Posts Tagged ‘fire’
Fewer Shots? Why yes, I think I will.
Today, I was catching up on tweets from the photo world and this blog post from Scott Bourne happened to come up.
Become a Better Photographer by Taking Fewer Shots « Photofocus:
“‘Okay, I’m done.’
‘That’s it? You’ve only been shooting for ten minutes!’
‘Yep, got about 50 shots, I should have 4-6 proofs for you from that bunch.’
‘So we’re done?’
‘Pretty much…I mean I can keep shooting, but there’s really no point, it’ll just be duplicates of the same stuff.’”
Every Thursday night at a local coffee joint called Spiderhouse, burners from around the area filter out into the night to meet up, catch up, burn up, and live up the evening. Some nights you’ll only find one or two people there. And still other nights, the crowd will be thick and awed by these people knowingly dancing with spark and flame, mixed in a combustible hydrocarbon cocktail. Spinners, young and old, greenhorns and gurus alike come out to play.
I was out this Thursday.
Man, Thursday night was cold. Not bitter cold like we’ve seen in the last few weeks, but cold enough that I should have remembered my recently acquired +5 gloves of comfort. Not a good thing when you’re trying to photograph someone outdoors, at night, with a bit of wind at your back. Exposed fingers become icicles in mere moments. The last thing you want is to have a finger freeze to your camera trigger and break off at the decisive moment. Nothing good would come of that.
So, like I was saying. I was out this Thursday and happened to be at Spiderhouse. Out back amongst the cobblestones and picnic benches, in fact. Lisa, one of the regulars, and a new guy, Wesley, were out by the stage prepping for a burn, so I walked over and watched. No. It’s not so much that I watched. I was drawn in. Captivated and hypnotized by this new guy’s fluidity with the poi. He was very good, to put it mildly.
And herein, I decided I need to grab the camera and take some photos. Lisa and Wesley were gracious enough to allow me some time to play. I wanted to try something new, so out came the Ezybox. Now, I’ve done a fair bit of photography in the local burner community, so I’m always interested in trying out new ideas here. In fact, the cover of Joe McNally’s Hot Shoe Diaries is very inspiring for me; I want to do a shoot like that with one of the local burners.
This night would be a step in that direction.
But, before I go on, what does this all have to do with the quote from Scott’s blog? Having spent quite a bit of time photographing fire spinners, the one thing I’ve found is: there’s only so many moves you can do with each type of fire spinning prop. Poi, staff, meteors, swords: they all have limits to their showmanship, so there’s only so many ways you can experiment with photographing them. After you take a few hundred shots of someone spinning something in a circle, all you have is a few hundred shots of flaming ring photographs. It looks all the same.
And knowing this, I’ve been trying to cut down the number of photographs I take of people playing with fire.
When I first undertook to photograph fire spinners, I always saw it as a race against time. Get as many photos of the flames before the wicks flamed out or grew too lacking of fuel to get the rich oranges and yellows of blaze. When I started seeing the blackness of the wick itself, I knew it was coming to a close. The camera sounded like a slow-motion machine gun as the shutter clicked open, waited a second or two, and then clicked closed. And then again. Again. And again. And … again. Until I filled up a card and was forced to swap to the next.
One of the things that fire has begun to show me is that this can be so. unberably. repetitive. Boring almost. Of the few thousand photos I have now, I can point at maybe a hundred that have become artistically interesting for one reason another. And many of those have been caused by something different that happened during the burn. Maybe it was someone I’d never seen before. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it was me trying something I’d not played with before. But, whatever happened in the photo, it was different. Unusual. Something to be remembered.
And knowing that, I’ve begun looking at what I’m doing in my other photographic interests and trying to apply the same aesthetic. I don’t want it to be repetitive and I believe that this often causes the mental blocks I’ve so frequently been encountering with my camera. Because, if you’re shooting the same thing over and over, where is the art? Where is the fun? Where is the blade of unusuality that takes ahold your interest and leads you into the photo?
Gone. It’s just gone.
So I’m forcing myself to look anew at what I’m doing and try to evaluate what should be different. What should be played with. Like Thursday: I don’t normally add flash to my fire photos. I’ve always found it difficult to balance and clumsy to work with when you’re playing with longer shutter speeds in order to capture the arc of fire.
