The Four Values of Constructing a Series

The Four Values of Constructing a Series are a set of guidelines and direction for working within multiple photographs as a printed medium. I have used vague interpretations of these same values for years and they became the structure of the larger story within my quarterly film photography journal Serif & Silver. It is important to understand that photography as a medium should not have the single image shared as the end goal. Images, like words, can be used in conjunction with one another to provide a wider audience insight into the passion, inspiration, livelihood, and motivations behind both photographer and subject.

These values are to be used and referenced by all and kept in mind when working on photographic projects on a larger scale. It is our responsibility as photographers not only to elevate our own work, but to elevate photography and its interaction with the world as an artistic form. And it is my strong desire that this manifesto can be shared and expanded upon through the insight and input of many photographers. 

Part One: The Collection 

When looking at any series of images there are multiple defining characteristics. As humans the need and desire to sort, organize, and catalog is built in to our existence. It is how we recognize faces, recall names, and can easily find our way to that bizarre restaurant we’ve only visited once before. However when it comes to translating this into photography as a whole it is easy to lose sight of the completion of our work. 

Photography and Photographers yearn for the compilation of images. Unfortunately this sits outside of much of the current workflow that we employ. Through years of Pavlonian training with Social Media we are encouraged not only to post in the singular, but modify our working methods of photography in order to reach wider audiences and receive more immediate satisfaction. In order to better counter-act this we need to remove our current goals of sharing, likes, and engagement.  

In their place the following must be established: work towards a singular message across multiple photographs. 

By implementing this mentality we can look much further than the single frame and create bodies of work that are concise and direct through ideals such as changing landscapes and communities, rather than the all too common subject titles of portraits and landscapes. These vague subjects are designed to operate as a catch all for the photographer without vision allowing them to take casual images and present them as if it was a planned decision. Rather by defining our goals outright we are able to accomplish them through one of two methods.  

The first follows standard photographic process. By creating a vision and message that will be portrayed through your images you can then photograph in such a way that gets you closer to completion. This tried and true method allows us to spend more time up front refining our message and less time shooting the images themselves. However where it carries strength it also carries weakness. By focusing too much on the outset it can be easy to succumb to a lack of motivation as your goals have become too narrow, and anything outside can be seen as a failure on the photographers part. 

The second reverses the first methodology and encourages shooting before concept. The tactics used here serve as support for the ideals behind the collection. It should be said that there is more work in all aspects of creation except for the beginning. Where the first method says planning is required before depressing the shutter, this method puts the planning and more difficult workflow at the end.  

To get out and shoot offers multiple benefits. When allowed to focus on composition regardless of subject we are able to implement images into multiple series but more importantly it allows us to step away from our work until enough time has passed until the vision becomes more clear. This latter aspect, one of patience and aging is key. By putting ourselves outside of the standard shoot and distribute workflow we can better reflect and judge our own work without bias to ensure the images contained within any given series meet the goals of what was set out to accomplish. 

It is within the above methodologies that the collection comes to be and we begin to build our series. Specific selections of images from prior experiences come together in such a way that a thought can be conveyed, regardless of the presented order. 

Part Two: The Pair 

Beyond our ability to recognize patterns, we also have the desire to translate that ability into spotting differences. Minute changes that appear across areas of our interaction with the natural and man made worlds surrounding us. This allows us to determine friend from foe based on nothing more than appearance, and when applied to the collection offers support for images when positioned aside one another. 

Similar to The Collection, The Pair has been deconstructed after years of individual photographs shared and we must look further back to the photo album or photo storage box to reveal better storytelling. Because so little thought is offered to the corresponding images the single photo finds itself being drowned out due to a lack of preparation by the series creator. 

It is through this that the pair of images becomes the second step of the construction of a series. Built on the notion that a proper photo series will end up in the printed form, be it a gallery or photo book we must recognize the images on either side of any given photo.  

While at first glance this appears to encompass a trio rather than the pair it is necessary to work within the confines of two images, and allow the third to act as a comma within the larger story structure. 

This arc that continues between corresponding pages can be developed through multiple areas of the photo itself that get progressively more complex and rely on the photographer to ensure the complete message is still conveyed. These areas can be attributed similarly to how a photo is constructed in the following forms: Subject, Color and Tone, Composition, Message. 

Starting with the simplest form of connection for The Pair lies we can look more closely at subject matter. As the bulk of what any given photograph is composed of, your subject carries the most direct relation to any other image. 

