WHAT IS SLOFO?
These photos were made on Long Island and in the Berry Islands of the Bahamas, with a mindset of SloFo. SloFo is Slow Photography, the mindful, attentive, deliberate creation of a still image. In photography, we are obsessed with doing things faster. All too often, this focus on speed subverts our creativity. We rush, mis-attend, and lose quality. Instead, when we choose to be more careful and deliberate, we get greater satisfaction from the process.
A way of thinking, SloFo means practicing taking time to think and feel as you create images. When we look up and about from our cameras, and are continually aware of the events and beauty around us, we are doing Slow Photography. SloFo can be done anywhere we choose to make images, with any gear. We do not need to be on an island, right where we are works just as well, for Slow Photography begins where you are standing.
ON ISLAND TIME: THE BAHAMAS
Creating photographs slowly in the Bahamas was a pleasure; the abundance of sunlight and clear, shallow water created sparkling highlights in the water. The pictures here were made in the Berry Island and on Long Island. On a shallow-draft sailing catamaran, we set out northwest from Nassau to 3 islands; the Berry Islands, Eleuthera and Long Island.
Just about 120 miles east of Miami Florida, the Berry Islands are a paradise with few visitors. About 30 large cays (pronounced keys) and hundreds of smaller ones make up the region. Carved by receding glaciers, rainfall, runoff and erosion, these islands rest like teal gems set in a blue Atlantic.
Instead of just shooting the mesmerizing colors of the water itself, I found leading lines at the water's edge to create depth in the frame. The shapes of the shoreline and its marine life created compelling seascapes. We looked for textures in close up views of marine life. Textures were everywhere: from the rough limestone iron shore to the studded surface of one foot wide red starfish.
ALONG THE BEACH
Just off the beach and below the water, a forest of sea fans bent over in the current. On land, colored shells were strewn along the pink-sand beach. Sea grape and an occasional coconut palm grew on the shore. These trees gave shelter to birds including banaquits, osprey and herons.
Where there are necter-bearing flowers or cactus birds appear; the Bahama Woodstar Hummingbird and the Cuban Emerald Hummingbird are common. Bright sunny conditions in December and January allowed for shutter speeds fast enough to freeze American oystercatchers on the iron shore.
White waves pounded the open ocean side of the Berry islands. Along the shore chitons, limpets and sea urchins held tightly to the volcanic rock. Bleeding-gum narite snails commuted along the sand and left winding trails. With small colorful snails everywhere you look, macro photography with the camera on a tripod could take place at a leisurely snail's pace.
ABANDONED PLACES ON LONG ISLAND and ELEUTHERA
On Long Island, while hiking near the beach, we found the wreck of a tugboat named Carmen. She was beached during a hurricane. Hiking light with a small tripod, I loaded Fuji 400 in the Konica AutoReflex T. Further South, on the island of Eleuthera, I photographed the ruins of the WP Stewart mansion with a Nikon n90s and Fuji 400 film.
FOUR PROVEN SLOW PHOTOGRAPHY CONCEPTS
1. Take more time. If you can, use a tripod. Pace your film, or dial in Single Frame shooting on your digital camera. Breath and walk around between frames. Practice taking just one image of each composition.
Good photographs need not be busy. To simplify the elements, ask " What is the most important detail or thing in this image?"
Reducing the number of visual elements in each picture makes them more vivid. When the light itself is so scintillating, an image can work with just sky and water alone to convey a sense of place. Using your tripod and film will help you make more thoughtful deliberate compositions, in part because film changes your capture rate, and tripods help you relax and slow down.
2. Dial it Down. Use a low ISO. Since there was abundant light, its easy to use your ISO 6 or 12 film. For digital, I used Nikon's new ISO 32 setting.
3. Remember your Camera's Sunglasses. Take your circular polarizing filter. It cuts sun's glare on the water for film and digital photographs. A circular polarizer also brings out the color of plants and intimate landscapes. I keep one permanently mounted to my 28 mm f/3.5 PC – Nikkor shift lens,
4. Keep it dry. Because of salt moisture near the waves, carry gear and lenses in your choice of Pelican case, Ziploc bag, or other protection. Use silica gel packs. When a rogue wave drenched my SLR as I was photographing tide pools, a product called Salt-X came in handy ( saltx.com ). I rescued my old Nikon by wiping the salted gear with diluted Salt-X, then rinsing it off carefully and drying it in the sun.
