What we need is more sense of the wonder of life and less of this business of making a picture. ~Robert Henri

By asking photographers why they photograph I learned that many are unable to clearly articulate their reasons; and among those who do cite such reasons, I am often intrigued by the diversity of answers. This is to be expected, after all, we are different people with different interests, circumstances and sensibilities. However, on more than one occasion, after a photographer has passionately explained their reasons for practising photography, they also conceded discrepancies between their stated motivations—what they hoped to gain from photography—and their lack of satisfaction with the actual experience of making photographs.

Susan Sontag wrote, “It seems positively unnatural to travel for pleasure without taking a camera along. Photographs will offer indisputable evidence that the trip was made, that the program was carried out, that fun was had.” And, “A way of certifying experience, taking photographs is also a way of refusing it—by limiting experience to a search for the photogenic, by converting experience into an image, a souvenir. Travel becomes a strategy for accumulating photographs.”

Indeed, this seems to be a common mode of work for many photographers today: not to pursue a desired experience for its own sake and to be moved by such experience to create expressive photographs, but rather to produce photographs as a means of socialising (“I’ve been to such-and-such-place, too,” “I have this brand of camera, too,” “I like using my smartphone, too,” etc.), competing with, or impressing others. 

Years ago, among other factors, the recognition that such discrepancies existed in my work, and conceding that whatever excuses I could come up with to justify them ultimately amounted to denial and rationalisation, changed my life in ways far exceeding my approach to photography. 

It’s been a busy few months and I had been struggling to find time for my favourite photography magazine, but over the last week or two I have been catching up with recent On Landscape articles. What a source of inspiration, and perspective! The quality of the writing and the images (especially Guy Tal’s) is excellent. And most recently, Mike Chisholm’s article has given me considerable pause for thought. If you haven’t yet read it (and I suggest you do) it is a provocative critique of contemporary landscape photography and states that this is a ‘movement’ which has run its course. At least at the moment of reading, I even found myself agreeing with some of it; a sign of a persuasive argument.

If we were to follow the logic of the article, we should, as the title suggests, all abandon landscape photography, a genre the article sees as, at the very least, derivative, ‘depressing’ and deceitful. It identifies landscape photography’s popularity as a symptom of its malaise:

‘But... sheer populousness is often a sign that something has peaked, and that it's exciting, pioneering days are over’.

Lichen, Anna Booth

In pursuing any artistic practice with intent, Originality is the mountain top. And whatever falls short is by implication, pretty pointless: 

Since I started photography, I have  had the great privilege of visiting some of the most spectacular areas of our planet. I’ve been to Iceland, Norway, Sweden, the Faroe Islands (yes, I have a thing with the Nordic landscapes, but I’m not the only one, I can assure you), Scotland, the Alps, Patagonia. I now realise that I haven’t seen too many countries. Oh, well, I’m still young I guess. Anyway, these places have inspired and shaped the careers of many photographers whose subjects are usually found in nature. And for good reasons. The landscapes at the edges of our planet are usually built differently by geology and weather alike. They have imposing mountains coming out straight from the sea, glaciers and fjords, a rich birdlife and a harsh, but very attractive climate for us as photographers.

As a follow up to what I felt was a slightly panicked 10 minute lightning talk at this year's On Landscape Conference (it’s very hard to concentrate with half of my brain counting down the seconds and a gun pointing at your head!), I would like to take a little more time to better clarify a couple of the points I was trying to make.

I regularly post my images on social media, particularly Facebook, Flickr and now Instagram. Every now and then a comment will pop up saying something along the lines of; “when I saw the thumbnail image I immediately recognised it as being a ‘Richard Childs’ “Of course I recognise my own work because I can (still) remember the making of each image but I’m not sure I would recognise my own unique style among the blizzard of images we are exposed to these days.

I’ve never really set out as a photographer to create a ‘signature’ style with my image making. My method is simply to head out with an open mind and see what happens, the resulting images a reaction to the light and conditions I experience. Clearly, I prefer to shoot on darker days, something perhaps born out of necessity while living in Scotland but also because that's what appeals to me  (it is reflected in my musical tastes, and of course in all the other visual arts I choose to indulge in). To that end, a forecast of settled weather and clear skies will usually see me heading out for a walk, in my office or at the gallery.

