Working the Image - Farm Well
I’ve done several of these Working the Image posts, thoughts about the different ways one has to work to ultimately produce a satisfying photograph. In many ways it’s part of the creative process. Not always easy, but often . . . I take that back . . . always necessary. To produce successful images, to improve, you have to put in the work. It doesn’t always pay off in the short run, but you’ll never get there without it. I’m reminded of a Lou Reed/John Cale song from their album Songs For Drella, an album about their mentor Andy Warhol - “Work.” It’s a song about how an artist must work, with Andy chewing out Lou for not working hard enough - “The most important thing is work!” While I’m cognizant of that fact, sometimes it surprises me about how many different ways one can work an image.
While at the farmhouse in Normandy, there was one subject that called me over to it multiple times. The first time was shortly after we’d arrived. Folks were cleaning up the house so we could get inside (the stairway was full of plaster shards so we couldn’t even get up to our bedroom to drop off our luggage), so Ann and I grabbed our cameras and started wandering around the property. As I worked my way around the house, I noticed an old well at the back of it and decided to make an image of it.
I was fairly pleased with the composition, particularly the rust color staining and the two old containers off to the right. The white plastic chairs . . . not so much. So I moved on and continued around the property, photographing for a bit longer until they said it was time to move everything inside.
Later that afternoon, after we’d done all of our chores, set the table for dinner and was waiting for the last of the food to finish grilling, I realized that the white plastic chairs were no longer by the well, they were at our dinner table. So I quickly ran into the house to grab my camera because the one thing that bugged me about the original image was now gone.
For some reason, I decided against the square format I’d used with the previous image and tried working the image with my favored 3:4 aspect ratio. First vertically . . .
. . . then horizontally. I didn’t have much time to keep working the image because shortly after making this image, it was time for dinner and I was hungry.
As dinner progressed, I kept looking over at the well, wondering how I’d photograph it again if I could. At one point, we were in deep discussion and I glanced over . . . the light was beautiful beautiful. While still talking, I looked behind me to see what was going on and noticed that the evening sun was reflecting off the bottom of the clouds and casting a lovely soft but directional light that was subtly different than the generally heavy overcast light from earlier in the day.
Then I did what I’ve told myself never to do - I passed up the opportunity to get my camera to make the photograph when the light seemed special. Perhaps I didn’t want to be the rude guest; perhaps I was afraid of being a bit embarrassed (Haldora is a trained artist, now professional photographer. She says we’re lucky to have never tried to make money with a camera - it’s hard to do and still love making photographs, so she never photographs for pleasure any more). Perhaps I’m just lazy. Regardless, later that evening, as the sun dropped and the light disappeared, I regretted my decision because light lost is never regained, as I’ve learned all too many times before. The hard way.
Except for the fact that there are always exceptions to the rule. The next evening, the sun did the same thing. This time we were starting dinner later and the light did its thing right as we were plating the food. I excused myself, ran upstairs to get the camera, made a few quick photographs - this time with square framing - and then put my camera away. Sure, I was a bit late to the table, but I had my photograph.
The light difference is subtle, very subtle. It’s most evident from the stone slab on the top of the well, which glows more in this image, the cover of the well house, the soft, but distinct, shadow cast by the cover on the wall, and the scalloped light underneath the rain gutter. Little differences, but significant nonetheless.
The same subject, revisited three times in two days until I had an image I was satisfied with. The most important thing is work.