Stills from a Dream - Imagined Worlds in Pinhole Photography

Drifter

I have only recently discovered pinhole photography but it has unleashed a whole new creative world in which to frolic. For now, at least, I have placed my vintage glass on the shelf and opted for a lensless alternative.


Chitina Emporium


Ghost of Keystone Mine

For those of you who do not know what it is, pinhole photography is achieved by using some kind of light-tight chamber (a box or tin, etc.) with a tiny hole poked through to allow an image to form on its back interior wall. In film photography, the actual film resides on that back wall and an image forms. In digital pinholing (what I'm doing), the chamber is my camera and I make it light-tight by screwing on the camera's body cap in place of the lens. What allows the image to form on the sensor is a tiny pin prick in the middle of the plastic cap. This results in a kind of crude, soft image that appears out of focus, almost ethereal. Because the hole is so tiny, it takes time to allow enough light in to make an image. The shutter will expose the photograph for a much longer time than is usual using a traditional lens. Exposure times can be in seconds, minutes, hours or even days and weeks. Think of it like capturing light trails in a city at night.


Prospector


Servant

I usually work in seconds and that much time allows me to get creative with motion. On a typical bright day, I might have about two seconds of exposure time to work with. A tripod is a must. Anything moving in the frame will be a blur. If I place myself in the frame, I can control the blurring by how fast or slow I move. The results are ghostly. I remain anonymous because of the blurring which, in turn, creates a sense of mystery. It's this atmosphere that inspires me the most. It's like being able to capture something on another plain of existence.


Remnants


Moment(s)

I like the idea of my photographs looking like the camera captured something not normally seen by the naked eye or maybe even something not meant to be seen. When I set up a shot and have a pretty solid idea of the concept, I'm almost always surprised by what is captured. Because of the unpredictable nature of this technique, there are many more failures than successes but that's part of the fun. In my current collection, the vast majority of theses photographs took on a life of their own after I triggered the shutter.


Bygone Days

I'm working towards creating a book of my pinhole photographs. I believe that this kind of imagery needs to be savored on a page. They are not the kinds of pictures to flip through in fractions of a second, rather, they demand longer attention akin to their actual creation process.


Visitor


Riverman

As I continue on my travels, I am now capturing two versions of what I see. One "normal photograph" that represents the physical place and another that's extracted solely from my imagination.

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Pictures in Motion - Pinhole Photography

A photograph typically represents a single moment in time. Exposures are measured in fractions of a second and can freeze in place a fleeting smile or a speeding car.

When I moved from making films to making photographs, my mental process also shifted. In many ways I found it more of a challenge to capture what I was seeing. With video, I could move the camera around inside the three dimensional scene. It was easy for the viewer to get a feeling of scale and depth. Sound helped convey the environment and a sense of being there. Scenes played out in real time, just like the seconds and minutes in our daily lives.

Not so with a photograph. I had to condense all of that sensory experience into a single silent moment. For the most part, however, I didn't miss video except for one thing: the ability to record the passing of time.

I've always been fascinated by long exposure photographs. They live in their own world, free from the shackles of split-second shutter speeds. They are like time machines, allowing us to study the cumulative rhythms of waves or the morphing of clouds. They can create a three-dimensional silence like no other medium.

It was through my own dabbling with long exposure methods that I became interested in pinhole photography. The left side of my brain was most curious about capturing an image without a lens. The right side was seduced by the emotion, mood and atmosphere felt in pinhole photography.

I've never been completely satisfied shooting images of beautiful scenery. I don't feel like these kinds of photographs belong to me because they lack any kind of expression or personality. They are also predictable; I see a tree, I capture a tree. I see beautiful light and, assuming I have the skills necessary, it's captured faithfully.

Pinhole photography unleashes my creative side. It's a unique collaboration between human and machine. The ethereal atmosphere and the long exposures excite my mind into imagining new worlds. I think about what I can do inside five seconds or maybe thirty seconds and produce surreal images that I could never have conjured up by myself. It's like a genre unto itself; somewhere between photography and video.

The results of my recent efforts have been haunting, at least to me. The movement in each picture puts them in a completely different realm than my lovely generic landscape photography. These are uniquely mine and I won't find anything like them elsewhere.

I'll continue to capture the beauty I see around me in a conventional way, of course, but pinhole photography will stay a little closer to my heart as I continue on down the road.