The foreground is particularly important to me (in more ways than simply as a compositional aid) and I shall discuss why later in the article. The foreground is certainly the reason I shoot the large majority of my images upright as I always want to include as much of it as I can. The way I choose to use foreground has had a profound impact on the overall composition of many of my wider landscape shots bringing me to realise that I very often employ my own ‘rule of fifths’. While this isn’t unique to my photography, I’ve taken the time to go back and analyse my images and found it’s something I’ve come to realise I use very regularly.

It was 4:30 a. m. I could barely see through the fog, which appeared from a hazy combination of a dark, frosty night on a long, straight road and my standard early morning daze. As I sipped my steamy Earl Grey tea, the only thought crossing my mind at this indecent hour was, “Where should I photograph the sunrise?”

As I made my way to Acadia National Park on Mount Desert Island in Maine, I had an hour and a half to ponder such a challenging question, one that offered seemingly countless right answers. I know the park intimately, like a mother knows her own child, having spent over 300 days in the past six years exploring her forests, mountains, and coasts (thanks to serving three stints as an artist-in-residence, leading multiple photography workshops, and spending as much personal time as possible there). Despite living in Arizona, Acadia feels like a second home to me. No matter where my wanderings lead me, the park never disappoints.

The... arguments against photography ever being considered a fine art are: the element of chance which enters in, finding things ready-made for a machine to record, and of course the mechanics of the medium. ...I say that chance enters into all branches of art: a chance word or phrase starts a new trend of thought in a writer, a chance sound may bring a new melody to a musician, a chance combination of lines, new composition to a painter. ...Chance—which in reality is not chance—but being ready, attuned to one's surroundings—and grasp my opportunity... Edward Weston

Every so often I come across a bit of wisdom stated so brilliantly that the words resonate in my mind even years later, any time a related subject is brought up. One such case was a discussion several years ago among a group of friends, all experienced photographers, about our respective approaches to making images. Although all offered interesting insights, the one that left the most lasting impression on me was offered by my friend, Canadian photographer Eric Fredine, who described his approach simply and succinctly as, “putting myself in the path of opportunity.” It instantly struck me as a perfect way to describe what I consider an important aspect of my own approach: the diligent avoidance of preconceptions.

Once I'd 'friended' Graham Cook on Facebook it became quickly noticeable that a new thread of images were inhabiting my stream. These weren't the usual classic landscape and not even what you would expect from a photographer making more intimate images. These were truly abstract extractions of the world but still with a solid link with reality. As it became quite clear that Graham had quite a unique way of looking at the landscape I thought I'd ask him to write a few words about what he does. After a little tussle with the "but it's not landscape" he finally accepted, and for that I'm grateful and I hope you will be too.

Photographically I consider myself largely anonymous, with only a handful of respected friends on Facebook acting as my photographic ‘community’. Most of my output is eclectic and highly personal. But the invitation to write something about my work has meant stopping to consider what it is I do and why it is I’m doing it.

Surface tension – Shoreditch

I make no apologies for leaning on others to help articulate what goes on behind my eyes and I can’t pretend that this will blossom into an article of any intellectual or technical merit – in any event that just isn’t me – but it may offer some insight into the passion and motivation behind what I do and where I come from.

I’ve never had a problem with ‘creating’ or thinking differently. In fact, the problem sometimes has been controlling it and adding purpose, as Primary school reports trenchantly imply. But creativity has many spurs and as my eyes became more panoramic and receptive the desire to take advantage of this ‘landscape’ became overwhelming. 

Cornish trawler

During my first weeks at Art College, as a relatively shy individual, I felt intimidated by other students. However, in a free-thinking non-judgemental environment I soon discovered that a lively imagination, coupled with raw talent and supple vision meant as much if not more than myopic academia. Although not a pre-requisite for the graphics course, what also set me apart was a natural talent for drawing and painting but really, all that meant was a deep frustration at not being able to attend the fine art course.

Consequently, I never found answers to the questions I kept asking myself about the true value of my painting ability. I was never able to develop a style or still the persistent voice inside me.

After Wallis

Although photography was an important element at art college and during my 45 years as a designer, I’d never intended it to become a major part of my life or have much of an influence on my creative output. The plan for retirement was to satisfy those finer, more personal artistic ambitions that had remained frustrated since college and had played second fiddle to a profession spent serving largely untutored commercial and corporate audiences.

