“Truth in photography” is a term that sparks a lot of controversy. For a long time, people believed that the medium was inherently truthful. A push of a button opens the shutter and the light that enters is recorded. It’s clinical, mechanical and fairly unromantic. What could possibly be suspect about any of that?
Of course, the actual process behind the camera is not really that cut and dry. Each little choice that is made, from framing to lighting, all play into how an image is meant to be, and actually will be, interpreted. At the most basic level, without even considering digital or analog post-processing, there is inherent bias born into the image. It has to be, decisions must be made. Even photojournalism, which aspires to neutrality, acknowledges that there are limits that preclude total objectivity. “Truth” in the sense that we often think of it becomes sort of a moot point.
It’s not really my intent to delve into hypotheticals, though. What may be “truth” for one person may not be for another. We are each limited by our experiences and our vantage points (for lack of a better term) at any given time. With all of this in mind, truth becomes less about legitimacy and more about origin and purpose. It is me sharing something I feel with you so that maybe, for even a brief moment, we can feel this thing together.
Portrait of a Memory of a Man, Cannon Beach, Oregon. Shot with the Lomography La Sardina plastic camera with Lomography Lomochrome Purple film during sundown on Cannon Beach in Oregon. This trip was full of film experimentation and was also the trip where I learned of my camera’s proclivity for light leaks all the time, every time. I’ve been mindful of it since, but in a way where the light leaks are considered a resource, not a hindrance. This image perfectly encapsulates the feelings of newness, excitement and at times, yes, the frustration, of navigating the new camera.
This is what excites me about fine art photography; it embraces the voice of the artist as a narrative for their truth. We are given a tour of personal experiences in which even the blatantly “crafted” are an accepted honest representation. And isn’t it kind of funny in a way that many of these images are so relatable to so many people who may otherwise disagree about everything ever. Maybe its the images’ openness to interpretation. Maybe its our ability to read overarching themes of the human experience where we wish to find inclusion. Maybe its both.
Fallen flat: Surreal colors for a surreal memory. Lomography Lomochrome Turquoise with Diana F+. Shot during a “summer of road trips” a few years ago, this particular impromptu drive had us headed to Circle, Alaska. The landscape was gorgeous but what really sticks in my memory is the feeling of isolation. Not the sad kind of isolation but the kind that is full of excitement and the feeling that the world belongs to you alone. We had the fortune to be driving the Steese Highway at the very point and time that a huge herd of hundreds of caribou were migrating across it. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience! (Though maybe there are those who are fortunate enough to see it more. I have no sources to back up the once-in-a-lifetime bit.)
How do I like to share my truth? Through the very things that probably make my photos a bit outlandish.
To be honest, I am chaos personified; I’m lucky not to trip on my own feet twice before I get out the door and everything is a HUGE production. So, for me, certain technical components like focus or sharpness are not necessarily critical. Those particular attributes aren’t really in my wheelhouse (of life) so I don’t really miss them. Unless I am really honing in on something for a very particular reason, the blur, overlapping frames and light leaks in my photos ring truer to my memory than any dutifully arranged, tack sharp visual could reflect.
Top: Nest, Lomography La Sardina with Lomography Lomochrome Purple
Bottom: As I Used to See It, Unfocused. Canon AE-1 with Lomography Lomochrome Purple
Out-of-focus tree pictures always capture my heart, seemingly no matter how often I see them. When I was 12 or so I got my first pair of glasses. I remember the drive home from the doctor, face glued to the window, amazed that each leaf on a tree was visible. I never knew what I wasn’t seeing. I wear contacts these days and every morning am met with a reminder of my life before this “new truth.”
That’s not to say I throw all caution to the wind and tell the camera to just shoot itself. Hopefully, obviously? As is probably the case for many others, the process of making photos begins long before any shots are taken. I’m always evaluating which camera and/or film a situation feels like. Using the “right” combination is paramount to how I will feel about the results, always. And not all technical skills are shooed away; composition should always play a key role. Among others. Creativity and technicality don’t have to be mutually exclusive.
But my truth always tends to favor expression through the former. When I look back I want to feel that memory. I want to relive the intense wind, the biting cold, the salty skin. I want to feel the chaos all over again.
Father and son, shot through a sandy lens in a quiet moment at Tanana Lakes Recreation Area in Fairbanks, Alaska. The lake was never all that busy at the very beginning or end of the warm season and there were many times my family had the whole place to ourselves. I can still feel the expanse of empty sand, hear the birds flying overhead and see the rays of light as they filtered through my eyelashes, unencumbered by any obstacles. Shot on the Holga with Lomography Lady Grey.