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Thoughts from Beauty in Photography by Robert Adams

10/19/2019

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 These are my notes from Why People Photograph by Robert Adams. 
I hope you find thoughts to ponder, I have.

​
Why People Photograph by Robert Adams

Reflections on Classic Photographers

If I like photographers, and I do, I account for this by noting a quality they share—animation.  They may or may not make a living by photography, but they are alive by it.
I think for example of a friend who when he was a young man, sometimes took pictures along country roads while sitting half up out of the sun roof of his moving, car, steering with his feet.
Apparently, he was meant to do this because over the years he went on to assemble a vast photographic celebration of Colorado life.  When I hear his voice on the phone now, full of avidity even in old age, I promise myself that I will take grand, unsafe pictures.
 
Photography, like the others art, has that kind of intoxication.  There is also a quieter pleasure.  Occasionally photographers discover tears in their eyes for the joy of seeing.  I think it is because they’ve experienced a miracle.  They’ve been given this gift of tears which they did not earn, and as with many unexpected gifts, the surprise carries this emotional blessing.
Photographers do not know where in the world they will find pictures.  Nobody does.  Each photograph that works is a revelation to its supposed creator.  Yes, photographers do position themselves to take advantage of good fortune, sensing for instance when to stop the car and walk, but this is only the beginning.  As William Stafford wrote, calculation gets you just so far—"smart is Okay, but lucky is better. “
Days of searching can go by without any need to reload film holders, and then abruptly, sometimes back in their yards, photographers use up every sheet of film.
 
There is another reason I like fine art photographers—they don’t tempt me to envy.  The profession is short on dignity.  Nearly everyone has fallen, been the target of condescension.  The stereotypical image of a photographer is a mildly contemptible, self-indulgent dilettante.  They’ve  been harassed by security guards, and dropped expensive equipment.  Almost all fine art photographers have incurred large expenses in the pursuit of tiny audiences, finding that the wonder they’d hoped to share is something few want to receive.  Nothing is so clarifying as to stand through the opening of an exhibition and only the paid staff have come.
Experiences like that could encourage defiance and resentment.  Why be quiet while you’re losing? But the best move forward.  Support from this who love them helps enormously.
I respect many photographers for their courage.  Sometimes this quality is undramatic and private.  It’s the grit to fight bad odds with discipline.  One writes in good-humored self-mockery, “I feel like I have been living in a small hole somewhere  with problems of nest management.”
 
 
Photographers must also withstand, with the help of their families and friends, the psychic battering that comes from what they see; sadness, grief, sorrow.  In order to make pictures that no one has made before, they must be attentive and imaginative. When Robert Frank put down his camera after photographing The Americans, he could not escape the sadness of the world he had recorded as could we when we closed the book.
 
Paradoxically photographers must face the threat that their vision may one day be denied them.   Their capacity to find their way to art, which is their consolation, to  see things whole, may fail for an hour or a month or forever because of fatigue or misjudgment or some other shift in spirit that cannot be predicted or understood or even recognized, until it has happened past correction.  For every Stieglitz or Weston who remained visionary to the end, there is an Ansel Adams who after a period of extraordinary creativity, lapsed into formulas.
 
 
Writing
 
Art is by nature self-explanatory.  We call it art precisely because it is self-sufficient.  Its vivid detail and overall cohesion give it a clarity not ordinarily apparent in the rest of life.  And so, if the audience lives in the same time and culture as does the artist, there is no need to add to their art a preface or other secondary explanations. 
 
I did not have to read photographers’ statements in order to love their pictures.  Almost nothing they say about specific pictures enriched my experience of those pictures.  Photographers seemed so strikingly unable to write at length about what they had made. 
Robert Frost told a person who asked him what one of his poems meant, “You want me to say it worse?”
Photographers never fully know how they got the good pictures that they have.
Words are proof that the vision they had is not fully there in the picture. 
 
The best way to know what photographers think about their work, beyond gazing at their photographs as we study profound books, is to read or listen to what they say about other pictures made by colleagues or precursors whom they admire.  It is as close as photographers usually want to come to talking about their own intentions.
For photographers, the ideal book of photographs would contain just pictures—no text at all.
C. S. Lewis admitted, when he asked to set forth his beliefs, that he never felt less sure of them than when he tried to speak of them.   Photographers know this frailty.  To them words are a pallid, diffuse way of describing and celebrating what matters.  Their gift is to see and bring back to us this miracle of sight.


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October 15th, 2019

10/15/2019

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​­­­­
 
 
 
The Fish House



No sign out front
Where my Dad and I stopped and
Gazed in wonder during the day.
We came after the pre-dawn chaos of men and boats
Chugging into the darkness,
Of a shallow great lake with more frightening,
Fast-forming  storms than any of the other great lakes.
The men drove their boats in that lake,
Fears well hidden
 
We stood silently, as did the Fish House
Remembering the men and boats
Already on the waters beyond our sight.
 