Moving forward we come to color and tone. If one is to approach The Pair through this methodology they should prepare to address the reasoning behind a choice. It is because color and tone offer less inherent structure to their connections that it must be supplied by the photographer as two images of similar color do not necessarily belong together. In looking at the four forms that are used to structure The Pair, they follow a path parallel to that of the four values of constructing a series. That is to say if we are to start at the top, the most basic, and narrow our focus we can use the previous forms as a reference. Yet if we look forward to future forms the references are not as easily made. This is all to say that when developing The Pair through the use of color and tone, we can and should be thinking of our subject matter. Where two photos that use a lot of blue will not automatically work, two photos of blue restaurants in different locations offers us the direction we are looking to achieve. 

Composition becomes the third form of The Pair. While it is easy to assume that due to composition being most often associated with the image as a whole it is being used here rather to describe not subject matter but the specific shapes the objects within the frame are comprised of. In simpler terms buildings are looked at as if they are simple rectangles, the power cables become bisecting lines within the frame, and people are stripped of their features to be seen as a silhouette and nothing more. It is with these shapes that we are able to step back enough in order to see how the photo is really made, and use that as a statement for the corresponding photograph on the opposite page.

Finally, and offering the biggest challenge within The Pair is the message. This must be treated with a more cautionary approach as regardless of the connection there is a risk of muddying what message you are conveying throughout the series as a whole. That being said it is also important to note that multiple messages can and should exist within a series. These should offer the statements and supporting arguments for what you are looking to say. Because of this staying on topic is key, as it is often easy to stray and begin telling another story. 

However all if this cannot be stated without ensuring one final component. No matter how the images look and work together, they must not in any way over power one another. Once one photo begins to offer more to the viewer than the other, the less important photo serves no purpose being on the page and should be placed elsewhere in the series. 

By taking into consideration The Pair and treating it as a paragraph within your overall story we can support our story, support the other photographs, and offer personal insight as well as hints as to where we will look next. 

Part Three: The Negative 

Throughout our history we have always strived to navigate not only the natural, but man made worlds around us as well. This navigation has been put into our hands through the ability to plan ahead and transform what we see into a more sound and lawful order. That is not to say we have not always strayed from this path, but on a larger scale we can see how it is our duty to ensure we always have a sense of place.

It is alongside this sense of place that we look at the most basic building blocks. And despite the drive to compose a series the singular image cannot be ignored. Rather we must explore the most basic proportions of a photograph and what implications those carry.

To refine our focus from The Collection, to The Pair, The Negative offers the most basic view explored. And in order to view an image we must not look at the subject matter, but instead the negative space that surrounds it.

This space is often discarded as we are told through instruction to think of photographs in a binary sense. Through the subject and negative space, we are offered no middle ground and provided only ones and zeros. This poses a larger problem in that we are disallowed to focus on anything but the subject itself. This is due to the inherent implication that when asked which of the two options is more important, we will instinctively choose the subject. 

While it is important to reflect on the subject when the photo is being made, the construction of a series relies more on the connection between photos than the photo itself. Because of this, it is imperative to ignore our pre-determined notions for what constitutes a good photo, and rather look forward to what creates a good series.

Instead of a focus on the subject of a given photograph, the area around it or negative space is to be used as the primary tool for defining continuity. In a similar fashion to how The Pair is defined through the use of composition we must look at hard shapes and ideas the photo is conveying on its own without us describing them in greater detail. This can be done through many different areas of the photo, and is not confined to one specific region. A large sky holds no more value than trees in the background, what is more important is these elements aligning across any subject matter, or photographic style.

However this idea is not to be misconstrued. In looking at how The Four Values of Constructing a Series use the earlier values as structure, negative space does not preside over The Collection or The Pair. This is to say that regardless of how strong the connection may be between multiple photographs, if they cannot be aligned as a pair within the collection of images as a whole they must be discarded.

The Negative asks of us as photographers to look at images through a different workflow than what we have been taught to do. But once we can begin to work with it we will be able to find a unique order to how all images are constructed, and how this ties in with our livable spaces and the series as a whole.

Part Four: The Story

As we move closer to abstraction within the values offered here the end goals become not harder to define, but more vague in their intent. So while placing the least amount of emphasis on The Story, it is seemingly at odds with how the series is constructed. But it must be made clear that this is not a story in which we convey a tale within our images from point a to point b.

