A
recent discussion on the relative merits of large and small
prints got me thinking. Although I tend to print pretty
large, one of my favorite photographic books is Michael
Kenna’s wonderful gem, Monique’s Kindergarten. I
hadn’t held the book in my hands since before my last move
three years ago, so I dug through the bookshelves and found
the book, just to take another look.
It’s a larger book than I remembered (10” x 10”), but the
photos are just as I remember them – 65 warm-toned prints,
printed exactly 4” x 5”. Kenna made the negatives with a 4x5
camera and the prints are, in essence, contact prints
complete with the shadow of the film rails. These are small
photographs, but they’re not blurry or lacking in detail –
they’re exquisitely crisp and full of texture and detail, in
that way that large format photographers love. Beyond the
print size, though, Kenna’s wonderful small photographs are
also photographs in the small – capturing little scenes that
match a child’s ability to relate to the world from up
close. Many of the scenes captured must be close to the
prints in size.
There are a lot of things that make this book so
incredibly delightful. The photos are beautifully printed
and show Kenna at his best, and he’s very good indeed. The
quality of the book is outstanding – fabulous reproduction
quality, a beautiful binding – everything I’ve come to
expect from Nazraeli Press. The book is perfectly sized to
be held in your lap, and the paper is just right – it feels
good in your hand, and the surface is just shy of glossy, so
it doesn’t interfere with viewing.
Still, I have lots of books that are as well made as this
one, and they don’t enchant in quite the same way. There’s
just something about the fusion of the print size, the scene
size, the subject matter, and Kenna’s reverent approach to
it that makes me think this book is as close to perfection
as I’m ever likely to see.
Subtitled "How Artists Find Their Way in an Uncertain World",
this book picks up where Art and Fear
left off.
In Art and Fear, Orland (and the co-author David
Bayles) tackle the question "What things make us stop making
art, and what can we do to help ourselves continue to make art?"
In this slim volume, Orland starts from the same familiar
viewpoint but tackles a new question, "What is the relationship
of Art and artists to the communities and society we live in,
and what can we be doing to make our art better and improve our
communities?"
And again, Orland sees deeply through murky waters. If
I had to pick just one passage to sum up the thrust of this
book, I'd pick this one:
These examples are not exceptions. Most historical
artwork played a role in society or religion or both.
There's pretty good evidence that Bach himself understood
that to make work that mattered meant addressing art at
every level - from the purely technical to the completely
profound - simultaneously. He once composed a set of
training pieces whose purpose, he said, was "to glorify God,
to edify my neighbor, and to develop a cantabile style of
playing in both hands"
Some version of Bach's three-tiered
work order might be a worthwhile guide for artists working
today
I don't agree with everything Orland says in this book, but
it doesn't matter. Since I got my copy 10 days ago, I've
read it through twice, and I've spent quite a few hours
pondering his arguments and conclusions, and thinking about my
motivations for making art, how that art fits into the community
around me, and what I can be doing to strengthen the
relationship between my art and the world I live in.
In the introduction, Orland writes that "... The View from the
Studio Door is itself an experiment in community" and that
"My hope, simply put, is that over time this book will evolve
into a shared conversation on the nature of artmaking."
I certainly hope Orland's experiment is as successful in the
future as this wonderful book is in the present. You can
buy signed copies of the book direct from Ted Orland's web site
at
http://www.tedorland.com/purchase.html.
It's an intriguing title, I have to admit.
When I came across the listing on Amazon.com, I bought the book on
speculation, just because the title sounded good. I hoped for,
perhaps even expected some sort of cross between Ansel Adams The Camera
and Eugen Herrigel's Zen and the Art of Archery. Something
helpful, I thought, with a sort of Minor White-ish blend of zone system
and oriental mysticism.
Alas, when the book arrived, I was tremendously
disappointed. I was worse than disappointed. When I got to the end
of the book, it wasn't so much that I wanted my money back as I wanted my
*time* back.
This book consists of 100 aphorisms. The
first is
It is said that every journey begins with a
first step. Strive to make your first step a humble one.
and the last is
A camera is a hollow tube that allows
free-flowing, inward and outward expressions of love between a
photographer and a subject.
Pretty horrible, eh? Try this:
Spontaneity is an instantaneous decision
from the heart.