So photography was introduced simply as a strategy, a means to an artistic end, to help rewire my mind allowing less predictable thinking regarding colour, form and composition in preparation for the genuine ‘artistic’ task of painting. Little did I know photography was to become an end in itself.

Roughly 25 years later, a chance meeting with Charlie Waite at the Oxo Tower Gallery reinforced the view that landscape photography had much to offer. What followed were the naïve fumbling years of my photographic adolescence. Through practice and the odd single day workshop (beech avenues and National Trust gardens spring to mind) I began to build the skills and broader knowledge necessary to progress.

My first David Ward and Joe Cornish masterclass in Cornwall was cathartic. Mixing with a group of highly talented participants was both inspiring and intimidating. I’d never doubted my ability to do ‘art’ and have an unshakeable inner confidence but here, out of my comfort zone, my photographic confidence was indeed shaken. By the end of the week I was the only one not to show prints. I felt I’d let myself down. But all was not lost.

Evocation

Although conventional landscapes formed most of the early work I found them difficult to value accurately and simply recording superficial impressions became progressively unrewarding. It was so difficult getting what I was about into the image. However, there was light at the end of this particular tunnel. To be precise, it was light striking the angular hull of a fishing boat that opened my eyes to the possibility for an image to be something other than merely an objective facsimile.

That was December 2013 and since then David and Joe have been integral in helping me to pursue and develop my ‘voice’. There are of course many many others who have directly influenced the way I respond to image making. It’s almost unfair to single out individuals but a supporting cast would be led by Valda Bailey, Paul Kenny, Mark Littlejohn and the highly considered work and writing of Guy Tal. I just love artists who ask questions of me and force me to question how I see. Artists who show humility and don’t follow ‘styles’ or ‘trends’ but remain true to their own beliefs whilst appreciating photography in the wider context of ‘art’.

Ingression

Nearly all art shares the goal of communicating a message to an audience but the style in which that message is communicated differs greatly. If I think about it, what I’m trying to develop is a voice that describes the natural world in a distilled and simplified form. Yes, one can enjoy a pint of bitter from the wood but a nip of fine whisky or cognac is a different, more intense experience. Is one better than the other? It could be argued so but really they are just different. What is essential to the taste is the intent and the passion behind the process of creation.

For me photography is not an obsession but creating is. This obsessive voice within, nagging and prompting, driving my eyes to interpret and reinterpret the world. I believe the landscape can be reborn, that it also exists in a kind of parallel world, just as real but revealing itself using a different visual language. I consciously try to create images that provoke and ask questions of the viewer. I may not like the answer but the viewer is as much a part of the process as I am. In common with my paintings, I don’t want to be passive or absent from my work and I don’t want to produce work that provides all the answers.

Writing this has forced me to consider whether or not I do actually take ‘abstracts’. If we examine the word abstract, and for this I turn to the Tate’s glossary of art terms, it states ‘Abstract art is art that does not attempt to represent an accurate depiction of a visual reality but instead use shapes, colours, forms and gestural marks to achieve its effect’. But isn’t what I do ‘an accurate depiction of a visual reality?’ 

Multiplicity

Everything I’ve done creatively, from a life in short trousers to retirement and a life in shorts, has felt instinctive. Feeding this has been an open mind and a surreal and somewhat irreverent imagination. I’m almost totally driven by feel, by curiosity and an unlikely connection with the subject. When I identify an image, instinctively I respond, intuitively knowing it’s right. I spot an opportunity, often in the most unremarkable circumstances, and immediately zone in. This moment is uncompromising and a point when I try not to let an overreliance on technical mastery spoil natural interpretation. As David Ward has often stated, ‘Craft is important but it’s not paramount; vision is’.

It’s frequently said that we’re the sum total of all the parts of our life, where a synthesis of ideas, influences and experiences make a whole. How those ‘parts’ or experiences affect how much we see, varies considerably but this essential formative process operates subconsciously. For me it’s a vital element of the process of seeing. I take inspiration from a wide range of artistic and creative sources and much of my work has a narrative fed by artists – anything from Blake to Rackham, Palmer to Rothko. I retain an infants’ psyche and reference works as varied as Alice in Wonderland to Just William, from Tin Tin to Rag, Tag and Bobtail.