FOR THESE PHOTOGRAPHS, I took 3 old cameras, used Kodak Portra film, Fuji 400 film, and some expired Wal Mart Polaroid 35 mm cartridges. I took along a trusty 1968 Konica AutoReflex T with a 57 mm Hexanon 1.4 lens, an old Nikon N90S SLR, a Nikonos 4a underwater camera. I also used a late model Nikon DSLR.
Bottom Line: Slow photography is a process of pondering to think. SlowFO emphasizes design, mindful vision, and the happiness that comes from continual effort with our craft.
For "Blue Hole Adventures", a video on Slow Photography Tips, shot on location in the Bahamas, play the video or click https://youtu.be/C8xpnx33EZo
A few years ago, I made a photograph of a stained glass window and its reflection on the church floor. After awhile, I located the photo again, after reading about a gunman shooting in a church.
Pierced by sadness over the event, I made my photograph into a new image: "Bullet of Faith."
Perhaps photographs are more than gear, numbers and processing. Looking at them, we viewers want to feel. The camera used, where the photo was taken, and whether or not it was manipulated do not matter. Subject matters. Idea matters, Emotional truth matters.
We want to feel the truth in a way we've not quite felt it before.
What does not matter? Gear, arguments about art or sharpness, online rules of photography...these do not matter. They are only the chaff, the metadata, and the meh. After they fade away, only our subjective experience and memory of a compelling photograph remains. The photo that rings true for you is the lasting one.
If I believe new gear, online obsessing or comparing my methods with others will improve my skills, I am suffering from delusions. When I seek to be a more interesting photographer, I might become a more interesting human first.
Being compassionate, forgiving, reading good works, facing my fears daily, taking forest hikes and bikes, meditating, meeting strangers, looking for accidental experiences. These things, not camera stuff, will make my subjects matter.
Lastly, keeping our sense of humor matters too. . . ( Title: Llama Rama).
Do you experience PTSD, Photo-Taking Snap Disorder? It's main symptom is not remembering that you took the shot.
Looking back over my photos from a couple years ago, there are many I do not recall taking. Why do we recollect certain images and forget others? Before we explore this question, here is the bottom line solution...
We have to pay attention, think about, re-collect, and deliberately slow down to make a photograph. To experience, and remember what we photograph, we act. Photography is what we do with it, and to remember it we have to act upon a photograph before and after taking it.
In Fairfield, Connecticut, researcher Linda Henkel coined the phrase "photo-taking impairment effect" which I called PTSD, above. Her team carried out an experiment in a museum, to see if taking pictures of the art objects there messed up photographer's abilities to remember what they had seen.
She took a bunch of students on a tour of Bellarmine Museum of Art and had them: a) photograph the exhibits, or b) try and remember the displayed objects because they'd be asked about them later. Then she tested their memories, and results suggested that taking pictures prevents memories from solidifying.
But here is the plot twist.
The researchers discovered that taking a photo of a specific detail ‒ by zooming in on it ‒ helped each photographer remember not just the detail but the entire object, even when most of the art object was out of the photographers' framed shot. What does this mean? The camera's eye, and the mind's eye, are totally different when it comes to memory.
To remember objects and events, we have to make time to review them. If we just amass thousands of images, with no organization, we will not reminisce, and we will forget. Photographs not only are what we make of them, we have to dive into them, and keep them active in memory, remindfully.
This might explain why I do not even remember taking older photos I see in my files. I did not review, or make time to solidify them in memory. Reminiscing and reviewing photographs that helps us remember. Context lets us get their gist.
THE NUMB TOTAL
Not only can I photograph a scene and later have no memory of what happened, I can look at a series of photographs of horrible brutality that should be shocking and yet feel only numbness.