Because the ultimate goal of a photograph is to bring the viewer into the experience in which the photo was taken through the senses. Sight is provided to the viewer and photographer from the start as an inherent inclusion. Since photography is a visual medium we then must turn our focus to the other four senses and offer them within all of our images. This is the make up of The Story.

While offering sensory interactions of sound or smell pose larger questions it ultimately will fall back on the photograph itself. Through this the following ideal must be maintained: images are to not simply document a scene, but offer an invitation into the world in which the photo was created. How this is done lies more within the individual photographer than any written message offered here. Because similar to using the provided frame to remove elements from a photograph in order to refine the individual message, we are able to include key aspects that will bring viewers closer in to the photo, The Story, and the series as a whole. These key aspects surround us yet are unfortunately ignored on a regular basis when it comes to actually crafting an image. 

Because it is impossible to truly offer the sounds or smells of a given scene, we must rely on the memories of a viewer to recall what that sensory experience may actually be. Offered to all of us from the world at large, we can be familiar with how these intertwine with our memories, but perhaps more importantly how they can confuse or offer discomfort through altering our expectations of the scene. While this discomfort can be used as an advantage in certain aspects, it will more often act as a disservice to the series as a whole. 

If we are to imagine an image being put together piece by piece we can better understand what viewers expect to receive and how that will put greater emphasis on the right senses. This includes the garbage visible in street photography, plants that are local and identifiable, even if the landscape is not, and the noise that a big car makes as it is moving. Without this deeper engagement and discerning structure of the photograph itself we offer no more to the viewer than a blank canvas. There is a common argument for this, allowing the viewer to build the scene on their own. Yet as a photographer telling a story the goal is not to let the scene be dictated, rather to provide an area for the viewer to land within each image.

To offer this level of engagement completes the fourth and final value in the constructing of a series. But it must be reiterated that none of these can stand on their own, nor do they offer strengths when one is excluded. They must each be used and applied in the proper order, and once done the series will come together.

Serif & Silver Issue IV: Sobremesa - On Translating Photographs

Towards the end of this past summer I threw my camera bag into the car, woke up at three am and drove south heading towards Reno. I didn't plan to head into Reno, in fact its edge was only meant to be a stopover while I ate and took a break after then hours of driving. But after driving around a bit I sought out more of the area and by the time I had parked the car and loaded my camera I knew I had to stay in this city for the weekend. My end goal was still a few hours south in Bodie, California, and the photos from that destination were actually intended to be the compositions for Issue III. Needless to say that did not happen. I made the decision to cancel the existing hotel I had planned to stay at in California and found my way to a run down hotel and casino with a surprisingly nice view of the fireworks taking place that night unexpectedly.  

The next morning I woke up knowing that it would be a more quiet day involving leisurely getting out of bed, and not hitting the road until nearly eleven. I felt justified as I was making the return trip back to Portland the following day and was ready to take it easy. Plus, I wasn't needed in Bodie until later that evening anyway. Heading south once again, I made my way to Carson City, Nevada where driving through the main strip seemed all too familiar. It was about 17 years earlier that my grandfather passed away form kidney failure. He spent his last years living in Carson City, and as a child it was the only place I knew him. We would visit during the summers where, as a 10 year old boy, activities included getting to drive his old Chevrolet pickup to explore the abandoned silver mines in the hills near his home. Coming out of Carson City I saw the same hills and with some luck, plus a phone call to my dad, I was able to find his home once again.  

He had always been an excellent watercolor painter. While the subject matter maintained being your standard landscapes, he had an ability to wield a brush on canvas that despite many attempts, I have never been able to recreate. It seems that while an artistic intuition may be passed down, inherent talent is not. 

It is within this that photography will always face the challenge of defining its own path as an art form. Unlike painting, sculpture, or music composition we as photographers face the unique struggle of having the biggest hurdles come at the end of our workflow. Whereas a painter proves their worth through the quality of their artwork, we are forced explain ourselves and provide reasoning as to why the photos we have taken matter. This expectation is more or less unique to photography, primarily because within the artistic community it is seen as easy. One has the ability to pick up a camera and begin shooting right away, with fewer barriers to entry more people enter the playing field, causing those of us living in it currently to make ourselves stand out. But we are also influenced by the changes within technology as it relates to photography. Pencils haven’t changed much, nor have oils, pastels, and while techniques certainly have it is my believe that we struggle more to validate the work we create.

I know how that comes across, it reeks of self-entitlement and the medium being unfair. But my intention is to point out that while a lot of negatives can be attributed to this extra effort required, it ultimately does more good for each individual photographer and the photographic community as a whole. 

