John Ellert Photography

THE WEB OF CREATIVITY

THOUGHTS ON CREATIVE PROCESS AND PHOTOGRAPHY

The stimulus for this essay was the invitation to participate in an eight-week lecture series the topic of which was how artists from various disciplines view the creative process. The program moderator asked us to think about and relate how we go from blank (or unformed) medium to a finished work of art. My assignment was to speak to the creative process from the point of view of a photographer, an assignment undertaken with enthusiasm since I had been thinking about this very topic for more than a year and had already presented programs on various facets of the creative process.

As I was thinking through the creative process as it relates to photography, I began to realize that just one word could sum it up: magic. Now, that you have it, what more is there to discuss? But, you are reading here expecting more than an easy answer, so let me share some conceptual struggles with you while I expand that idea, and in so doing, share with you how I as a visual artist get from blank mind & equally blank film to a compelling image.

You may recall that the fictional Sherlock Holmes said repeatedly to his sidekick & biographer Dr. Watson, “You know my methods, Watson.” It IS all about method, which I will reform as process. Method to me implies some something rather linear while process, like the World Wide Web, connects at often unpredictable points. Though I used the term magic, there is really nothing magical about process, though the outcomes as well as the experience can become magical. As you might guess, process has a lot to do with simply doing, so let me attempt to demystify it for you.

So, how do I do what I do? How do I get started from blank mind and blank film, working from an ordinary snapshot to an image which commands attention? Here I must make the disclaimer that what I am about to discuss relates to my work as a nature and fine art photographer and that the way in which studio photographers, photojournalists, or architectural photographers work may be very different, though I have spent enough time in each of those facets to know that there are some points, at least, of congruence.

I can describe the process of creativity in a rather circular fashion, showing each of several key points arranged around the perimeter.

One must jump into a circle at some point, so let us start with learning

Learning is critical to our health and well-being and takes place throughout our lives. I will not expand much on learning as it relates to photography; many fine books have been written on these topics. At the most basic level, one must learn at some point the capabilities, limitations, & operation of the equipment. Simple cameras may be simple, but there are ways of using them that produce better results than other ways. As one moves up to more complicated cameras affording far more control over the nuances of image-making, the complexities multiply, seemingly exponentially. However, it is not calculus, and anyone with an eye for detail and the willingness to learn can master the operation of any camera out there.

The next skill set the serious photographer must learns concerns the principles of light as it relates to photography. The way in which film (or for that matter, digital capture) treats light is not the same as the human eye perceives and the brain processes light. All modern cameras, set on automatic exposure, do a good job of recording most situations. Many of the most stunning photographs come out of those very situations where the quality and quantity of light is such that automatic exposure will miss the boat.

Anyone working in the visual arts must learn, directly or through a process of assimilation, principles of visual design. In my case, early training in art & photography classes laid the basis, improved by college drawing class, and refined through workshop participation as well as reading and individual study. I remember in my first freehand drawing class in college that I delighted, amazed, or annoyed my teacher when I began to challenge the traditional ways of looking at a subject. In our first outdoor drawing session, we were instructed to sketch a tree. All but one of the class chose traditional side-on views. That one maverick lay on his back at the base of a tree and drew the it looking straight up the trunk. This rebelliousness presaged some of the ways in which I now challenge traditional photographic vision.

Along with visual design principles, I’ve had to learn how to represent three-dimensional space on two-dimensional media.

I have also striven to learn how those photographers whose work I admire think, doing my best to absorb part of their creative process. The purpose is not to copy their images (though that in itself provides excellent opportunity to learn), but to learn their thought habits, to internalize the unique ways in which they view their subject matter.

Finally, I've had to learn to see, not just in the visual sense, but also in terms of understanding interactions, the creative process, and myself. I am not the first to note that the camera points both directions. I think that one of the tricks is persuading the camera (and by direct extension, the mind) to show more than superficialities. As one develops the ability to illumine the depth in a subject, there is a simultaneous illumination of the depth of one’s soul. I will return to this idea later in this essay.

Practicing

As most know from their student years, learning is inevitably accompanied by practicing. As a child, I disliked practicing the scales and exercises on the piano; I just wanted to play the pieces. It is no different with photography. Practice is required if you want to get good at it. Like any acquired skill, lessons are cumulative.