But here’s what I learned: it’s still no different than other flash photography. You can easily over power it. You’ve got the control there you need. Now, rightly control it. In many of my photos from that evening, I let the flash over power the scene. Why? Because the chimper in me kept seeing the scene as too dark on the back of that god forsaken camera LCD. And second? What I want to do is fire within a portrait. I want to go for that McNally photo and make it my own. And doing so is going to make me think differently about what I’m trying to achieve with the local fire spinners, moving from a passive documenter, to an active photographer and engaging them in the photo, so they can engage you in the photo.
I ended the night with about 50 photos. Three came out good. I think that’s a fair haul for 20 minutes of shooting filled with experimentation, don’t you?
The photos above are of Wesley and Lisa. Both were photographed using a 15″ Lastolite Ezybox Hotshoe with an SB-900 at 1/2 power and a full CTO to balance the color of the flash to that of the flames.
Cartier-Bresson never played with fire.
Like I told my last wife, I says, “Honey, I never drive faster than I can see. Besides that, it’s all in the reflexes.”
Jack Burton, Big Trouble in Little China
Yes. I’m watching Big Trouble in Little China tonight. I love this movie. It’s an 80′s classic. I bring it up because of a scene in the movie where Jack and Wang Chi have bet each other that Wang Chi can’t split a bottle in two with a large knife. Wang Chi hits the bottle. It, of course, does not split in twain, instead rocketing towards Jack’s head. The hand being quicker than the eye, shoots up and snags the bottle before clocking him in the face.
Why do I bring this up?
I’ve been thinking about Cartier-Bresson’s The Decisive Moment and trying to better understand sensing or predicting the moment where the photo is “right”. I tell you, I’ve shot more losers than winners trying to figure this out. Losing photos that is, not loser people. Anyway, this idea of capturing the decisive moment is difficult to grasp. It’s difficult to know what exactly this idea really means. There’s a group on Flickr to cover some of this. I spent some time reading through the discussions, as well as going back through some of Cartier-Bresson’s books to glean some useful information.
Heh. “Useful information”. There is none. All the talk I’ve found doesn’t make up for the act of doing. I’m beginning to think it’s like pornography … you’ll know it when you see it. And not one second before. Ironic, isn’t it … understanding what the decisive moment should be requires knowing when the decisive moment occurs.
Cartier-Bresson is quoted in a 1957 Washington Post article, saying, “Photography is not like painting. There is a creative fraction of a second when you are taking a picture. Your eye must see a composition or an expression that life itself offers you, and you must know with intuition when to click the camera. That is the moment the photographer is creative. Oop! The Moment! Once you miss it, it is gone forever.”
You see. Intuition. You need that. And that only comes over time as you take crap photo after crap photo. At least, that’s what it appears to my finely untrained eye. It’s like trying to drive down the road, blindfolded, while steering a northerly course by the sensation of the road turtles under your tires. Bumpbumpbumpbumpbump. Get good enough at it, and you’ll be able to judge not only distance and speed, but direction just from the sheer force of the ripple in your shocks.
But, back to Cartier-Bresson. He had years to develop this idea. I imagine he took his fair share of crap photos while slowly charting his course towards the decisive moment.
When some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the barroom wall, and he looks you crooked in the eye and he asks you if ya paid your dues, you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye, and you remember what ol’ Jack Burton always says at a time like that: “Have ya paid your dues, Jack?” “Yessir, the check is in the mail.”
Jack Burton Big Trouble in Little China
Yes. I’m sure Henri paid his dues and that’s why he understood what it meant to feel his way towards a better photograph. Intuition. A gut check. Using the force. Whatever you want to call the alignment of the planetary photogenesis (hey, I don’t know what that means, it sounded good … go with it). It ends up manifesting in a tiny, imperceptible muscle twitch that impregnates the image upon our photographic medium of choice right before the moment divests itself from our very sight.
And what do you know. Sometimes it’s even a great photo.