This mentality, that we benefit greatly from learning to discuss our work, more often is wrapped in ideas that do not pertain to the problem at hand. With mounting pressure to make a name for oneself through likes, blog posts, and any media outlet we can find, we focus more on quantity rather than quality. It is something I have come to learn through putting together four issues of Serif & Silver. While this project began as a way to share images first and have a little introduction as an afterthought, the roles of these two components have switched and the few thousand words opening the door serve not only to give context to the photographs, but defines them in a way that images alone could never do. I'm reminded of the idea that all squares are rectangles but not all rectangles are squares. These words, what I am speaking to you now are able to stand alone, but I question if the images really could. 

Words, similar to the single photograph offer varying levels of depth depending on the reader and their attachment to the subject. And like the photograph, they have the ability to distort and show us more within any given content the longer we stare. While that sentiment leans towards a deeper message it can also rather simply be looked at from face value. Malcolm Gladwell wrote in his 2006 book "The Tipping Point" that words can be treated like an epidemic with regard to how they spread, specifically the word yawn. He makes the case that by saying yawn, talking about yawning, if you yawned, and even pointing out how many times I've said yawn these past few sentences, it will probably make you yawn. If someone saw you yawn, they're most likely yawning themselves after you yawned. 

Not only do words have the ability to reach out into our physical space and force us to interact with them, but they will also distort what is actually there and will cast doubt in our interpretations. 

With the yawning example it was repetition of a single word that evoked a reaction. Looking at a single word however will cause the opposite effect. We are no longer so sure of what is written, and we react to the ink on a page, perhaps questioning the plausibility of the word. How it is spelled, how it is spoken, how it is read. Take a moment to focus on the single word below: 

Garage.

I like garage as an example as it's unique in so many ways. Two consonants pronounced two different ways and surrounded by vowels. Like many English words it's an amalgamation of many different languages and terms coming together to form an entirely new term that, when looked at alone, doesn’t seem to make much sense. But it not a new idea that subject matter interacts with us as much as we interact with it. It's not even new for me to discuss here as it was the subject of Serif & Silver Issue III. What it allows us to do however is look in a new direction with a relatively simple concept. By forcing ourselves to continue to not only define out work, define our equipment, and define our photography, we inadvertently change the landscape and push ourselves in a direction that, for whatever reason, we as a community are actively fighting against. 

It was in 2012, when we were attempting to launch Pdexposures.TV and filming the first season, that my videographer and I sat down to sketch out ideas for potential new episodes. Over a pint of beer we talked about a lot of ideas that unfortunately never came to be. As you might imagine, it was equipment comparisons, reviews, and other standard fare were the first topics to presented. But as the conversation wore on we shifted into the methodology behind some of the world's most famous images. Within these well known photos we saw a few categories and the photographers who excelled in that area one would expect. Ansel Adams and his landscapes, Bresson as the original street photographer, Dorothea Lange for her intimate work within the depression. Even as more names were thrown out, Arbus, Eggleston, Mark, Weston, Erwit, they would inevitably fall into what we saw one of a few defined buckets. Yet through all this, we found that war photography was more or less empty. 

Thinking on who would fit this role Capa was the first to come to mind. It's understandable as well. Most war photographers get lost to history while those who manage to make a name for themselves rise with a seemingly legendary status. It's that very reason that would cause Leica Brazil to release a three minute commercial about the life of Capa and his Leica III. Although quite a bit of artistic license was taken, considering he used a Contax throughout most of the second world war and only had a brief stint with Leica. I re-told my videographer a story I had heard about Capa (I would later find out it was actually not Capa, but another WWII photographer named Michelantonio 'Tony' Vaccaro), and we concluded that at the very least it would make for an interesting episode. 

During World War II, and under tight deadlines with a desire to control his output, Vaccaro used four helmets to develop his film right there on the battlefield. 

That was it, a small task we thought to be so incredibly simple as we were in truth, too naive to recognize what it really entailed. Sitting at the table, we sketched out how the episode would go. It was to be two parts, the first consisting of using antiquated equipment and older film emulsions in a forest or older town resembling 1940s Europe. From there we would move to nighttime, and sitting in the middle of the woods we were to develop that roll using the same method. Four military helmets, each with a different stage of the development process, the moonlight, and hope that the images didn't get too fogged. 