Combined with an appreciation of design, and an endless fascination in the ability of nature to reclaim ground once lost to the hand of man, I try to allow my ‘abstract’ forms reveal an alternative beauty to be found in the patina and continuum of life. As Paul Klee said: ‘the intention is not to reflect the visible, but to make visible.’ I try to challenge assumptions, to penetrate the world, both natural and man-made, with an eye in such a way that the inner structure of reality is revealed. 

Little Langdale trough

Why photograph the obvious when fragments act as shorthand to the life of an object? Scratches and paint drips, the flow of discolouration from exposure to the elements often say all you need to know – your mind can do the rest. I allow myself to think how much beauty and ambiguity lies between the surface of erosion and decay. To me, it’s not the scruffy ugliness of crudely painted fibre-glass filler or sun melted tar, it’s the attraction of what it could become, how it can re-surface as something else, something visually intriguing and graphically pleasing, taking one beyond the ordinary range of perception.

To walk round the back streets of any town or city offers a keen eye real opportunity to turn the functional, the ordinary, the used, the second-hand, into something more remarkable. Freeing objects from their true association. Similarly, to travel through the natural world where intricate shapes and rich textures, lend grandeur to the natural forces at work, yet captured in a particular way, can defy obvious interpretation. The erosion of sandstone or fractured granite reveal almost lyrical abstract design. These austere, organic shapes have a constructivist feel, with simple forms offering aesthetic potential.

However, I wouldn’t choose to live in a world of total abstraction, devoid of beauty, emotion and feeling as the chords forming the soundtrack of my life are far from discordant. I think Kandinsky was right in recognising that one must always be mindful of the danger of abstract painting becoming ‘mere geometric decoration’ and this is possibly even more relevant with ‘abstract’ photography. Therefore, part of my battle is to make seemingly inaccessible images accessible. Images that repay repeated visits.

Tate tea room

I want to find a beauty in the obscure or perhaps try to extract beauty from the ordinary. I understand that beauty is a combination of qualities held very much in the eye of the beholder, yet fresh resource and the changing conditions of visual language in modern life gives legitimacy to alternative means of expression. What passes for beauty continues to be reinterpreted as we grow a different understanding of reality and a greater tolerance towards art and artists.

As someone who responds to creative challenges by feel, the deeper technical facets of photography are something of a stranger. Although important, I’m happy to avoid more detailed technical discussion in preference for dreaming. My camera bag is rarely if ever refreshed, and the 5d III only seems to make an appearance on workshops – roughly five times a year. This means I’m constantly trying to remind myself of its functions so the first day of any workshop is often awkward and unproductive.

Apart from a Fuji XE-1 the majority of the images I share are taken using the iPhone. It is my sketchpad. It allows me spontaneity. There are occasions when my eye is so keenly tuned that only the convenience of the iPhone allows me to meet demand. I’m also a big fan of cropping and see it as a much maligned creative tool. This may be a legacy of my design career, but I crop as I see fit. There is an intention to live by the mantra of the need ‘to get it right in frame’ but is it not possible to improve and encourage creative growth through judicious pruning? 

Orange sunset

My ideal environment for post-capture editing is Lightroom. Used responsibly, it has become a very creative and liberating part of the process. It’s quite remarkable how one can resuscitate discarded images and rescue perfectly good files that were taken with intent but that lacked the presence to impress during initial reviewing. I’m also not shy to use the dodge and burn facility in Photoshop as I feel I’m putting my hands directly into the image and influencing outcome. This has a painterly quality about it. What is perhaps more interesting is how I use Lightroom to advance understanding of my painting. Photographing an artwork as I progress, I can locally adjust things such as colour intensity and contrast. Essentially it identifies areas where I’ve been too timid, giving an insight into where improvements can be made.

There’s little difference in terms of the principles of composition between painting and photography but how those principles are applied is very different. When I paint I do so facing a blank canvas but the camera viewfinder is the complete opposite. A painter can enjoy the freedom of placing an object where he or she chooses yet the photographer must work harder to isolate elements within a crowded frame in order to bring agreeable composition to a well-balanced work of art.

Reception

I can lose myself when I photograph but I’m totally absorbed when I paint. Light may be of equal importance but time has a different relevance. The tactile and direct nature of pushing paint around has greater resonance and I find the whole process more inwardly satisfying since I feel there’s more of me in a painting. However, creatively I find little difference. I’m excited in equal measure to reach a new level of accomplishment in painting as I am in identifying a unique capture in photography. 