The village knew the grey peeling squat building
Flirtatious Hollyhocks beneath small muddy windows
That was the Fish House
And its swaying dock on the river.
 
Hand hewn timbers
Generations old built to last
For their children’s children.
All that the fathers created with care for their cherished children mattered.
 
 
Long before dawn
In night’s darkness
Low humming, sputtering diesels
Departed the Fish House
Into the darkness of the River,
Entering the lake beyond the lighthouse
Scattering apart to “their” place on the lake,
As their fathers’ fathers had agreed.
 
Unrolling their long nets with respectful love
Nets repaired by their fathers’ fathers,
Each knot,
 a signature
and stories of joy and loss
And loss.
 
The schools of fish in those years, so abundant,
Hard to imagine.
The men of old could haul in their nets
Quickly filled with fish.
 
When the village was closing, going home,
The boats were returning
Smoking diesels rolled a deep wake
To the Fish House.
 
Now everything changed.
 
No longer a quiet place of head nods
Hand gestured directives
For departing into the dark waters.
 
On their return
Deep in the water from the weight of the fish
Chaos reigned in the Fish House
as tasks were barked and hollered
Wise-cracks and guffaws
Pelting laughter and raucous back slaps
As if a dam of pent up testosterone
Had broken free.  Hearts were full.
This too was the Fish House.
 
Beautiful pike, pickerel, perch,
white fish and walleye,
scooped up and tossed by the shovel load
into crates,
others threw loads of ice
as the fish wiggled and flopped.
 
 
 
 
My Dad and I loved to enter the Fish House at dusk,
A place of well-ordered chaos and joy
Generations old
From the father’s fathers.
 
When the village dentist arrived
With his beaming son,
One booming voice
Called out
“Hey Doc, got a beaut set aside for just you, Doc.”
My Dad would set aside his life, day or night,
When the phone rang from a fisherman or dock
Worker to pull a tooth.
To the question, “How much Doc?”  He shy smiled
And opened the door, meaning, “I glad you called
And I could help you.”
 
That same Fish House
Now locked up for years
Remains,
a witness
to generations of men in ordered chaos and joy and loss,
Contented hearts.
 
Flying ice and the beauty of fish now live in our hearts.
 
 
 
 
©2019 John Holliger

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September 27th, 2019

9/27/2019

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Sunbear Studio
 
Announces Current Exhibit of
Fine Art Photography
 
“A Glorious Excess
Autumn’s Colors”
 
From the Artist, John Holliger
As the growing season diminishes, nature creates a vivid palette of colors.  Billions of buckeyes and silver milkweed cover the land, extravagant beauty of hope with such a flourishing of seeds preparing to rest in winter and then… spring.  Autumn, the season of hope.
I live a wandering life, walking before the sun appears, sauntering the paths of deer, the forgotten roads that have no name and do not appear on any map.
In those places I am stopped in my tracks by a stand of trees, dancing streams, and the tiny fingers beginning to uncurl on the new fern of spring.
In the soft light of dawn, mist and dew touch the sacred.
Sunbear Studio Represents
John Holliger
www.photographybyjohnholliger.net
70 Welshire Court    Delaware, Ohio 43015
740-360-0741  johnholliger@columbus.rr.com
 
Sunbear Studio
http://sunbearstudio.com/
Tuesday – Saturday   11:00 – 5:00
22 West Main Street
Westerville, Ohio 614-259-3688
​

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The Fish House

9/27/2019

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                                      The Fish House 


No sign out front
 
Where my Dad and I stopped and
 
Gazed in wonder during the day.
 
We came after the pre-dawn chaos of men and boats
 
Chugging into the darkness,
 
Of a shallow great lake with more frightening,
 
Fast-forming storms than any of the other great lakes.
 
The men drove their boats in that lake,
 
Fears well hidden
 
We stood silently, as did the Fish House
 
Remembering the men and boats
 
Already on the waters beyond our sight.
 
The village knew the grey peeling squat building
 
Flirtatious Hollyhocks beneath small muddy windows
 
That was the Fish House
 
And its swaying dock on the river.
 
Hand hewn timbers
 
Generations old built to last
 
For their children’s children.
 
All that the fathers created with care for their cherished children
mattered.
 
Long before dawn
 
In night’s darkness
 
Low humming, sputtering diesels
 
Departed the Fish House
 
Into the darkness of the River,
 
Entering the lake beyond the lighthouse
 
Scattering apart to “their” place on the lake,
 
As their fathers’ fathers had agreed.
 