As you may have guessed by now, this episode never came to be for a few reasons. Primarily, Pdepxosures.TV was simply too time and cost intensive to continue. But the truth of the matter was there was no way for us to really reproduce Vaccaro’s method. Developing in tanks in the dark isn't unique when you aren't under pressure. We didn't have deadlines, we weren't afraid of being shot the next day, and we were only putting film into rudimentary bowls. There was a disconnect that we didn't appreciate in our initial planning stages, and it put such a kink into the overall vision we couldn't continue.  

As photographers, we cannot help but force ourselves to adapt to new processes based on the ever changing situations we find ourselves in. Tony Vaccaro did this by circumventing the standard war photography workflow. Rather than having TIME or LIFE magazine receive unprocessed rolls and decide what to publish, he took the work under his belt regardless of the environment around him. Yet even as I have written (and complained) about our eagerness to share and get our work distributed into the world, how is it that Vaccaro's method is not only acceptable, but encouraged as a lesson of success? 

This is indicative of something I've been meaning to discuss more within the ever shifting baseline that is photography. I first mentioned the shifting baseline in the first issue of Serif & Silver as a way to put into perspective what we are all aware of within the photographic community. Photography, unlike any other artistic medium is intertwined with so many other facets of our daily lives. We use photographs for news, sales, and unlike painting or sculpture, dance or any of the performing arts, it is inherently ingrained with technology. From the earliest Daguerreotype, the concept of putting a direct replica of what was seen through our own eyes onto any medium has been a technological breakthrough. Through the evolution of emulsions with wet plate, to dry plate, to emulsion on a flexible plastic we continue to push the art form and continue to do so with cameras today that break all kinds of technical limitations that even 10 years ago would have been only a dream. 

Similar to my thoughts on the fairness of artwork related to my grandfather in terms of the ease in which we are able to pick up photography, we are also held more accountable on what we put out in the world. Not only in the present as we are actively shooting and creating images, but after we’re gone both digitally and physically. We don’t get to choose who carries along our legacy, what will be said about it, or through what mediums. As evidence we can look no further than Myspace. I still have something of a profile active if you search for my name, and while I’m responsible for the contents uploaded, their continued existence relies on a third party; the photos of a younger me, the text, the comments. I could easily go in and delete the whole page, wiping out what is effectively the first social media network I used throughout my teenage years. But my point isn’t that the content exists, rather that it continues to exist without my involvement. This is what I’ve continued to struggle with as I near the finish line for this project. How are we to stay relevant when we give up all control? How does the conversation continue to flow after the food has left the table?

Every year, the Sunday after thanksgiving I gather with close friends to share in another large meal. The drinks flow freely, and the food (while often subpar) manages to solidify what we are doing togther. We started this simple tradition about six years ago, and while I make no assumptions that getting together with close friends around this time of year is a unique thing we do, I am no less grateful for it. Six years ago fewer were married, six years ago there were no children hanging around the dinner table, and six years ago some people were still with us. Inevitably we finish our meal and continue to sit around the table sharing stories of when we were young dumb kids getting in trouble and were more concerned about how much horsepower our cars had than if we could afford to order a value meal or needed to stick with the dollar menu.

The concept of remaining at the table together after the meal has finished, sticking around after the reason for being there has effectively passed and faded away, has no single word in the English language. It took me thirty-five words here to describe it here. But Sobremesa, a Spanish word, means exactly that all wrapped up in nine simple letters. Sobremesa as an idea has carried a lot of weight with me over the past few months as I gathered my thoughts about how to bring Serif & Silver to a close. What comes next for me photographically now that the meal is over?

I think there is a bigger question to be answered in how do we as photographers operate under the idea that there are some things we simply cannot translate? Many other words like Sobremesa exist with no direct English translation. There are symbolic terms like komorebi, a Japanese word for the way light scatters when the sun shines through trees. Funnier ideas like utepils, a Norwegian word describing sitting outside drinking a beer on a sunny day. Words that are nonsensical like culaccino, an Italian word used only for the ring left on a table from a glass. Or serious concepts like wabi-sabi in which one accepts the natural cycles of growth and decay. If we accept that photography means to write with light at a basic interpretation of the word, then it is a language. Because of that, it should be treated as a language. One that is not spoken, but shared and earned like a non-native tongue. Requiring time, effort, and a desire to understand and interpret fully.