Yet there’s a wonderful irony in the fact that I’m able to be freer with photography than with painting. I seem to have fewer hard wired preconceptions about what stands for photographic convention yet I’ve always been ‘photographic’ in the way I draw and as such, I struggle to realise painted works as freely and expressively as photography. It was fascinating to discover that at a recent exhibition held in partnership with a landscape painter friend, my ‘abstract’ photographs were considered more painterly than his ‘photographic’ paintings!

As you may imagine, there is an on-going battle between pixels and paint and the dilemma for me is the constant flick flacking from one medium to the other. The ambition to master both may be beyond me. I may end up being the proverbial ‘Jack of all Trades’. However, I derive satisfaction from the progress I’ve made so far and photography and painting are currently happy bedfellows. But my main enemy is time. After sacrificing so much in favour of being relatively successful professionally I am, at 66, fast-tracking to prove I’m the artist I always thought I could be.

Letterbox

If I have an ambition it’s to pull the two disciplines of photography and painting closer together. Quite how this will manifest itself is the exciting part. Regardless of the outcome or how successful my work is judged to be it’s for others to determine its relevance. I’ll be content to satisfy and meet my own expectation and will remain predictably unpredictable. What I do know is that I now look at the world in a much more probing and provocative manner and in that respect my life continues to be refreshed and enriched…and for that I have, in part, to thank landscape photography and those generous and open-minded practitioners who have advised, influenced and motivated me to just be me and not to say ‘why?’ but ‘why not?’

*David gained BA(Hons) Photographic Studies (First Class) at the University of Derby and teaches BA(Hons) Photography Award at Staffordshire University.

Janey

Stephen

I retired from the Police in late 2011, having completed 30 years of service. The last decade had been spent analysing paedophiles' computers and reviewing the material they had been accessing, sometimes millions of images at a time. Photography had entered my life a year or so before as a way of relaxing, and I spent the first year of my retirement wandering Ullswater and the Eden Valley taking various photographs. But I missed the camaraderie of my working years, and in 2013 I decided that I should perhaps think of getting a wee job somewhere (or perhaps more accurately: my wife wanted me out from under her feet).

A friend told me that there were some seasonal jobs at the Ullswater Steamers starting in the February. What could be better than to spend my days sailing up and down Ullswater in all weathers and getting paid for it. The operations manager was already a fan of my images, and I was barely even interviewed. The only question was “When can you start?” I’ve been there four seasons now, and I have loved nearly every minute. I see other landscape photographers travelling all over the UK, consulting the latest photographers guidebook and going from honeypot location to honeypot location. Working every day on Ullswater highlights how long it can take to intimately know your local landscape. I am constantly uncovering new and hitherto unknown gems. Why would I need to travel when I have such riches on my doorstep?  

Have you felt it? That feeling of being of being in the right place… at the wrong time? Arriving for a much anticipated session making images at long dreamed of location only to realise that the elements have conspired against you (again) and the hoped for conditions are not to be?

Of course you have, we all have.

Whom shall we blame? The weather gods? Cruel beings who toy with us, sometimes tantalising us with photographic wonder, more often than not turning off the lights on their way out. We could blame other photographers, the likes of Joe Cornish, Mark Littlejohn and Guy Tal who so obviously have their own weather systems which follow them around, over which they seemingly have total control and can produce mist, golden light or whatever conditions they require at will to produce an endless stream of glorious images - there can be no other explanation for their wonderful output, right?

Or, perhaps, we could vent our venom on the curse of ‘pre-visualisation’. Those days spent at our day job, when we should have been doing something productive (from the point of view of our boss) but in reality we were dreaming of being out with the camera, picturing the location, the magnificent light, the mirror reflections in the water, the compositions we would make, the wind in our face, the awards we would win - all now not to be.

Then there is the guy (and I’m not being sexist here because, even though I am not a betting man, I would put good money on it being a man) who one day, somewhere, back in the mists of photographic time decided for us that the only light in which beauty could be captured in an image was during two or three hours of ‘golden’ light a day, and if that golden light should fail to materialise then all that remained for the photographer was to let shoulders slump, heart sink and to turn their backs on the landscape and trudge home in defeat. 

