Years ago, I took my battered Land Rover Defender (that’s Jessie in the picture above) to the Racetrack Playa in Death Valley. I’m sure you’ve seen photographs of the playa: rocks sitting on parched earth and cracked mud, long trails behind them as if they’ve moved on their own. This fascinating phenomenon of what are called “sailing stones” is explained by thin sheets of melting ice and powerful winter winds, though that makes it no less mysterious to me. I was there for two nights, taking advantage of that time to feel out the scene, get a sense of the possibilities of the place, and make a photograph or two.
That first evening we were alone, just me and my friend Corwin. Or so we thought. With my tripod set up for an hour or so, I’d found the composition that most intrigued me, and while waiting for twilight, I felt something press against my shoulder. Thinking it was Corwin (and knowing how oblivious I can get to my surroundings when photographing), I turned to say hi. But it wasn’t Corwin; it was a random tourist who’d made the long trek out to the playa and, having no better ideas of his own, rested his camera (I’m not making this up) on my shoulder and pressed the shutter.
Click.
The tourist checked the back of his camera and proudly proclaimed, “This might be the best shot I’ve taken!” Satisfied, he vanished into the dark, and I returned to my work, feeling surreal about the whole thing.
I have admittedly looked over the shoulders of other photographers, though never quite so literally. I have observed them through their social media, online portfolios, and books. I’ve compared myself and my work to theirs. I’ve envied their successes, and on my better days, I’ve celebrated them, learned from them, and become better at what I do because of them.
Others have looked over my shoulder, too, and I feel their breath when I’m shooting. I hear their silent questions when I take a chance with an unconventional choice or creative risk. I wonder if those imaginary people will like what I’m making or understand my choices. Some days, this is all brushed aside so quickly, pushed to the back of my mind as I get into that state of grace when it’s all flowing well. On other days, it’s harder, and I can’t decide which is worse: when the imagined voices chatter loudly or when I can’t hear them at all and wonder, “What if no one cares?”
What if no one cares about the work you are making? What if you never find acclaim or leave a legacy? What if no one ever looks over your shoulder or cares enough to chance it?
When I think about those questions long enough, I find myself surprised by the answers that bubble up: what a relief it would be to work in that silent space without the (perceived) chattering expectations of others. What freedom I would find if I could make my many hundreds of sketch images with no one’s preferences to consider but my own. Would I find myself holding my breath as often? And how much more joy would I find in the process? How much more present and less rigid would I be in the making of this work? And how much better (or at least how much more truly my own) would the work itself be?
One day, I want my work to have a wider audience. I would like it if others found something meaningful in what I made. And once I’m through the complex process of making something so simple as a photograph, how wonderful it would be if others felt the same wonder I did in the presence of wildness. How many others—the size of that audience—is unimportant. Perhaps it’s only you. That would be enough for me. An audience for my work would be nice, but not for my working.
I can only really pay attention to one thing at a time. I can only have interesting perceptions about one thing at a time, and those are hard enough to come by. I can only make photographs about one thing at a time. I don’t have the capacity to simultaneously consider you and what you might think about my work. Hell, I don’t even know what I think of the work yet. How focused can any of us be when we make work in consideration of others before giving our own thoughts and preferences some serious thought and completing all the experimenting it takes to make a single image or a body of work?
Your audience, however small, will one day thrill to see what you make. But you must not make it for them. Not first for them.
You must make your work for yourself, neither looking over the shoulders of others nor paying attention to those looking over yours. When you work, your focus must be on that work. The thoughts. The what-ifs and the speculations about what all your choices might produce. Those are yours alone. And only once you’re unapologetically—and yes, even selfishly—absorbed in those reflections and explorations will you make the work that then deserves its audience.
Audience is a by-product of work that thrills you first, or conjures something from deep within you, or answers to the reasons you picked up the camera in the first place. That’s where your gaze needs to be. When the muse arrives, she needs to find you getting your hands dirty, using the camera to make photographs from the interesting perceptions you’ve had because you’ve been looking at the object of those perceptions, not the people you believe are waiting for what you create.
As you engage in this process, you do not have the bandwidth for me or anyone else to look over your shoulder. Your process is yours alone, and—forgive the pun—you’re not alone if you find photography a more rewarding and productive pursuit when it’s solitary, when it’s quiet and free of distractions such as other people’s opinions.
The creative process, even a single creative thought, is fragile; it needs to be held somewhat gently as it comes into being. It needs to be coaxed out. I’ve only ever found the best of those thoughts shy in the presence of others; they tend to retreat when conflicting tastes and preferences demand our photographs be one thing or another before we’re even sure of what we hope for them.
That the guy looking over my shoulder at Death Valley even happened at all amuses me. If that’s how he needs to make a photograph, then let him have it. But I wasn’t about to ask him his opinion and alter my work because of it, and that’s the danger of having an audience of any size, even an audience of one, that is not yourself first. It’s hard enough to find your way to your vision or voice without others clamouring for it to be this or that, even when that clamouring is only imagined. Maybe especially when those voices are imagined because, unlike Death Valley guy, they rarely give up and take their leave so quickly; they have a persistence that’s hard to ignore. But they must be ignored because caring more about the voices of others than about finding and giving expression to your voice is moving in the wrong direction, away from what makes you and your work truly your own. It dilutes your personality in the final product and steals the joy of discovering that rare, hidden element in the very best of that work: yourself.
For the Love of the Photograph,
David
PS – The essay above is chapter 18 from my latest book, Light, Space & Time. It’s a book about the reality that our greatest challenges as photographers are not primarily technical but creative and human, and it explores the barriers we encounter when endeavouring to make photographs that are not only good but truly our own. It’s a book that will change not only how you make your photographs, but how much you love and enjoy the process. Check it out on Amazon through the link below, or at your favourite bookseller.
The biggest challenges for most photographers are not technical but creative. They are not so much what goes on in the camera but what goes on in the mind of the person wielding it. Light, Space & Time is a book about thinking and feeling your way through making photographs that are not only good, but truly your own. It would make an amazing gift for the photographer in your life, especially if that’s you. Find out more on Amazon.