Over the last year, I have gotten closer to finding out how to answer that question although it is through means that aren’t what I had hoped. We must use images not only in the literal sense of a reproduction of any given scene, but as a component that reaches beyond the sense of sight and into the other four senses. It was Bruce Gilden who said, “If you can smell the street by looking at the photo, it's a street photograph”. It’s in this line that we can see how best to bring viewers better into the fold. A photograph must not exist only as a replication of light, but as a complete paragraph, sharing the sounds, smells, textures, and even tastes of whatever it is you captured. This is where the impact of a good photograph lies. One that does more than it was ever intended to do. Taking you into the scene and telling, translating the story that happened in the moments before, during, and after you pressed the shutter.

When I first began to push forward on the idea of self publishing, sitting at my dining table with a large box of Polaroids that would inevitably create the first issue of Serif & Silver I had only a rough idea of what I was doing. It took weeks of sorting, organizing, shifting, pulling images and re-inserting them into the fold to locate the beginnings of a series within these assorted photographs. Starting out I anticipated that things would reveal themselves to me, as if a giant lock was waiting the combination and all I needed to do was get the images in the correct order. Needless to say that was not the case. Rather it took effort on my end to look within each image and see what it said. See where it came from, and where it was going. In looking at the photographs I was able to construct the story that formed the first issue. A few months later on the heels of releasing Artifacts I was able to hone that in and look at the paired images as if they were a contracted word. Pulling back for Unchanged I was able to look at the larger structure of how the images were made up. See the larger scope of what was surrounding them and how the indirection ties it all together.

But here I am, looking at publishing what will be the fourth and final issue of Serif & Silver and I feel as if I am only beginning to grasp how these concepts flow together. Sobermesa takes what I have learned of the series, the pair, the surroundings and combines them together for what is the culmination of this project and leaves the discussion open after it is done. I can only hope that regardless of how many issues you read or were able to see my thoughts helped you to look at photography in a brighter light. And on the off chance that it helped you to create your own self-published piece of work, get in touch. I’d love to buy a copy.

Serif & Silver Issue III: Unchanged – The Moral Order of Negative Space

It’s a rainy day, the ground is saturated with water and leaves are beginning to drop. It was only a few days ago we got that first good rain of the season; the one where you can smell that autumn is coming. But it’s late this year, mid October and the Portland area is still regularly hitting nearly eighty degrees. I’m running late too, but for entirely different reasons. This issue is the first time I have ever felt as if I am low on photographs.

As the first issue of Serif & Silver came to a close, I already knew where the second would take me. Our road trip through Wyoming had been planned months prior, camera and film had been selected, but most importantly I had a direction. It was in this down time between the first and second issue that I sat down at my desk, pen and paper in hand, and planned a road map for Serif & Silver. This map contained inside not only specific details for ideas and themes, but more importantly a general idea of where the third and fourth issue would go. Because after number four this series of publications will be over. And it’s because I’m running late that I’m doing something I haven’t done yet — writing prior to selecting the photographs that will make up this third issue.

In reality though I think this is ok, I know where we’ll be heading together within this series, and where we will go after that as well. This project, Serif & Silver, began more or less on a whim. I was looking to gain a few things; one: work on my writing, two: build collections of photos, and three: to be able to better speak to those images and what they represent. This began in Serif & Silver (Polaroids: Instant Photographic Prints 2010 – 2015) as I explored the idea of images coming from seemingly nothing and being used together to create a larger idea and series. I focused in on this concept with Serif & Silver (Artifacts: Past, Present, and the American Roadtrip) looking at pairs of images and how they interact with one another. Yet it’s clear that from the most base level a series of photographs can be looked at more closely.

Unfortunately the photographs I want to look at more closely may not exist. But if they do, I am confident that they are somewhere within the eight hundred and forty square feet I call home. Built approximately 75 years ago and originating as an apartment complex, the condo we now live in provides everything we were looking for. It’s minimally designed brick exterior hides a well laid out floor plan maximizing the small space within and leaves nothing to waste. The furniture we have chosen accentuates this with clean lines, low profiles, and a smart layout to maximize how we move and use what was already provided to us. It’s a great place to live for a number of reasons, but more importantly many of those exist beyond the exterior walls. We have a communal courtyard where our complex has potlucks and events, we know all of our neighbors, and it has a walk score of 94. The walk score is never something that I thought I would be proud of, or something that I would enjoy; a younger version of myself would be frustrated that I only have one parking space and one economical car to go with it. And I’m ashamed that it took me until I was 27 to realize I didn’t need the large suburban plots I grew up with, and it saddens me to know that there are many who never will come to those same conclusions.