Recently I was recently given the anesthetic Versed for a medical procedure. I had memory loss "under" anesthesia. For 45 minutes after I "woke up" and regained consciousness, I had no memory of getting dressed, answering questions, working on my website, or walking outside to the car. Retrograde amnesia is a common Versed side effect, and it is typical for people to be unaware that their memory is impaired.
The experience made me wonder about anesthesia, the drug, and how photographs can anesthetize us. From a literary perspective, the language of anesthesia, like that of the photographic arts, is a metaphorical one. "Under anesthesia" is a metaphor that suggests anesthesia is "down" with an up-down orientation. It is structural because it says that a person can be "under" a thing we call anesthesia. In general, things that are "up" are good. Health and life are up. Down things are bad: death and sickness are down. Somewhere in the middle of up and down, getting anesthetized by photographs, and by drugs, suspends us between life and death.
"Images anesthetize," said writer and critic Susan Sontag in her thoughts about photography. Taking photographs with partial attention may, like an anesthetic, make our memories fuzzy and indistinct. Paradoxically, photographs can be both an aide to memory, and yet anesthetize our brain's recall ability.
The anesthesia going into my arm and up to my brain caused me to lose time, muscle control and memory. The loss of memory I experienced from the anesthesia was what stayed with me, as it brought to mind the parallel experience of looking at photos from the past with no memories of purpose or place.
Unlike memories, photographs do not sustain meaning.
The still photograph preserves only instant appearances. Meaning takes time. A photograph has only an instant, and only records time symbolically. There are two people completing a photograph - the taker and the viewer. As viewers, when we comment on a photograph, by writing descriptive text in a caption, or by talking, this coating of words is not even close to the photographers' experience or what was intended. You can demonstrate this by showing someone one of your photos. Invariably, looking at it, people will talk about their own experiences.
We bring meaning to photographs. Until we do, certain images anesthetize us. Images of the horrors of war anesthetize us. Many war photographs seem outside of time, disconnected from politics, and like eulogy. Looking over them, if anything, we feel sadness and loss, but they also make us numb to the pain and suffering of others. We respond more to photographs that show events we've remembered from the news and to those that came about while we were alive. We seldom are arrested by images for which we lack a personal or experiential context. We distance from them: "that's unreal", "like a movie". Sontag noted: “Without a politics, photographs of the slaughter-bench of history will most likely be experienced as unreal or as a demoralizing emotional blow.”
Campany, David. Safety in Numbness. http://davidcampany.com/safety-in-numbness.
Sontag, Susan. On Photography https://www.amazon.com/Photography-Susan-Sontag/dp/0312420099
Henkel, Linda. https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Linda_Henkel/publication/259207719_Point-and Shoot_Memories_The_Influence_of_Taking_Photos_on_Memory_for_a_Museum_Tour/links/5579f17708aeb6d8c0205b18.pdf
Berger, John. Uses of Photography. https://sites.uni.edu/fabos/seminar/readings/berger.pdf1. reviving memory of something; reminiscent.
2. retaining memory of something; mindful.
Strolling Boston's Freedom Trail, I wondered "Is everyone here a tourist." I thought I heard Chinese, Spanish, and Dutch, all spoken quickly as sightseers and I passed each other on the trail. Perhaps folks who work in downtown Boston already know their city so well, they have no need to walk the Trail's thin granite line along the city's red brick lanes.
However, I was interested in the Trail, for two reasons. First, I wanted to see where Benjamin Franklin was born. Second, it was a trip down memory lane.
Franklin was born between the Old South Meeting House and the Old Corner Bookstore. That location echoed his reputation as a publisher. There's a landmark to him, just steps off the Freedom Trail. It's wasy to miss. Franklin's birthplace is marked by a small white bust of him, and that's the only thing surviving. The original building where Founding Father Benjamin Franklin was born burned down in 1810.
I walked on. Strolling the Trail, A distant memory of my brother and I at the Kings Chapel Burial Ground entered my mind, as we'd walked the Trail twenty years ago. Many notable folks are buried there, such as John Winthrop, the first governor of Massachusetts. However, the person I recognized, reading the plaque, was Mary Chilton. Here headstone inspired the grave of Esther Prim in The Scarlet Letter: Mary Chilton Winslow. At 13, she crossed the Atlantic in the Mayflower. She was so excited to see land, legend has it, she leaped out of the landing boat onto Plymouth Rock. My middle name is Winslow, and I recall my brother saying I was named for her.