The woman above is a local fire spinner in Austin. This was the first time I saw her spin. Very hypnotic. I’ve gotten to the point where I want to photograph something different with fire. Something I haven’t seen or tried to see before. Here, she’s up on a stage, replete with a large white background. You’d never know it from the photo, but ’tis true. She’s kneeling on the stage, arching back towards the screen, twirling the fire ever closer to her face in between her stripped arms. If the music hadn’t been loud, you would have heard the crackling get louder and softer, each time the poi flipped around closer to you. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. Lovely fire. Lovely photo. Lovely woman. And this is me dancing with that decisive moment.
I think it worked.
Fireworks or Bust!
If your lifetime goal is to own a fireworks stand … you might be a redneck. — Jeff Foxworthy
I, of course, don’t want to own a fireworks stand. Now, I’m not knocking those who do, but that aspiration just isn’t my style. Nevertheless, I did my photographic duty yesterday and camped out with the hundreds of thousands of other people at Town Lake in the blazing July heat. Yes, that fantastical Texas heat. As if the showering sparkles of gun powder laced in burning smoke, the army of fire ants, and warm drips of sweat weren’t enough.
For all my heat-induced bellyaching, I have to say I did enjoy the show. I made the colossal mistake of parking close this year. You know, to save time getting to the show. Because I’m Lazy. Yes, with a capital “L”. Hung out with a few friends before the show so I could suck up some of their marvelous air conditioning. It was like seeing one of those signs out in the desert, “Last chance for gas, 180 miles.” You knew you’d better stop and partake of that brilliant resource before you found yourself out in the middle of nowhere, miles from relief and help, while pissing into the wind.
By 8:45, I knew I had to get over to the park or I’d miss my chance to etch the pretty sparklies onto a flash card for posterity. Say goodbye to Mr. A/C. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
I found a spot on the hill in front of the Palmer Event Center. It’s a shame it was the wrong spot. See, what I neglected to realize in my excellently sketched out plan was … well, you’ll see. Sadly, leave it to me to draw this plan out on the back of a napkin. When the ink soaked in like a bloodied pool, I discovered error of my ways. What was so wrong?
Well, everything was fine with the playing of the 1812 Overture. The guns were booming, people were jumping up in fright. And when the fireworks started, they … were. not. in. front. of. me. No.
They were off to my left. Right behind a lamp post. It was at that moment I wished I had one of two things: a rifle and scope or Dumbledore’s lamplight killer thingy. To say I was annoyed would be the understatement of the moment. Shame I had already unpacked all my camera gear and dug in to my little photo foxhole. I was fully engaged and had nowhere to escape to. So, I did what any good photographer would do.
I shot.
There’s a scene in Wild, Wild West where Artemis, acting as the President, is chastising West on his investigative style: “Shoot, shoot again, shoot some more, and then ask questions.” This thought bubbled up to the front of my mind as I laid on the camera trigger and didn’t stop shooting until the last explosive pot launched above the Austin skyline.
And as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Fifteen minutes to get in and find my spot. Fifteen to setup. It took me two to pack, and ten to hoof it out. I wanted to beat the rush. Sadly, I, like every other optimistic party-goer in Austin, decided that they would beat the rush too. Dave Mustaine kept my company the rest of the evening while I … moved a foot, stomped on the brake. moved a foot, stomped on the brake. Moved three feet … stomped on the brake.
Fireworks shows put on at Town Lake are an exercise in patience. But, only at their end. There are only five major north-south thoroughfares through Austin to get over the lake: IH35, Congress, South 1st, Lamar, and Mopac. South 1st is always shut down for big events. And the rest, well … imagine a parking lot. Only with pissed off drunk people. And it’s 47 bazillion miles long. It goes without saying that I wanted my bloody hovercar last night. I even called my wife and asked here where my hovercar was. I bet she stole it from me just to make me suffer.
But I digress.
Eventually, I made out of the area and onto IH35 wherein, I stomped on the gas, popped some Digital Underground into the CD player, and cruised through the city at high speed, deftly avoiding the drunk yahoos and their mishmash of weaving and bouncing off the concrete walls.
And that, my friends, was how I spent 4th of July in Austin.
If you’d like to see bigger versions of the photos below, check out my Fireworks Slideshow on Flickr.