If I can offer any advice, it is Just Start! There are plenty of times when I go out to shoot not far from home when I have no idea what I’m going to shoot, though there are just as many times when I go out on some pre-determined self-assignment (another, more structured form of practice). I have to begin somewhere, so I just start with the first thing that catches my eye. By the simple act of creating the first image, no matter how trite or ill considered, the vision starts flowing and I can rapidly move to work that is more meaningful. Are there days when my muse seems to have taken an unannounced trip to the Riviera and left me behind? Sure, and if after a while nothing is working, I cease beating myself up and either go to a different location, or go do something else entirely.

Related to the idea of just starting, is what I call “Inspiration By Wandering Around”, that is moving about an area in complete concentration, senses fully awake, observing everything, totally immersed. Something good usually comes of that.

I mentioned self-assignments. These are part learning, part practice. I vary them according to my own imagination or from suggestions by others. Usually, I shoot a minimum of one roll of film on a single subject, seek to portray an abstract concept, or to use only one lens. These assignments sharpen my eye and force me to concentrate on one thing at a time.

A photographer of my acquaintance once remarked that there are no child prodigies in photography – it takes years to develop the strength and wisdom of a top photographer. The exceptionally rare and precocious children such as Mozart and Picasso aside, child prodigies tend to be found in those areas allowing for mechanical reproduction. For example, while I can easily think of a dozen young violinists and pianists, I cannot think of a single child photographer of great skill nor any exceptional youthful sculptors or painters. In my own case, I gave my first public piano recital at age six, two years after I began piano lessons, but it took around fifteen years from the time I started shooting at age fourteen before my photography began to be recognized. (Of course, one must consider that perhaps society does not reward youthful attempts at creating visual art in the same way that it lauds performers and this perhaps has something to do with our entertainment culture.)

I often like to think of the camera as a sketchpad. By this, I will examine a subject from various angles and locations, exploring my vision for the subject until the best one clicks into place. Curiously, upon later editing, an image that I considered “preliminary” turns out to be as strong as or stronger than the shot that in the field I thought was the best.

Here is a musical example that may relate what I am trying to get across about practice. No concert pianist, Vladimir Ashkenazy for example, would walk onto a public stage anywhere, sit down, & sight-read the Henselt F-minor concerto. It takes a long period of practice to hone the technical skills needed to play such a work. The same holds true of photography. First-rate work requires no less than complete mastery of both medium and tools. I think I understand enough about the process used by other visual artists to know that few, if any, manage to create a masterpiece at the first and only sitting.

Working The Back Yard

The next key, I firmly believe, is that if I can’t create effective work from the materials close at hand, I will be unable to consistently produce high level work away from home, no matter how stunning the natural scenery. Thus, my backyard, whether literal or figurative, is the best place to learn and to practice. That way when I am at an exotic location (any place not my backyard) and am faced with a stunning scene or incredible action, having mastered the essentials, I move largely into automatic mode.

Working on autopilot does not preclude thinking about what I am doing, only that I do not have to think through a problematic situation. For example, when photographing a polar bear in snow (a scene that will fool the light meter of every camera out there) I do not have to work through the process of seeing a white scene, realizing that the camera meter will attempt to turn the white bear and snow a medium gray, and figuring out how to adjust the exposure to compensate. Instead, my eye sees white, my brain says, “add two stops of light” and I twirl the exposure compensation dial to +2 and get to work.

People I meet in workshops who freely admit that their camera sits unused except for workshop and vacation shooting continually amaze me. Their inactivity shows in their output. Conversely, those who consistently produce the best images at workshops are those who shoot throughout the year, who work their backyard as well as exotic locations.

Researching

Moving around to the fourth key, researching unfamiliar locations primes the creative pump and I arrive ready to get to work. I have usually paid a lot of money to get there and do not have the temporal luxury of spinning my wheels. Most domestic locations takes me three to six months to research; complex locations, such as East Africa or the Galápagos Islands, may take me a year to research through publications and the Internet as well as through the images shot by others. When reviewing the images created by others, I do not seek to copy their images, but to learn from them what is there and possible ways to approach the subject matter.

Researching can also mean, to the wildlife photographer, building knowledge of the habitats, habits, and behaviors of your chosen subjects. I also research such things as times of sunrise and sunset, moonrise and moonset, and the angle from magnetic north so I can position myself to juxtapose the rising sun or moon with some natural feature.

Obviously, researching can also entail evaluating your equipment before leaving to photograph a new location or subject to ensure that you have the right gear.

Thus, when I go out to shoot, I am prepared. I have thought ahead about what I plan to capture, what gear & film I will need to work toward the vision I have for the subject matter. That certainly does not mean that I am not open to serendipity, and sometimes I discard the original plan altogether when I run across the delightfully unexpected.