Strolling up State, to Court, ahead of me the Boston Common beckoned.
On my way to the Public Garden, in the Boston Common, I stopped in the Central Burying Ground off Boylston Street, founded in 1756. There, I searched in vain for Gilbert Stuart's grave, and instead happened on a headstone marking the mass grave burial of people whose bodies were uncovered when the Tremont Street subway was constructed in 1895. I walked on.
"I'm hungry," said the whale.
"It's lunchtime," said the whale.
"Don't get too close, you'll scare the fish," said the whale.
We listened. We watched. The whale leaped skyward. She closed her mouth. Gulp!
She sank back into the blue. Minutes were hours.
Gulls flew. We watched.
Suddenly, an explosion. Millions of little silver fish jumped. The water boiled with fish. She lunged up to gulp down her favorite krill.
Yummy, said the whale !
We cut back the boat engine and pointed away from her. We used a long lens, as not to disturb her, and eased past her, unseen. She rested on top of the ocean. Then, she dove, and with her massive jaws open, lunged up to gulp down more food.
Said the Whale: "The moral of the story is listen to Mother Nature and you will hear and see magical things."
His tropical shirt is soaked. Rain water swirls around his bare feet as he takes three last hits from his cigarette, while reading about the $16 lobster avocado cocktail on the restaurant menu.
Splashing him, a group of cyclists rolls through the water that locals call Lobster Pot lake. Above them all, a Cape Cod sky turns a leaden gray. The single car that creeps through the lake on Commercial street has its low beams on, in an attempt to find its way through the dark street.
A single baby stroller rolls down the street, its hidden passenger tucked safely under a blue hurricane tarp. Tethered to their dogs and kids, the parents mush.
My camera flash blazes. Staying dry under my old black umbrella, it wordlessly freezes vertical slices of rain, soaking them in to its memory card. Nearby, like blossoming flowers, bouquets of umbrellas open up to the sky. Their mizzled owners jaywalk across Commercial, because nobody one wants to wade though Lobster Pot lake.
This lake stretches just twenty-five feet across Commercial to the Governor Bradford restaurant. It reflects the red hues from the Lobster Pot's tubular, cursive neon sign. People are moving swiftly to shelter-- the Cape Cod cloudburst comes during lunch hour, at noon on a September Wednesday.
Between Ryder and Winslow streets, a few souls traverse the street. Punctuated by their dazzling sneakers, a puddle on Commercial street reflects a vinyl Peace Sign next to an equally plastic US flag. Sopping wet, but still velcroed to their owners, the running shoes dash off as their humans search out rain ponchos, but it's too late. . .
Lightning bolts divide the sky. It pours. Then...
Rain drops taper off. The storm clouds dissappear. Sunlight paints the street with diffuse light from the southwest. All the passers-by walk on, except for one young beagle who stops to snarf up a toddler-plopped ice cream cone.
Stuffed into my dry backpack, the camera contemplates memories, hypnotized with images, and dreams of imaginary scenes that escaped its owner's wide eyes. Outside, the afternoon sky is now a pale blue.
I feel lighter, and walk on.
Rowing at low tide, the smell of kelp and creosote mixes with the aroma of fir trees. My dinghy, Dog Paddle, sneaks past the rusted steel sides of a docked fishing vessel, Primo. She is motionless, as if she has not left port in years. The red walls of Knickel are reflected in the clear harbor water. Lunenburg is waking up.
Tires line the sides of the pier. Their rubber is worn from the sides of docked ships. Above one cluster of used tires, the new truck tires of a parked vehicle seem to be almost bragging that they are still loved by the Chevy.
Underneath the pier, green sea algae grows. Paddling though a broken piling, Dog Paddle floats into the center of darkness. As the eyes adjust, the view is out to the golf course on the other side of the harbor. This view is framed by criss-crossing piling struts that support the pilings.