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Image Acquisition - Best Practices

I think it's fair to say that, for most people, the immediacy of digital photography is preferred over the film equivalent of the good old days. It's certainly less expensive than film, costing virtually nothing to shoot as many images as we please. This can also lead to the side effect of amassing gigabytes of unneeded and unwanted image files.

Recently, I began to run out of space on my two main hard drives. I examined the data in greater detail and found that I had tens of thousands of photographs just sitting there unedited. The actual quantity of images didn't really surprise me but it was a wakeup call nonetheless. I realized that I'm shooting more photographs than I can ever mentally or digitally process. So it made me think about changing a few of bad habits.

1. Slow down and pay attention - When possible, I will put on the brakes while photographing a subject. I will try to imagine only having 12 exposures on a roll of film so that every shot counts. Each composition needs to be studied and fully contemplated before I press the shutter (assuming it's not an action or event-based scene). This is a good exercise in general because it will yield fewer photos and more "keepers".

2. Keywords - Most all photo editing software allows you to add keywords to the metadata in your image. It's wise to do this at the capture stage so that image of your dog in Barbados can be easily found amongst the thousand shots you took of your cat in Barbados. I haven't been doing this consistently so I will fix that right now.

3. Delete, delete, delete - When I have thoroughly reviewed and chosen my best shots, I will trash the rejects. I'm a photo hoarder, never wanting to delete anything for fear I'll need it for some abstract reason in the distant future. In the 15 years I've been shooting, this need has never materialized.

There are those who say that large hard drives are cheap and there's no need to worry about storing thousands of photos. That may be the case but, with some simple media management, I can spend more time editing and less time sorting. That's what I want.

Digital photography is a truly amazing medium and we have all the tools needed to manage our photographs efficiently. I think a marriage of today's technology and some time-honored principles from the past will make the experience more productive...and enjoyable.

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Down by the Sea - An Ode to the Golden Hour

One morning I walked along the shore on a favorite beach of mine. I still had a lingering cough from a recent illness. Breathing in the sea air felt good. There was a tiny glimmer of life in the far distance, a man and his dog, but that was all at this early hour.



The landscape feels truly primitive when I'm alone. I'm reminded of the massive shift in time when grains of sand sift through my fingers. Any worries I had that morning were caught up in the undertow and sucked away. I felt free.

I took another breath, deep and slow, and could taste the salt. There was a slight breeze on my skin that had a rhythm to it, echoing the ripples of the water itself. It was all in perfect harmony as I continued my ramble, dodging the incoming waves.

The old man and his dog passed by and we exchanged a friendly nod. It was like we both recognized the privilege of having this place to ourselves. Like we were a part of some secret society.

I walked unsteadily across smooth rocks, partially submerged, slippery with seaweed. Soon the first fingers of light gripped the horizon and edged their way upward. The texture of the sand stood up in sharp relief as the entire landscape morphed into a different version of itself.

Continuing its ascension, the sun forced its way past the thick marine layer and shone with all its might. I, standing by a cave-like structure, watched as the glow found its way inside the dark rock.

The breeze faded and the chill of dawn slid back into the shadows. It was time for me to leave. Morning had arrived and, at that precise moment, I knew it was going to be a good day.

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Through a Pinhole

I'm always experimenting with lenses, old and new, in my attempt to capture a presence or soul in my work. Most recently, I've even attached an old bellows camera from the early 1900s to my camera.When I look back on these photographs, each has their own personality. To me, they are not a mere reflection of the everyday world, rather, they are altered versions of the familiar. 

I'd heard of a thing called pinhole photography over the years but never thought about applying it in a digital context. The pinhole method, in itself, is a fascinating process. Basically anything that can be light-tight, such as a cookie tin or a wooden box can become a pinhole camera.

Originally discovered centuries ago, it was observed that light coming through a tiny hole in an otherwise dark enclosure would project an upside down image on the opposite wall. This became known as theCamera Obscura (dark room). During the Renaissance, artists used this principle to create what were known as Perspective Instruments. They traced the projected image onto paper or canvas to create a realistic depiction of the world.

Fascinating, you say, but what has that got to do with pinhole photography? Everything, actually. By removing the lens from my camera and replacing it with a body cap, it becomes a light-sealed chamber. By creating a tiny pinhole in the cap, I have my own Camera Obscura. Now I have the ability to capture images without using a lens at all! There's something magical about the process.