Working Beyond The Handshake

Whether working in my backyard, or in a remote or exotic location, I strive to work “beyond a handshake”, a phrase I first learned from my friend and mentor, Nancy Rotenberg, though I have heard other photographers use other phrases such as “work your subject.” Think what happens when you first meet someone new, introducing yourselves while shaking hands. How much do you know about that person aside from name and your quick visual assessment? Not much, but as you continue conversation past the handshake you soon learn much more. It is the same way with photography.

As a photographer, this means that I do more than get out of the car, point the camera in the general direction of a scenic wonder, press the shutter release, and get back in the car satisfied that I have succeeded in capturing the only possible image at that location. Far from it. When I start working, I often begin by wandering around, not aimlessly, but with intent and concentration as a means of attuning myself to the location. Once I unpack the camera gear and get to work, I always shoot more than one shot. Most of the time my best shot is not the first. I change the camera’s viewpoint, shifting it higher, lower, to one side or the other. I will use different equipment, changing from a telephoto to a wide-angle lens.

Our culture trains and conditions us to multi-task, to rush around doing as much as we can in as short a period as possible. Our employers may value that ability, but it absolutely fails in the arts. Working Beyond The Handshake conceptually forces me to slow down, enter the state of No Mind, and do my best to capture the spirit of my location or my subject. There is no superior subject just around the next bend: it is all right in front of me and it is up to me to enter into communion with it and to tell its story. I do not think that any other concept revolutionized my photography more than this one.

Dreaming

The sixth key is one of the hardest to learn: dreaming. One of the reasons is that we regard photography as a rather mechanical means of capturing the exact likeness of what is in front if the camera. Nothing could be further from the truth, but most amateurs fail to realize that, and in so doing, overlook that they can mold the scene to fit their vision or that there are multiple ways of looking at a subject.

When I am working, I stop to ask “what if” – what if I could change the juxtaposition of various elements in my scene, re-work nature in a sense. Alternatively, I will ask what if I could change the direction or color of the light hitting my subject. I try to look beyond the obvious, or, conversely, when faced with what one might otherwise overlook, I bring it to attention.

Another part of dreaming is making associations. Is the white wrought iron chair sitting by itself on a foggy morning just a chair, or does it evoke memories and feelings, and how do I bring those to the fore?

Editing

The last key in my creative process is the editing of my images. In my writing courses I was taught to edit ruthlessly, and the same applies to photography. Throw out the junk! There have been rolls, thankfully not many in recent years, where every single stinking image went into the wastebasket. Conversely, there are one or two rolls a year (and I shoot more than 10,000 images a year) with a 100% save rate, but on average, I toss about 35% of what I shoot, and this is typical of serious nature photographers.

On my quick first pass through the images from a new shoot, those that are out of focus, grossly under- or over-exposed, suffer from subject or camera movement (unless deliberate), or are mis-timed action shots go straight to the trash without a second thought. In a second, careful, pass I evaluate images for color and for overall balance and effect. If an image is deficient in these areas, lacks a central theme or unifying element, or is merely boring, I throw it out. I cannot tell you how many images I have thrown away after wondering why I shot them in that way.

One of the hardest lessons I had to learn was to separate emotional attachment. If, I was having fun at the time I was shooting, or in retrospect found a trip emotionally rewarding, it was hard to throw out the images that represented bad photography. The scene, after all, evoked an emotional response based on my memories, but I had to learn that because they affected me in that way, no one else could possibly carry into the image my emotional baggage. I must confess, though, that I keep a separate file of “personal” images and these no one but me will ever see. These are my personal history and they are often very useful to me for a variety of purposes, none of them the least bit important to me as a photographer.

Another part of editing is to view the images looking for that "image within the image." Often I will see a different composition than I saw in the field, one that I can bring to the fore by cropping the larger image. Often, cropping serves to remove a thin sliver of an edge, eliminating some distracting element that I failed to notice in the camera viewfinder.

Finally, when editing, I think about what I did in relation to what I was trying to do. If I do not consider the image successful, I think through how I could fix it next time, and that brings us full circle, right back to where we started, learning.

I find that in the end, creativity feeds on itself!

The Web Of Creativity

As I was trying to arrange my perceptual points in a logical order, I found that I could not for there is no completely logical linear order. No one point seemed more important and each seemed to flow into all the others, so I had to rethink my nice circle and came up with what I call the “Web of Creativity”.

Although I have presented these seven “keys” in a necessarily linear fashion, as you might guess from the way in which I have connected each concept with all the others, they do indeed interrelate. The more I work, moving freely around and through this space, the richer and more rewarding this web of creativity becomes.