Unrolling their long nets with respectful love
 
Nets repaired by their fathers’ fathers,
 
Each knot,
 
a signature
 
and stories of joy and loss
 
And loss.
 
The schools of fish in those years, so abundant,
 
Hard to imagine.
 
The men of old could haul in their nets
 
Quickly filled with fish.
 
When the village was closing, going home,
 
The boats were returning
 
Smoking diesels rolled a deep wake
 
To the Fish House.
 
Now everything changed.
 
No longer a quiet place of head nods
 
Hand gestured directives
 
For departing into the dark waters.
 
On their return
 
Deep in the water from the weight of the fish
 
Chaos reigned in the Fish House
 
as tasks were barked and hollered
 
Wise-cracks and guffaws
 
Pelting laughter and raucous back slaps
 
As if a dam of pent up testosterone
 
Had broken free. Hearts were full.
 
This too was the Fish House.
 
Beautiful pike, pickerel, perch,
 
white fish and walleye,
 
scooped up and tossed by the shovel load
 
into crates,
 
others threw loads of ice
 
as the fish wiggled and flopped.
 
My Dad and I loved to enter the Fish House at dusk,
 
A place of well-ordered chaos and joy
 
Generations old
 
From the father’s fathers.
 
When the village dentist arrived
 
With his beaming son,
 
One booming voice
 
Called out
 
“Hey Doc, got a beaut set aside for just you, Doc.”
 
My Dad would set aside his life, day or night,
 
When the phone rang from a fisherman or dock
 
Worker to pull a tooth.
 
To the question, “How much Doc?” He shy smiled
 
And opened the door, meaning, “I glad you called
 
And I could help you.”
 
That same Fish House
 
Now locked up for years
 
Remains,
 
a witness
 
to generations of men in ordered chaos and joy and loss contented
hearts.
 
Flying ice and the beauty of fish now live in our hearts.

​

copyright 2019 John Holliger

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A New Exhibit: "Hidden Until Now, Beauty Revealed."

9/3/2019

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Hidden Until Now
Beauty Revealed
 
 
Th earth was once a garden with thousand-year-old trees everywhere we looked.  The waters were clear, dancing and freely flowing.  The earth lived with natural rhythms and balance among all the creatures, long before the humans appeared. 
We must have looked very odd to the trees, the creatures, the waters. 
Those humans who listened, learned,  and lived the ancient  natural rhythm of the earth, taking just enough, and giving back to the earth their gratitude and kindness, those humans are now the rare ones, who are invisible and different, just as the remnants of the garden, the ancient trees, and dancing waters continue to flourish, often hidden and unseen, along paths made by deer and moose.
I live a wandering life, waking before the Sun appears, sauntering the paths of deer, the forgotten roads that have no name and do not appear on any map. 
In these places I am stopped in my tracks by a glimpse of that garden, a stand of ancient trees, dancing streams, and­­­ flora as tiny as the little fingers not yet unfolded on the new fern of spring. seen in the soft light of dawn when dew and mist touch the sacred.
 
 
John Holliger ©2019

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What is meant by uncreated Light?

8/28/2019

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Uncreated Light
 
Long before
Edison’s glowing filament,
The ancients spoke of uncreated light.
 
In my younger, literal years,
My either/or, all-or-nothing left brain wanted
Easy, obvious steps.
 A favorite cliché was,
That’s a “no brainer.”
 
As a protective defense,
My intuitive,
Creative,
Imaginative voice was in hiding
In fear of being heard and my essence scorned.
 
I was repulsed by the gibberish language of mystery,
Inexplicable Metaphors, and
Fresh images which pained my ordered mind,
My reptilian, unconscious mind
that walked the same path out and back,
Day by day,
Believed that getting back without being noticed was
a successful day.
 
Then this rigid manner of living collapsed,
And my voice,
Hidden so deeply for decades
Began a long journey,
One with no map.
Finding myself in a cul-de-sac
I didn’t know I had wanted to find all along,
Turned me toward a Light, Uncreated by me or any other,
Inviting me to make a new path to a distant Aura
A Presence,
A Soft
Gentle
White.
 
That Uncreated Light
That shown evenly through icons onto the one
Standing there, gazing back,
An Otherness
Sensed in the forest when alone,
Or at the water’s edge of a Great Lake,
From my wet feet to the other side of that horizon of white mist.
 
The Ancient Japanese painters knew this white, Uncreated Light,
Separating and Connecting the images of village life on those long scrolls,
Hiding and revealing the odd shaped, narrow mountains
Thrusting into the clouds beyond sight.
 
 
Uncreated Light
 
Revealed so dependably here and there by morning’s mist,
The midwife to a new way of pondering.
Uncreated Light
Revealing surprising, captivating visions,
Kindness
A touch
An unspoken word
That says everything.
 