Despite our furniture choices, and outside the community space, it is the walk score that is important for a number of reasons. What it boils down to is nothing inherently scientific. And in my research I was never able to pinpoint how points are earned. For example anything above a 90 means you could live without a car from this location and would never run into issue with errands, groceries, etc. But how does a 92 differ from a 98? Are there more grocery stores? More transit options? Unfortunately we never get that in depth into what builds these metrics. But perhaps more interestingly is how accurate they end up being without providing a context for their foundation. Unfortunately for most, the concept of a walk score, or being able to walk to anything in your neighborhood is a foreign idea.

James Howard Kunstler is an outspoken opponent of the modern American Suburb. Having discussed ad-nauseum in his first non fiction book on the subject, “The Geography of Nowhere: The Rise and Decline of America’s Man-Made Landscape” we’re given a deeper insight as to why the structures around us haven’t been designed for human use, but rather the car, and how this has not only caused a greater divide between the rich and poor, people of color, and contributed to global climate change, but has removed us from the community and interaction with those around us. An example provided is that alleyways are no longer seen within new developments. Ignoring that they are often seen now as a waste of space, and a home for crime or homeless populations to congregate, the actual reason is they cannot be made with legal width to accommodate a fire truck. While this may be seen as something that isn’t necessarily missed it forces many unintended consequences. Most importantly the loss of an alleyway forces the garage the be at the front of the house; meaning where we were once greeted with a welcoming entrance into personal space, we are now met with the large blank wall that is a garage door, while the front door has been pushed back another 20 feet.

Kunstler further demonstrates that we’re drawn to focal points naturally, and this leads us to the basis for city planning. Using universal principles a typical town environment will often have streets capped in a T-Junction . This “T” provides us with something to focus on as we move through the area around us. Historically this would have been a building dedicated to the public such as a City Hall, library, or a church. But it not only pulled us in and provided an anchor, it created pause and allowed our eyes rest as they had an object to focus on. Decades later as the automobile was introduced and suburban sprawl became a goal, this T-Junction was removed to allow for faster passage from point A to point B. Since we were walking less and driving more, removing the junction removed stop signs and we could freely get from our home to our destination. Unfortunately this allowed for cars to create their own speed limits. Where a total speed of the community and roadways was never thought of before, it now was a problem that had to be fixed. The intermediate solution for this was to bend the street so that you can’t ever quite see the end. It provides a pseudo focal point, but with nothing of substance. Imagine yourself at a diner with a bendable straw. As you look through it while perfectly straight it focuses your eye on the destination. But bending it just slightly closes that window and forces you to only look at the wall of the straw. While you’re seated at the diner this doesn’t matter much; unfortunately when driving it is ever changing, and we are given no place to visually rest. This again unintentionally adds to the speed in which we can travel from point A to point B, but as Kunstler puts it, this is “exactly what you shouldn’t want in a place where children play.”

It is these little things that compound on one another, pushing back the entryway from the street to accommodate a garage, bending roads so we don’t need to stop. These have removed our community space and furthermore the interaction with our neighbors and the people around us dramatically decreasing the quality in which we live. This applies even for those of you who tend to be more introverted like myself. No longer are we able to walk to our local markets, where produce and goods are provided from local resources, where our purchases are going to others who live nearby, straining our economy and environment, sending money away as we ship goods in and further separated our societies from the real world.

Unfortunately I believe removing the focal points that has caused more damage in the long run, as it is the same type of focal point that exists in photography.

Looking at the focal point as a piece of the photograph the intent becomes more clear. It is not the most important aspect of any given photo, but rather one of many building blocks. Take a look at your hand. It is a complex system of muscles, tendons, and bones with unparalleled dexterity. It is what gives me the ability to type these words, then with a quick shift of position they are able to turn the page that you are reading right now. But the building blocks, the bones that make up your hand are not unique to you, not unique to humans, and not unique to primates. The design behind the hand and all its complexities is one that can be seen across the animal kingdom linking us back to a common ancestor. They are the same blocks that exist hidden inside the flipper of the blue whale. Similarly those within the whale’s flipper exist stretched out in the wing of a bat. But there is another common trait that is rooted in our yearning to survive that rises above all others: pattern recognition.