Or, maybe, just maybe the fault lies with us? In reality, can’t arresting images be made in nearly all conditions? Let us discount gale force winds so strong we can barely stand, rain so heavy our gear is in danger of failure, dangerous blizzards and so on. Apart from these extremes, how can we see beyond the halcyon view held out to us by so many that dictate we need mirror calm lakes, explosions of colour in the sky, surfaces bathed in glorious gold, wraith like mist and crepuscular rays scoping across the hillsides? How can we interpret the landscape in different conditions, in different ways so that we make satisfying work more often? How can we stop our minds thinking negatively about the conditions? How can we begin to realise there are many ways of interpreting the landscape?

‘Pre-visualisation’ can be our enemy. (I prefer to think of it as simply ‘visualisation’, but that is just the pedant in me seeing the prefix as redundant). It is so easy to pre-load our minds with a set of ideal conditions which raise expectations. When the conditions don’t materialise it is difficult to raise enthusiasm for anything less. Personally, I much prefer to approach a location as a blank canvas. To have nothing in mind as to what I want, rather to see and react to what I am presented with. The conditions, coupled with how I am feeling on the day will drive how I make my images. It will affect which camera and lens I choose to use - whether film or digital, pinhole or Polaroid. It will guide me as to whether I will work in a more conventional way or if I will use alternative techniques like ICM (Intentional Camera Movement) or ME (Multiple Exposures). Should I extend my exposures with extreme neutral density filters? It will also dictate whether I begin ‘seeing’ in monochrome or colour. All these decisions I leave until I arrive on the day and take in the scene and conditions. In this way, I find I am rarely disappointed and find I maintain a more positive approach to the place. Its not foolproof, but it certainly helps me.

Certainly, visualisation is a useful tool, especially in terms of composition. Prior visits may have planted the seeds of an image in our mind. Scouting a location, often in varying conditions builds a healthy familiarity with place. We begin to feel comfortable and in harmony with a particular location. Images start to form in our mind. The best time of year, the best time of day and the ideal weather too.

Perhaps the worst example of when pre-visualisation is unhelpful is when it is done for us. When others have been to the place before and made images we have seen. Those blingy images on social media and in magazines. It can be so easy to allow these pictures to seduce us, to allow them to seep into our soul and convince us this is THE image we need. The only image that will do when we visit. We put on creative blinkers, shutting out all other possibilities and just have to have THAT image in our collection. If the light doesn’t play ball, if the tide isn’t right, if the mist doesn’t rise we go home dejected and defeated.

Indeed, anything that closes our mind to creative possibilities is our enemy. The more caveats we put on what is essential for, to our minds, a compelling image, then then the fewer joyful times we will have in the field and the more creative opportunities we will miss. Creativity requires an open mind. A willingness to explore, to experiment, to test, to fail, to fall and get back up, a willingness to adapt to the conditions, a willingness to open our eyes and see the world as we see it, not as others have told us it should look, a willingness to stand out as different.

So, while I earnestly urge everyone to look at as much quality photography and art as possible (in all genres), to read poetry and other creative writing, listen to music - indeed to experience as much as possible which will stimulate us creatively, it is still essential that we then use this as a source of inspiration, not as something to slavishly copy. Let us take all that inspiration in which we have immersed ourselves with us into the landscape, then open our eyes and really look at what is around us. This takes time and patience. It takes a willingness to make less images. Take time to explore a location examining all the possibilities. More often than not the most compelling images don’t leap out at us, they need to be searched for. Alarming those this may be for some, this may involve walking some distance from the car park. It can often be that such images are not of the wider landscape, but are of more intimate scenes or detail images and these can take some searching out. Using a small compact camera as a digital ‘notebook’ to experiment with compositions is such a useful tool in this. It saves getting the ‘big’ camera out and allows us to wander unhindered and play. To play with angles and compositions, to think about light and exposure, about mood and effect, about lens choice and all the rest. Then, once settled we can begin to craft our image.

The holy grail for most of us is communicating emotion and feelings in an image. It is no easy thing to achieve. It is so easy to get wrapped up in the gear, in apertures and ISO’s, in barrel distortion and micro-contrast in the shadows, to be so engrossed in technical perfection we fail to communicate any emotion at all in our photograph.

