is to look for one simple thing that draws our eye, or to change our viewpoint altogether. In other words, rather than trying to take all of these things into account, simply choose one thing that grabs your eye, and zero in on that. Sometimes this will mean choosing different subject matter, but other times it can also mean finding new (and hopefully fresh) ways of approaching your favorite things. A few things to try:
• Texture: Flat surfaces, in some cases, can mean flat photos. Sometimes, however, getting in close enough to something that you can see it in detail can mean seeing details you would otherwise have missed, and make you realize that there’s more to your subject than was apparent at a first look. Sometimes, texture can be compelling enough to be its own subject.
• Line: How does this thing you’re photographing fit together, whether it’s a building or a body? What do its lines, and its geometry, suggest to you? Where do they lead your eyes? And how might you use them to, in turn, lead your viewer’s eye?
• Color: Like your subjects themselves, colors can provoke strong responses in people. The presence of color (or a telling absence when we’re expecting it) can give a sense of richness and depth to your photos, and sometimes pure color-based abstraction can be a fun outlet by itself.
• Light: This doesn’t only influence, and determine, your exposure. The right light can mute colors or saturate them, flatten textures or reveal them, and do all sorts of things for your dynamic range, composition, and so much else.
• Patterns: Sometimes it’s a matter of seeing more than one of something; other times, it’s finding a surprising sense of order, or a story within the arrangement of, things that otherwise would have no relation to one another. If you see patterns, what kind of story do they tell you, or what story can you use them to tell?
• Contrast: Contrast is a great way to add inflection to a photo. You know the old Gershwin tune, “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off”? Picture singing that in a monotone, and you’d start to wonder what all the fuss is over potatoes and potatoes. A photo with insufficient contrast can also be like that.* Conversely, effective use of contrast can be just the thing to draw attention to something in your photo (or to make that something a red herring, if you’d like something else to sneak up on the viewer and only reveal itself later).
• Subject: For many of us, this can present the biggest challenge, but also the biggest rewards if we’re willing to take the risk (and it’s a small one, let’s admit it). Photography has existed for long enough that by this point, most subjects have a visual syntax associated with them. We expect sports photos to look a certain way, or expect certain things when we see a photo of a car, building, or person. The more fluent, and comfortable, we get with that subject and the visual vocabulary that goes with it, we may paradoxically find ourselves struggling to do not only what others haven’t done already, but also to avoid repeating ourselves. A change of pace (and of subject) can be just what the doctor ordered, since we learn new bits of “grammar,” as it were, that can be imported into our usual subject matter.
Something to keep in mind is that it’s okay to “cheat” here. Each of these things has ways of seeping into the others, because in photography as with so much else, it’s all interdependent. Sometimes you can’t bring out the texture without the right lighting, for instance, or you may find that the color is precisely what’s emphasizing a sense of pattern in something. If you find that happening, flow with it rather than fighting it; those connections are a great reminder to us of how all of this stuff works, and can build mental cues that we can use going forward. If, for example, you notice the connection between light and geometry (which influences shadow, texture, and geometry), you can learn to use these things consciously. You may start out paying more attention to the light, but that can, in turn, remind you to take a closer look at what the light is doing.
This has another use as well. I think that most of us will, at one point or another, get a good feel for a subject or element that we’re “good at,” and whether we do it consciously or not, we start to specialize in that. This can lead to its own kind of rut, especially if we’re looking through our photos and seeing certain themes or stylistic elements repeated over and over again. When that happens, forcing yourself to find a new area of focus ensures that you’re taking into consideration other elements that you might be neglecting. If you’re giving color short shrift, try concentrating on texture; if your photos tend to be a bit flat dimensionally speaking, experiment with geometry or shadow. It’s good exercise for the eyes, and can break up some of the monotony for your audience as well.
*Conversely, the overuse of something, whether it’s contrast, infrared, or your favorite Photoshop effect, can be like someone affecting a fake English accent for a whole evening. It gets old fast.
If you haven’t heard it a million times before, wait for it. “It’s not the gear!” I’ve said it myself, including in this space last week. But just how true is it? And really, is it ever the gear?
The common wisdom among a certain class of photographers (incidentally, often the ones whose bags are chock-a-block full of expensive stuff) is that it’s more about vision than gear. After all, Ansel Adams, who knew more about photography than most, said that the most important part of the camera was the twelve inches behind it, and he must be right, right?
Not necessarily.
If it had nothing to do with the gear, we’d all still be shooting large format cameras that used glass plates. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it… we could even bring back the camera obscura. If the gear has nothing to do with it, what use do we have for wide-angle or macro lenses, carbon fiber tripods, speedlights, reflectors, diffusers, Lightroom, full-frame sensors or Velvia?
Of course that argument falls apart if you give it more than a minute’s thought. The gear evolves sometimes for the sake of convenience; I don’t know anyone, including those who still shoot with the aforementioned large-format cameras, who wouldn’t argue that 35mm roll film isn’t a lot easier to carry and work with, for instance. Other times, it’s a case of technological advancement (Lightroom versus chemicals in a darkroom), expression (a landscape photographer’s going to get a lot farther with a 12-24mm than with an 85mm), quality (if you think an iPhone’s going to give you the same image quality and capabilities as a Mamiya, have your eyes and/or head examined, please) or necessity. These things exist for a reason, in other words, and gear – the right gear, let me emphasize – enables us to do things that we couldn’t do otherwise.
So where does the “It isn’t the gear” conventional wisdom come from, and am I suggesting we throw it out? Second question first: no. First question: experienced photographers (and some of us who aren’t so experienced) realize that the gear is just that; it’s a tool that helps you get things done. A skilled carpenter isn’t skilled because he’s got an expensive hammer; he’s skilled because of the time and effort he’s put into his craft. Whether his hammer was forged by Vulcan or cost $12.99 at Sears, he knows it’s just a tool. He’ll be the first to tell you that he’s got a belt sander ‘cause there are some things you just can’t do with a hammer. It’s just as likely he’d tell you that the belt sander isn’t what’s making him a good carpenter.
What’s that got to do with you? Take the same approach to your photography (mentally, at least) that you would to anything else you do. Get the right tool for the job, but realize that the tools are a supplement to, and not a substitute for, experience and vision. If you’ve got a D3X because you need it for low light, great; but if you bought a D3X because it’s what the pros use, and after all, they make such lovely photos, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Remember, the camera can’t make the photo without you. The right gear makes it much, much easier to realize your vision, but without the vision, the gear (however good or bad it may be) is immaterial.