You should consider yourself lucky for it. Just by being human you already are unparalleled in your ability to see the patterns in everything. It is why you know who people are by looking at their face, and why you can get somewhere even after being provided vague directions like “turn right after the McDonalds”. Perhaps even more interesting though is your ability to seemingly slow time. While this sounds outlandish it is a phenomenon you have certainly experienced before. Perhaps you were bored in high school, your teacher going over a math problem you would never find a real world use for; as your eyes dart back and forth panning the room you look at the clock wondering how much longer until your next period only to see the red second hand hang there for slightly longer than it should. There is reasoning behind why this happens rooted in our history as a species. Our brains never stop looking for something to rest our eyes on. And as you pan the room, looking back and forth your brain never stops interpreting what it sees. Despite it looking like a blur, we are analyzing the many different objects our eyes stopped to look at in that time. So by the time you consciously pause to look at the clock, your mind needs to play catchup for a moment, causing that second to last just a little bit longer than the next. It is also within pattern recognition though that we owe so much more than our survival, as it allows us to create and enjoy art.

But the focal point is not the only piece of a photographic puzzle. Looking back on Kunstler’s model for the American town it is heavily weighted on a balance between the living and use space. The mixed use building, one that combines a first floor consisting of office or retail space with living on the upper levels is a style that has thankfully seen a revival in recent years. Unfortunately after the 1920s it fell out of favor, even being banned in certain portions of the country thanks to strict building codes. But these structures best exemplify a working model for any given city.

It is when we take this approach that builds living spaces designed for all uses, and not just one, do we actually find the balance. More importantly we can now clearly see how the connections between the positive space of the focal point, and the negative space that surrounds it.

Looking back on the instructions that I was provided as a young aspiring photographer I don’t see any difference as to what was thought 100 years prior, or what is tough today. We tend to fall back on our defaults for helping out those who are looking to improve their artwork. These suggestions, these ideas, they often provide any real substance in terms of advice. If you are looking to photograph weddings, automobiles, fine art, kitschy art, or anything in between you won’t even see individualized help be offered.

But even if help could be rubber stamped across the countless different types of photography, would it matter? Take for example the most common tip you will see pop up, the rule of thirds. Designed to aid in the composition of images by simply placing your subject at one of 4 pre-defined points within the frame it is an easy and carefree way to give your images a more dynamic flair. And it should come as no surprise that we see it in all forms of photography, the same weddings, automobiles, and fine art I had mentioned above all love to hit the ground running and shove their subjects into a corner. But while it will guarantee the photo is made more dynamic, it is rarely looked upon to see if it is warranted. This is because rules are looked at like a light switch, on or off, with no middle ground. The reason the rule of thirds makes a photo more dynamic is because of the tension that has been thrown into the mix. Tension that resides exclusively in the negative space of an image.

Taking a few steps back to the message I provided in Serif & Silver (Polaroids: Instant Photographic Prints 2010 – 2015). I looked at the photographs based on their similarities in composition, forming patterns and building a series of connected images from snapshots I had been taking for years. But within the last 6 months, and specifically in the last few weeks as I have been stressing out due to the lack of photographs that will be printed on the upcoming pages, I have been more inclined to try and look at things from the opposite end.

It hasn’t been easy; this ground up perspective is and idea that while I haven’t advocated against, I certainly have been less than friendly towards. As an outspoken proponent of not only photographs as a complete and finished collection, but as pairs and companions to one another it seemed counter intuitive to look at the similarities in all images regardless of subject or the rules that were imposed on them. But in doing so it helped me to realize that the negative space of an image is just as, if not more important than the subject itself. In putting together “Polaroids” I was looking at the positive space in the truest sense. Focusing on key aspects of a photograph that lend to the design of the image, and not the image itself because I was refusing to take it as a whole. It is within the concept of the whole image, what negative space means from photo to photo that I was able to see the structure that connects everything. This is a universal truth that extends well into the real world and the spaces in which we occupy as well.

We find ourselves back on that slightly bent suburban road. Only changing enough to remind you that you are indeed moving forward and not remaining stagnant through the cookie cutter homes. It is this structure, and this use of space that provides the antithesis for what Kunstler proposes, and the meaning behind it is what I have laid out here. Because the specific focal point of this landscape has been removed, we are left with only negative space. Yet since negative space cannot exist on its own it must be exclusively positive space. However positive space without its focal point is a mess. It leaves our eyes nothing to focus on as they track the various patterns. It bears no relation to other landscapes we see in the urban core, or out in farmland. It refuses to acknowledge that the moral order of negative space is what provides the focal point and place to rest, a place to bring in components from outside, and a place to call home.