Uncreated Light  comes
From I know not where.
 
 
 
John Holliger ©2019

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August 28th, 2019

8/28/2019

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                 Turning onto a gravel road
 in search of a stand of old growth red spruce,
I crept along for miles
swerving around emerging boulders,
riding the high mounds of eroding streams,
creating their own path across and down the gravel road,
an “unimproved road,” forgotten, neglected,
paths within this path.
Now dropping into unseen depths,                                                                 
then surging up and out and forward,
skidding across ripples of stone,
Mile following creeping mile,
no map, no signs, many “posted” on trees,
an unknown distance from that first turning
onto this gravel path miles ago.
Into a patch of sunlight,
surrounded by weeds as desiccated as the gravel.
 
Many times,
 forgotten
gravel roads,
undisturbed by humans,  
Unveil unexpected songs, trickles
from springs hidden miles beyond sight upstream.
Here,
I pulled off the road and stopped.
I don’t know why, here, but something
Said, “Stop, here,” and I did.
“Get out and listen, look.”
I discovered again that refreshing feeling,
Opening the door  
And standing up,
then a few steps.
I remember the joy of walking
And the compressed tolerance of sitting for a season of driving.
 
Standing and walking,
Crushing stems and snapping branches,
I hear chanting, coming from somewhere near.
A deep voice,
Hidden,
Vocalizing in her own language,
Her contentment and gratitude.
In her mezzo-soprano tones,
She is thanking the Earth’ s spring,
flowing water to the sea,
and her life,
Her path,
so much like my own.
No maps, no signs, no “posted” signs on trees,
But
her path
Unknown yet trusted.
Hidden beneath curling branches.
My curiosity was focused,
Longing to see the one who sang.
By moving sideways, crablike
Across wobbly stones,
I came closer to her artful presence.
Dropping beneath branches intent on protecting
Her unseen place,
Her beauty, playfully vocalizing,
A gift of freedom.
 
Here
In secret,
She could fall over ancient rocks,
Singing ever-changing melodies of her luscious joy.
 
Here,
These stones were also
Singing their own song, I could not hear,
the protecting branches chanting their song, I could not hear,
My gift was my attentive silence,
For the stones, the moss, the spring, the branches, the water,
A silence that would not disturb the chorus of joy,
 
Here,
in this forgotten place
of gravel and desert. 
 
 
©John Holliger 2019

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Cottonwoods, thoughts from Robert Adams, Along Some Rivers

5/27/2019

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 Quotations from Along some Rivers, by Robert Adams.
 
Cottonwoods can seem human—they seem to rejoice and they seem to suffer.  But they also seem to know a stillness that we can[t experience.
The example of trees does suggest a harmony for which it seems right to dream.  Lakota refer to the cottonwood as the dreaming tree, a place of visions.
Willa Cather wrote in the Song of the Lark, which is set on the Colorado plains, that cottonwoods are “wind-loving trees…whose roots are always seeking water and whose leaves are always talking about it, making the sound of rain.” 
Edward Thomas:  “Trees and us—imperfect friends.”  Cottonwoods have been our friends for a long while.  The Arapaho believed, for instance3, that the stars came from cottonwoods, from the glistening sap at the joints of the twigs.  The Hidatsa believed that the shade from cottonwoods was healing.  Everything about the tree, in fact, struck Native Americans as beneficent.

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A little about Minor White,editor of Aperture magazine for 25 years

3/9/2019

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Minor White’s basic commitment was to a way of life, not to photography per se… 

He was basically a contemplative.  Everybody knows that, but very few people in photography seem to understand what that really means. 

It means that there are more important matters in his life than making pictures, and more important goals in photography, as he understood it, than making good ones.

Photography was not only not necessary to him.  It was in fact something of an encumbrance.  “Working among esoteric or spiritual lives, you come to the realization that your medium can’t keep up with you, you can go beyond it and a decision has to be made—or you have to keep your eyes open and see what decisions are being made for you.”

In his decision to stay with photography White was not unlike the bodhisattva, who chooses to stay and help his fellow creatures.  “I realized that photography was my mouthpiece, this was the way I talked.  Photography meant writing about it, editing it, teaching and making it. 

It was a service thing now—a totally different attitude. 

Only recently have photographers started coming out of the darkroom in any numbers and many of them are still blinking.  In his teaching methods, he shows, rather than told, what he had in mind.
“Poets, actors, musicians, artists, unlike photographers, would have no trouble with what he was saying but then that was precisely why he had to keep trying to say it to photographers.
​

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Poetry and Photography

3/9/2019

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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive,  a thing which enters into one’s soul,  and does not startle it or amaze it  with itself but with its subject.   John Keats, Letter,  February 3, 1818
 

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