Nevertheless, have I not been begging the question so far? Have I not been avoiding the crux of the matter, leading you down the primrose path? Here is where it starts to get difficult, where mere path turns to Tao.

What I have been talking about is all part of the process of creating, but I think there is much, much more. Everything I have mentioned, learning, dreaming, practicing, working your backyard, researching exotic locations, moving beyond the handshake, and editing have more to do with the external than with the internal.

I firmly believe that the creative impulse comes from within, even though some external object, action, or event may stimulate impulse, and that communication requires some sort of process. Since creativity comes from within, does it not follow that creativity mirrors the soul? If so, then the expression of creativity is very nearly synonymous with Spirit? In my life (and I have already alluded to this), I find my “zone” to be similar to a meditative state where everything else is shut out – a state of “no mind” where I am able to eliminate everydayness and focus on what is in front of me

Although I have purposefully used the term “meditative”, which comes from Hindu tradition, and “no mind” which is found in both Buddhist and Taoist teaching, I could just as easily speak of a prayerful state that relates to Christian understanding, though I am careful of that connection because the creative state is decidedly not one that includes supplication or desire.

Other artists have spoken of listening to or following their muse. Again, I am going to cross disciplines and quote Sergei Rachmaninov: "Music must come from the heart and go to the heart." In any event, I find that creation is in large part self-talk, conversing with my inner self and drawing something out of my spirit that is not apparent on the surface, and is not always immediately discernable to my conscious eye. Remember that I said the camera points both ways. The true depth in image making comes when you let it show that you feel, that Spirit engages you.

Let me note here that I am not especially gifted in this regard. It is just that I have chosen to develop and exercise the creativity that is inherent in every man and woman.

There is no visual language for the communication of Spirit, so I do not worry too much about exposing my inner secrets for the whole world to see. We all interpret differently, and what I put in an image is probably not what the viewer apprehends. What I have found is that when I put my entire self into the images I create, they end up speaking to others as well. Again, the message they receive is not necessarily the same as the one I put into the image. In fact, it seldom is because my viewers (with a very few exceptions) generally do not know me that well.

What the average viewer does is to reach into their own psyches to pull out a meaning known only to them. A quality image facilitates that process. It does not matter to me how an image speaks to someone else; mostly I will never know anyway, but what really matters to me is that the image pulls something out of them, and the way that many people respond to my image making tells me that I am frequently successful in this regard.

A case in point is the image of a red-billed tropicbird in flight that went out on my Christmas cards under the title “Peace”. In combining this particular image and carefully chosen text, I was drawing on internalized imagery of the dove of peace as well as a calligraphic dove that I learned to draw when I was a teenager. One of the recipients of the card verbalized that she related to the image because it invoked a sense of freedom to her. She is an immigrant and I can certainly see that this bird flying over water could easily remind her of the journey across the ocean to a new place of greater freedom than she previously knew.

What was I thinking when I created this image? I remember the day very well for I was about two hours into the first shooting day of an eight-day trip, the first time in a place I had wanted to go for a very long time, working with a group of other photographers whom I counted as my friends and most of whom I had worked with previously. The trip had taken a year to plan, and understandably, I was excited. However, I was in “my zone”. Where were my friends? I did not know. Was I hungry or tired? I did not care. Was I having fun? Absolutely, but that was irrelevant. What filled my mind were the technical matters of composition and exposure. Remember that I said earlier that technical matters, through practice, become automatic, they still have to be regarded. While I did not have to think through the difficulty of exposing a white bird against a dark ocean, but I did have to be aware of those two elements and know how to adjust my exposure to give me the tonalities that I wanted. I also had to think about the problem of keeping the bird sharply focused and was continuously adjusting which focus sensor was locked on the bird as it moved about its three-dimensional space. I was certainly not thinking about abstract ideas such as freedom or peace.

The concept I want to bring home is that the process takes place largely prior to the moment of creation. The act of creating is the apex of a long road and process is what enables Spirit to take over and produce.

There is no single way to get from nothing to something: everyone does it differently, and not even the same way every time. It is here that magic starts to occur. Here are some examples of the magical ways things happen for me.

Sometimes I pre-visualize an image – something forms in my mind’s eye and I go out to find or create it. A few years ago, I formed a mental image of a leafless tree covered in flowers, an image I dreamed within my imagination. Some time later that year, I was photographing one evening (practicing) in a nature park a short distance from my house (back-yard). Across the pond where I have created many memorable images was a dead cottonwood tree conveniently reflected in the stillness of the evening water. At the near bank lay a patch of yellow flowers and the pre-visualized image sprang immediately to mind. I went about capturing the imagined picture by using the reflection and the flowers, combining both through the technique of multiple exposure.

