“Artigiano in Orvieto” — Il Mago di Oz, a spectacular and spectacularly unique shop on a side street in Orvieto, Italy.
We had heard about this shop/experience before we arrived in Orvieto, but I think it might have slipped our minds. But as we wandered around some back streets, there it was. Unfortunately, “Oz” was closed when we passed by, so I had to content myself with looking through the window.
It seems to me that these little shops, where someone indulges their particular fantasy without limits, are common in European towns. We knew of one in Heidelberg — maybe more than one — and I’ve seen and photographed a few others in different cities. It is hard to say exactly when a proprietor’s personal obsessions go beyond mere eccentric interest and to another place entirely, but I think this one “goes there.”
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer and visual opportunist. His book, “California’s Fall Color: A Photographer’s Guide to Autumn in the Sierra” is available from Heyday Books, Amazon, and directly from G Dan Mitchell.
Michael Frye just posted the second in his weekly series of photograph critiques. It is no surprise that he offers insightful and relevant commentary of the photos, but I want to especially note the nature of his critiques.
A lot of what passes for photo criticism on web forums and elsewhere is less than wonderful stuff. I see all too many that fall into a couple of predictable and not very helpful categories. On one hand I see the shallow and quite meaningless one-liner comments: “Great work!” and “Stunning photo!” and “It sings” and the like are, of course, positive – but they provide very little to the photographer than a momentary warm feeling… which quickly when one realizes that the lack of depth in the responses suggests that the photograph didn’t really engage the viewer. On the other hand we see plenty of examples of the “let me tell you why you suck” school of criticism: these often inform the photographer than he/she ignorantly violated some “rule” of photography and can sometimes degenerate into little more than lists of “everything I can find to dislike in your work.” A lot of this stuff comes from people who honestly think that this is what “criticism” is supposed to be, but some of it comes from folks who should know better.
Given the prevalence of poor public critiquing, I’m especially grateful to Michael for demonstrating the features of good criticism. Some things you’ll note in his series: He begins by finding and acknowledging the admirable and interesting in the work being critiqued; he avoids the “this is wrong” or “you shouldn’t do that” commentary; he shares his reaction to the image, letting the photographer know how and why he responded to it; when he has a different idea he offers the alternative to the original artist rather than insisting; he illustrates what he might do differently; and he concludes by looping back to the positive aspects of his observations.
I’ve never had the opportunity to observe Michael lead a workshop, but if the approach he uses in the online critiques is any indication, I’ll bet that there is a lot to be learned from him at his workshops.
I have backpacked in California’s Sierra Nevada range for quite a few decades. A number (a large number!) of years ago my wife and I went on a two-week trans-Sierra backpack trip that traversed the range from west to east between Crescent Meadow and Whitney Portal, following a route known as the “High Sierra Trail.” On the third morning we left our camp and began the stiff ascent toward the pass we had to cross to enter the Kern River drainage. Near the top of the steepest part of the climb the trail momentarily leveled out and we found ourselves facing a high, rockbound lake with a perfectly vertical patterned rock face dropping straight into the water on the far side. The view seemed familiar – and I realized that it was a scene captured by Ansel Adams (“Frozen Lake and Cliffs“) in the early 1930s. (I also later realized that there is a wonderful and well-known photograph of the subject by Vern Clevenger.)
My wife and I were enthusiastic about photography in those days, too, and we carried a couple of Pentax SLRs and a few lenses and many rolls of film into the back-country. But I don’t think I came back with more than a few “snapshots” of this lake on that trip.
Fast-forward a few decades to 2008 when a group of my backpacking friends decided to follow this same trans-Sierra route — and, of course, I had to join them. Once again, I found myself ascending the trail toward that small bowl, but this time I had a plan to photograph the lake and the equipment to do it right. I recalled parts of the climb from my previous trip, but I had probably forgotten more than I remembered during the intervening decades. As the trail traverses a beautiful wet section full of wildflowers (which I had forgotten) I could tell that the lake was just ahead, and soon I topped a small saddle and saw the familiar scene before me.
As planned, I set to work doing some of the photography that I had contemplated before the trip. To be honest, I mainly worked from more or less the location that Adams must have used, though the conditions were a bit different on this day – the light was changeable as broken clouds passed above, and there was very little snow, much less ice, left at the lake. After perhaps 30 or 45 minutes of work, my hiking partners were getting restless and it was time to move on. I felt that I had worked this scene about as much as possible under the circumstances – and I did get a photograph of the “classic view” that I like a great deal — so I loaded up my heavy 9-day backpack load, put away the camera, and strapped the tripod to the outside of the pack. I hoisted the load and slowly started up the switchbacks immediately above the lake.
A couple of switchbacks up the trail I happened to look back at the lake from a slightly higher vantage point, and from here the astonishing deep blue color of the lake and the apron of rocks falling into the water became visible. My first reaction was a combination of “Wow!” and “No way am I taking this pack off and setting all that stuff up again!” Continue reading A Photograph Exposed: “Submerged Boulders, Lake, and Cliffs”→
I see that the Ansel Adams Gallery has scheduled a couple of interesting winter season workshops.
Digital Printing and the Zone System With Michael Frye on January 19-23, 2010 – Michael Frye is both a well-known and highly-regarded photographer of Yosemite and other subjects and the author of the well-known guide book to photographing in the Valley.
Winter Light II With Keith Walklet on February 17-22, 2010. Walklet is a long-time Yosemite Park photographer whose experience and knowledge is extraordinary. (As I write this I have an mental image of him disappearing over a far ridge above upper Cathedral Lake last summer as he headed out to photograph some high, austere terrain.)
Both workshops take place during the beautiful winter season in the Valley and those trying to get “their shot” of Horsetail Fall may have a chance during Keith’s workshop in mid-late February.
Photographer and visual opportunist. Daily photos since 2005, plus articles, reviews, news, and ideas.
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