I would argue, that far more important than any technical perfection is the need to make images that get your audience to feel something. To do this we need to think about how the sensation of being in the landscape is making us feel but we are so often wrapped up in operating the camera we don’t stop to think about how we are feeling or what the landscape means to us. If we fail to think about how we feel, how can we hope to inject feeling and emotion into our photographs? If we can, amidst the rush to get the technical stuff right think, too, about whats going on inside us then we are taking the first step to creating images that are a reflection of who we are, not who others are. We are all different and if we allow our individuality to come through in our images they will project this to our audience. Our images will feel different to those of others. Perhaps not radically, after all it is almost impossible to be truly unique, but our work will be far removed from the ‘photo-copied’ images we are deluged with in this socially media driven world. If we are prepared to, in some way, express the feeling of the wind in our face, the fear inspiring nature of a storm in the mountains, the melancholy of a twisted Rowan on a bleak hillside, the hope from a glimpse of light between the clouds - if we can help our audience feel something of what we felt as we stood there, then they will begin to connect with us and with the landscape we are revealing to them.

I have to say here that there is absolutely nothing wrong with the pretty landscape. I will leap on it as hungrily as the next photographer. I glory in beauty. When the mist rises and golden light bathes a scene I will eagerly make the most of the opportunities presented, of course. I am not a photographer who feels that simply making beautiful images of beautiful places is somehow less worthy. Quite the opposite. But I do believe with a passion that there is so much more out there and that there are so many more ways of showing the world to people who don’t look at the world as we do.

Now, it is all very well waxing lyrical about producing creative images full of emotion and a sense of place, but it is quite another to know how to use the camera to do it. How do we go about it, in practical ways? 

As always with photography the task can seem daunting. However, in reality, we still have a basic set of tools at our disposal and it is best to keep things simple, especially to begin with. It is easy to let the complexity of modern cameras get in the way of making images, but it still all boils down to mastering exposure. Having a real understanding and perhaps more importantly, a feel for how aperture, exposure length and ISO combine to affect how our image looks. By juggling these three factors we can manipulate the image to our advantage. Add to this a willingness to be more experimental with the point of focus and depth of field (which includes aperture choice in large part) and we can begin to craft compelling images.

Lens choice is so important. We may have lenses we feel we ought to be using in the landscape, or using in certain ways, because this is what we have read or been taught. A willingness to experiment with less conventional lens choices or perhaps using them in more radical ways can help us in our quest. As examples, if our lens of choice in the landscape is a super-wide zoom try using a longer lens, or maybe try the discipline imposed by a prime. Dare I suggest putting a Lensbaby on or trying some old legacy lenses with adaptors on your super-modern camera body. If you usually work at narrower apertures, try the experience of capturing the landscape wide open or at mid-range apertures. Doing things differently will alter the results you get and may be surprisingly pleasing.

By being prepared to break the ‘rules’ enforced on us by those who try to set themselves up as the ‘Photography Police’ we can use exposure, lens choice and composition to express our view of the world. So often we are lectured that highlights should not be blown and, yes, if detail can be held in the highlights all well and good - but no one ever hung a histogram on a gallery wall. Will the world come to an end if we allow pure white to exist in our picture? Why do we HAVE to hold detail in all of our shadows? Why can we not plunge some areas into darkness if this creates a certain low key mood? Saturate. Desaturate. Place key objects in the centre of the frame. Centralise horizons. Blur. Freeze. Shallow depth of field. Front to back sharpness. Nothing should be off limits. No one should tell us what our images should look like. We should feel completely free to portray the landscape in whatever way we see it.

As photographers we all place restrictions on ourselves. We all have boundaries. The things we find acceptable, the lines we won’t cross. For some, there must always be something in the frame which is sharp. For others sharpness can be irrelevant. For yet others nothing less than ‘front to back’ sharpness will do. Some will clone out irritating objects while others refuse to remove a thing from the frame save dust spots on the sensor and so on. What I would caution against is becoming so bound by personal restrictions, perhaps based on what we feel is seen as correct by those we follow and admire, that our creativity is stifled. From an inability to accept any other approach but one that can result in an endless reel of identikit images that can sometimes (not always, but sometimes) lack real soul. By binding ourselves with a long list of technical requirements and self imposed rules on what makes an acceptable image, be it in location type, conditions or style, we lack the fluidity and adaptability of the artist.

Most artists love happy accidents, a run of paint, an errant brush stroke, ill disciplined pencil marks. It is these very things which bring the life and spontaneity into their work, that make the pictures sparkle and intrigue, that lift them from being mere technical drawings created in AutoCad into art that has flowed from a human soul. Art that moves and inspires.

Should our photographs not have something more of that in them?

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