Other times my muse visits in unexpected ways as on the occasion I was photographing summer color in a botanical garden. There are numerous bronzes scattered throughout the garden and I was working near one of a young girl holding a basket of flowers (“Prairie Flowers” by sculptor George Lundeen). The statue is in the midst of a wildflower garden and as I alternated between the bronze and the flowers, I began to wonder (there I go, dreaming again) how I could capture both in the same image, though the statue is life-size and the flowers were all close to the ground. After thinking through several alternatives, I settled on one approach and made several exposures, one of which has become one of my personal favorites.

Other times, just the process of working at one location for many minutes, sometimes hours, leads to the definitive image. An example here is a series of images I did one evening, again close to home, of sunflowers. I worked that field for about an hour, quitting only when it was getting too dark to continue. Several high-quality images came from that session, the best ones juxtapositioning the setting sun with sunflower heads.

Serendipity can play a role as well and one must always be prepared for the unexpected. One day I was attempting to photograph early summer prairie flowers. The wind was blowing too hard to create the tack-sharp close-up images that were in my pre-conceived working plan for the day, so I let my spirit flow with the wind. The result was an image that was among my best for the entire year.

Sometimes, preparation pays off and one of the first images is the one that works best. I often tell student photographers that 70% of successful photography is just showing up.

You have probably heard stories about photographers who will wait for hours in a single location for the light to be just right. I have done that. On my last night on the Oregon Coast several years ago I was hoping, after several days of rain, for one last glorious sunset. The day had been clear and I was optimistic, but began to experience disappointment when a sea fog moved in about two hours before sunset. I went anyway to a spot I had scouted during the bright light of the afternoon and waited, doing some moody studies of the distant light house beacon shining through the murk. After a while, a gap formed between the fog bank and the ocean and I was reasonably sure the sun would put in a brief appearance through that gap. Knowing the angle from north where the sun would set, using my compass I maneuvered to a position so that the sun, if it appeared, would fall between two sea stacks a mile offshore. Five minutes before sunset, the sun appeared on cue, a flash of brilliant color illuminating the underside of the fog bank. I shot two rolls of film in that five-minute period, my long wait amply rewarded.

Beyond just waiting for the anticipated quality of light, there is waiting for the right moment, anticipating what might happen. This calls to mind the "Decisive Moment" of Henri Cartier-Bresson. One evening I was with a group of non-photographer companions hiking along Exit Glacier, near Seward, Alaska. There was a mountain goat a long distance above us and we watched it for a while wondering if it would come any closer. My companions gave up and moved on down the trail, but I persisted. Soon the mountain goat began to move downward. About this time, a park ranger joined me and we watched together as the large goat moved closer and closer. The ranger remarked that she had never seen a goat come that far down the mountain before as it stood for several minutes within easy reach of my longest lens. Whether it was synchronicity, serendipity, or just plain patience, those few magical minutes resulted in several strong images.

Finally, there is something I call the cross-pollination of creativity. I find that my efforts as a photographer contribute to the interpretations that I bring to works that I play on the piano and vice versa. I cannot really pinpoint how this happens, but I know it does.

Returning to my point of departure, in the end there is something magical about the creative process, not in supernatural terms (though I sometimes wonder about even that), but in the sense of awe and wonder that drives the process in the creator and may even occur in the perception of the viewer.

Namasté

Selected Bibliography

Bayles, David and Ted Orland. Art & Fear. Image Continuum Press, 2001.

Gross, Philippe L. and S.I. Shapiro. The Tao of Photography: Seeing Beyond Seeing. Berkeley: Ten Speed Press, 2001.

McNiff, Shaun. Trust The Process: An Artist’s Guide To Letting Go. Boston; Shambala Publications, 1998.

Palmer, Helen, ed. Inner Knowing: Consciousness, Creativity, Insight, and Intuition. New York: Penguin Putnam, Inc., 1998.

Patterson, Freeman. The Garden. Toronto: Key Porter Books, 2003.
_____ Odysseys: Mediations and Thoughts for a Life's Journey. Toronto: Harper Collins, 1998.

Freeman's work, writings, and teaching have had a profound impact on me as a photographer.
Although I have read just about everything he has published, the two works cited here are the
most germane to the discussion herein.

Rowell, Galen. Galen Rowell’s Vision: The Art of Adventure Photography. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1993.

This essay is available is a slide-lecture program, see my multimedia page for more details.

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