Lavender oil, Jewish bitumen. And a pinhole on a tin board that crudely does the elegant work of the human eye.
In the morning of 1826 or so, a mechanically bent Frenchman gathered them all, pointed the box out of the window through the roof of a drab barn, and invented the painting.
Of all the arts, photography is not made to be respected, admired or supposedly understood. And I have worked with press photographers for almost 40 years.
The photographer’s medium is light, light itself, and what Einstein told us is more realistic than time, but scientists are trying to define it. Should we call it power? It’s not even clear whether this should be called a wave or a particle. As a verbal person, it feels like a free fall.
While writing a history column in my last journal, an old man told me about a forgotten cemetery I knew in the woods of Avondale. One day the photographer and I went to get him and we went hunting.
Maybe she knew it, she was suspicious, but it was a beautiful spring day.
The three of us ran around the hill, talking about the past. We never found a grave.
However, I remember being mesmerized by the photographer’s clear eyes, capturing the reflected light in the car. And I saw her involuntarily turn it towards the subject.
In the most realistic profession, she was still and always an artist. She always watched both news and art. One of her pictures that she took is still out there.
I think photographers have such an opportunistic eye as most artists. They are all journalists of sorts, coldly waiting to be attacked by the light as it transforms into magic.
More than painters and poets, they are linked by reality, but supplemented by a vigilance which makes them feel both animal and beauty. I saw clouds cross the field for 30 minutes until they stood just behind the tree.
Unrealistically, I expect all photos to act responsibly based on reality. I know I can cheat people. With that kind of authority comes responsibility, doesn’t it? And in recent reality, there are already enough banana peels.
Starry sky viewing has been my hobby for a long time, but I see images of the night sky online and see digital images that I have never seen or will never see. The Milky Way galaxy in the night sky above the illuminated city.
They are not fakes. This light is really there. The galaxy, with its scarcely visible channels of dust and stars, rises above the grid of street lamps and desk lights.
Your eyes don’t behave like the digital camera that took it, so you can only see it in a photo. You cannot adjust the aperture or change the ISO and shutter speed. There is no Adobe in your head.
The dark skies of our time require patience. You should stay away from the light for a sufficient time until your eyes are fully open. After resting indoors for about 20 minutes in the dark, step out under the clear night sky into a lightless landscape. Heaven sing to you Gloria.
Many people living today have never seen it. Ever since our ancestors left trees in the vast Serengeti, its curiosities and their wonders are probably the starting point for all human speculation.
Setting up the stage for modern teenagers? “Is that it? Internet looks better. Can I have my phone now?”
The writer follows the words and the photographer follows the light. From the vernier bitumen shot of 1826 (which, if it included geese and pigs, went back and forth during the exposure time to erase), to the digital display of the galaxy striding, of the light. This unity within is the reason photography is an art. On us.
Artists collect light either mechanically or digitally. Reality has already been cut out and evaded. The photographer chose this time, this spot, this angle and the frame of the lens. The photographer then modifies more or less the collected light and turns it into an art. It wasn’t a reality before the lens clicked.
“Unscripted” is a weekly entertainment column produced by the Writer’s Rotating Team.
Source link The photographer is an artist who collects light [Unscripted column] | Entertainment