By its nature, especially in the digital realm, pinhole photographs are not sharp. In fact, that's part of their charm. Also, because the hole is so tiny, only a small amount of light gets through to the camera. It takes much longer to make an exposure than using a traditional lens. Exposure times can range from a few seconds to hours.

These long exposures provide many creative opportunities. In a fun shot that was 30 seconds long, for instance, I stood on one side of the scene for about 12 seconds and then quickly shifted to the other side for another 12 seconds. The resulting photograph looks like there were two people present.

Pinhole photography has a strong community of inventors. Entire rooms have been converted to pinhole cameras. People have even transformed their cars into image-making devices.

While the genre itself is traditionally more associated with film photography, digital does occupy a small and growing community.

More than other traditional methods of photography, pinholing lends itself the most to creative expression. Search any pinhole photographer on the Web and you will find images as individual as the artists who made them. 

A big part of the appeal for me is that I never know exactly what the final photograph will look like, especially if there's motion involved. I particularly like slowly shifting my body in a self portrait to create a ghost-like presence. It expands on the notion that photography captures a single moment in time. When using a pinhole, it's more about recording the actual passing of time.

When we finally settle down from our life on the road, I may make my own pinhole camera and try using film. I'm definitely tempted to turn my RV into a camera but I don't think Linda would be too keen on that. In the meantime, I'm happy to have found yet another way to create images that feel more imagined than real.

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Soul Searching - The Lost Art of Imperfection

These days, I don't seek out or need the newest, shiniest, sharpest and highest resolution photographic equipment money can buy. In fact, I'm consumed in my quest for the complete opposite - a kind of illusive, soulful quality that I've only experienced shooting with vintage lenses.

Years ago, before we (us humans) refined the process of mass production, things were crafted with our bare hands. Even those things that weren't entirely handmade at least had a visible human touch. It could be seen in loose dabs of paint or in the way, for instance, the corner of a piece of wood or metal was finished. It's now the kind of thing sought after by collectors but I've had an appreciation for it since my childhood.

Nowadays, if something is not perfect, we demand a replacement and, by cracky, we'll get it. While there are a few things in my life that I wish were perfect, my own photography is not one of them.

I spent years honing my craft so that my photographs would look "professional". At some point, I think I crossed that threshold because, looking back on my early attempts, I can clearly see marked improvement.

When I reached my goal, I thought I would be ecstatic but the more "perfect" my images became, the more they drifted from my vision of what a good photograph ought to be. With the passing of time, each image became more sterile, more clinical and had less... soul.

Today's cameras can capture enough information to faithfully render the appearance of anything we choose to shoot. Yet, companies keep telling us we need more resolution, bigger screens, more colors, sharper images. It's insane. What they don't say is that you need a brand new computer to process all of that new and unnecessary information or a bigger room to accommodate your giant TV. Now the multimegapixel photograph of your cat that you shot with your phone can be printed to fit a billboard in Times Square. You can also capture video of that same cat on your phone at a staggering 4K Ultra HD resolution that wouldn't look amiss on an IMAX screen!!

Aside from all this absurdity, it also becomes cost-prohibitive. For my upcoming trip to Alaska, I wanted a lens with a decent reach for my anticipated wildlife encounters. Fujifilm's new 100-400mm lens is almost $2000! I can't afford that. So I did my research on the Web to figure out a decent alternative. A quick look on eBay resulted in the discovery of a Russian lens, made in the 70s, that closely resembles a rocket launcher. It is 300mm (with my crop sensor, that's about a 450mm full-frame equivalency). It has no image stabilization, no autofocus but, with some care on a tripod, I can get perfectly acceptable shots. They are not going to be edge-to-edge sharp but I don't care. The lens cost me $80.

I have a couple more vintage Russian lenses that have helped me find the soul in my work once again. Maybe it's the flaws in the old glass, maybe it's the fact that I have to be more methodical using manual focus, or maybe I'm creating something beyond the basic image. Is it possible to photograph the emotion or feeling of a place? I think it is and these old lenses somehow strip all the precision away and facilitate that magic.

My most unusual experiment recently has been to couple my Fujifilm camera with an old pocket bellows camera from the early 1900s. The camera has none of the modern technology we take for granted like lens coatings and precise focusing, etc. but it produces a picture that sometimes gives me chills.

This is what fires me up so much about photography; capturing an unexpected presence, not just getting the perfect shot. If I wanted perfection, I wouldn't even have to pick up my camera, all I'd need to do is search through hundreds of similar images on Google. Now where's the fun in that?

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