Now, I'm of a mystical bent. I've read on
Zen, I've read on Sufism. I've read quite a lot about Christian mysticism,
starting with The Cloud of Unknowing, and running through to Thomas
Merton
(who, it turns out, was a fine photographer and a close friend of Ralph Eugene Meatyard). I'm open to vague language, I'm open to the idea that we
need to get our ego out of the way when making Art.
And I'm no expert on Zen Buddhism. The
closest I can come to answering the question 'What is Zen?' is to point you
at the dialogs between Suzuki and Merton.
That said, I know mumbo-jumbo when I
see it, and that's what this book is - warm, fuzzy, pointless mumbo-jumbo wrapped in
a 'mysticism' title. There's nothing Zen here except the three
letter word in the title. There's nothing about photography,
either. Nothing constructive, nothing instructive. Just crap,
ranging from tautological crud like
Unless you experience, you cannot really
know.
and
I am every thought, every feeling and every
vision I have ever experienced.
through to prime-grade, patent pseudo-mystic
whoppers like
We are all one. You learn from all
experiences, the good ones and the bad ones. Once you learn that
lesson, there are no bad experiences, really.
I'm sorry, I just don't buy it.
Apparently, neither does the author, who writes in the
introduction
I understand that my message will only be
heard by those who are ready to listen and those who already know.
For those who do not listen and will not
know, read on with an open heart.
The author claims to have written these aphorisms
over a 25 year period, and he uses them for the mid-term exam for his
photojournalism class. I pity his students, who think they're going
to learn something from this guy with a Phd. in mass communications.
Spider Robinson once wrote in a book review that
the best thing about the book was that it fit into his Vermont Castings
woodstove without breaking the binding. I'd consign this book to the
woodstove, too, but I worry that the ink and color glossy cover will
poison the catalytic element. Too bad; I'd rather have the BTUs than
the book, hands down.
If you want a book that delivers what this book
promises, try 'The Tao of Photography' by Gross and Shapiro, or 'The Tao
of Photography' by Tom Ang.
This
lovely book is everything The Zen of Photography promises but fails to
deliver.
Filled with scores of beautiful images, it's both a book that
rewards an idle flip through its pages and also an in depth
reading. There are no boiled down aphorisms here, although
the text is liberally salted with quotations from a range of sources to
illustrate the points the authors are making.
The images included draw from a wide range
of styles, ranging from the street photography of Gary Winogrand all the
way to the landscapes of Eliot Porter. Each photograph is placed in
a section where it helps illustrate as well as delight the eye.
I've been through this book from start to
finish perhaps half a dozen times, and each time I read it, I fall in love
with photography all over again. It's so good, I regularly pack it
in with my clothes when I go off on an extended photo trip. If
you're of mystical bent, this book might be as close to a 'must have' as
you're ever going to get.
Subtitled
"Observations On The Perils (and Rewards) of ARTMAKING", this
might just be the best book on the process of making art ever
written. If you haven't read it, you should stop reading this
review, go out and get this book, and then sit down and read it.
Yes, it's really that good.
Here's a book which successfully answers
questions like "Why should we make art?" and "Why do
artists stop making art?" Beyond that, it provides quite a bit
of pithy analysis about how we, as artists, can avoid the potholes and
booby traps that await our artistic progress.
If that sounds like it's a lot to cover in
a book, well, it is. But this nicely written book manages all that,
and more, all in a scanty 122 pages including the postscript.
The concepts in this book led me to found a
work review group (see details in
The Monday Night Group) based on the little box on page 12, which
looks like this:
Operating Manual
for Not Quitting
A.
Make friends with others who make art, and share your in-progress
work with each other frequently
B.
Learn to think of [A], rather than the Museum of Modern Art, as
the destination of your work. (Look at it this way: If all
goes well, MOMA will eventually come to you
The new work review group has been an
integral part of my artistic life since August 1998, and I'd sooner saw my
camera in half than drop out.
But, as they say on the late night TV ads,
"Wait, there's more!"
There's a discussion of how artists have to
interact with what Bayles and Orland call "The Outside
World". The list goes on: competition, academia, and placing
your work in a context of the larger world of art history.
If you're looking for a academic analysis
of Art History, look elsewhere. But if you're an artist who has ever
hit a dry spell (and who hasn't) this is the book for you. If I were
granted an opportunity to pick a single book, and have a copy of that book
delivered to every artist or artist-wannabe on the planet, this is the
book I'd pick.