no. 6 looking glass / 51
50 / lookingglasszine.com52 / lookingglasszine.com
no. 6 looking glass / 53
54 / lookingglasszine.com
no. 6 looking glass / 55
56 / lookingglasszine.com
no. 6 looking glass / 57
58 / lookingglasszine.com
no. 6 looking glass / 59
CHRISTOPHER LG: What draws you to street photography? BARRETT: CB: When I first began shooting the street work, I was in an awful slump. IUrban Street Modern had been doing a lot of very formal, completely pre-visualized work for a few years (all large format) and I had run into this awful creative block. I decided to buy a bulk roll of Tri-X and just walk around with a half dozen rolls in my bag, shooting everything I found interesting with no preconceptions nor real hopes of success. I had to shake myself up! LG: What do you think constitutes a good shot? CB: Most obviously, I think a strong image has to begin with a good composi- tion. I call this part of my work ‘graphic design with a camera’. Actually, I think good photographers and good graphic designers are pretty much interchange- able. So much of what I do is simply organizing the geometry of the three di- mensional reality into pleasing compositions. For the street work, I often find a striking composition and then stake out my space for a while, maybe spending half a roll on that one idea. Beyond that, well something has to HAPPEN. If nothing happens in your photographs then nothing will happen with your pho- tographs. I feel like you have to latch onto some moment that speaks to you in a way that totally defies explanation and when it’s real, when it has meaning, then it’s also going to speak to others and those others will then really feel your work... maybe not in the same way you do, but they will feel it and then you can consider that photograph successful. I should also clarify though, that the ‘moment’ doesn’t have to be a transitory moment at all. It could be something that will exist forever. What the photographer does, however, turns the image into a moment. LG: Is there something particular you want to say in your work? CB: Oh God, I don’t know. Do I have a message? I don’t think so. I think the most we can hope for in this world is to really relate to each other, for some piece of you to understand some piece of me. If I can do that with my work, then that’s all I need to do. LG: Have you ever been confronted by your subjects in either a positive or negative way? CB: Actually, no and other photographers have been really surprised at this. I tend to be a really quiet, un-intrusive guy. When I’m composing a shot and I see someone in frame noticing me, what I typically do is lower the camera from my face a bit and then gaze at something beyond them or to the side of them and then I bring the camera back up. This tends to make the subject think that they’re not in the shot and so they ignore me. Totally works.60 / lookingglasszine.com
CHRISTOPHER LG: Why film? Do you have a camera preference for discreet work? BARRETT: CB: I had an M9 for a while and I shot some street work with that. It’s a goodUrban Street Modern camera. I like to shoot a lot of the street work in really high contrast scenes, though, where you have shafts of sunlight breaking through the elevated train tracks in downtown Chicago. Digital sensors don’t capture blown out high- lights very nicely. The way that film halates in those areas, the glow that you get... that’s just so beautiful! I shot almost all of the street work with a Leica CL (on Tri-X of course). It draws less attention than a ‘real’ Leica and is so easy to pocket. I sold mine when I started shooting digital, but I just grabbed another one off of eBay this morning! LG: If you were to train a newbie, how would you go about it? Nobody should be trained in this sort of work! The genre is so oversaturated, that showing anyone else ‘how’ I do it is just going to lead to boring photo- graphs. You have to find your own voice in street work or there’s no point in doing it. I do have thoughts on how to become better at it, though. My advice is to go out with 6 rolls of film and shoot until they’re gone. Then develop those, live with them, plaster them all over your walls, figure out what worked and what didn’t and then go out and shoot another 6 rolls. Rinse and repeat. CB: My street work actually sat, unresolved, unfinished for a long time. I didn’t even realize what my vision was, what the work wanted to be for almost ten years and then I looked at it again and it was just so obvious. Make work! Make lots and lots of work and maybe... someday... you’ll figure yourself out. no. 6 looking glass / 61
christopher Barrett Bio Christopher was born in 1969 in Louisiana, which he describes as the most foreign place in America. He started drawing and writing at an early age and found photography at 18 when his sister gifted him her aging and dusty Konica T4. His degree is from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, though the majority of his education came from the numerous pho- tographers he assisted during his twenties. He maintains a commercial practice photographing architecture while constantly struggling to bal- ance that with his personal work. Christopher enjoys giving lectures and seminars in what lit- tle free time is left over. His work has appeared in numerous books, magazines and websites worldwide. < christopherbarrett.net 62 / lookingglasszine.com
Self Portrait, Christopher Barrett no. 6 looking glass / 63
alex timmermans The StorytellerAlex Timmermans has been playing with wet plate photography for the last 7 years. His work has received interna-tional attention with shows and publications in many venues. His storytelling series is especially noteworthy for bothits humor and its painstaking composition. Hat Hunter All photographs courtesy © the artist64 / lookingglasszine.com
Fisherman’s Friends no. 6 looking glass / 65
Hatlines66 / lookingglasszine.com
Icarus no. 6 looking glass / 67
To the End of Nowhere68 / lookingglasszine.com
Lost no. 6 looking glass / 69
The Reader70 / lookingglasszine.com
The Rainmaker no. 6 looking glass / 71
Scarecrow72 / lookingglasszine.com
Tea Time no. 6 looking glass / 73
Ultimate Pleasure74 / lookingglasszine.com
Poetry in Motion no. 6 looking glass / 75
Springtime76 / lookingglasszine.com
The Image Maker no. 6 looking glass / 77
ALEX TIMMERMANS: LG: How long have you been a photographer? The Storyteller AT: I started making pictures at the age of 12-14. My father had a Nikkormat FTN which I was allowed to use. From there I had several camera’s and in 2003 I bought my First digital camera which was a Fuji s2. On one hand I really liked it as I was able to see on the spot if I liked the image or not. But on the other hand, it all became too predictable. In the long term it wasn’t challenging me anymore. Back in 2009 I started reading about wet plate photography and from the very first moment I saw a plate coming up in the fixer bath, I lost my soul in this beautiful process. LG: A lot of people are doing wet plate these days. Why do you think the technique is so popular? AT: I can imagine I am not the only person who loves to use old techniques as it is challenging. It makes you feel the making of pictures again. I spend much more time on the light, composing, etc. Making a simple portrait takes me about one hour, just to be sure everything is right. My challenge is not to use photoshop. For wet plate you do everything from scratch, like mixing your own chemicals. It’s also a blessing being able to make extremely detailed pictures by using just a simple camera and beautiful antique petzval lenses. LG: Why do you use wet plate yourself? What does the medium offer you that other techniques do not? AT: As said before, I like to challenge myself—it raises the bar time after time. To work according to an ancient craft is so beautiful to me. It’s challenging every time again as the conditions you work in have so much influence on the final pic- ture—the weather, temperature, light —so It takes a lot of practising. But I always say, if you really want to, you can learn everything. Everyone can learn to play some simple songs on the piano, just by continual practice, and that’s the same with photographic processes. LG: Is your art confined to the photographic arts, or do you dabble in other things? AT: Yes and no. It depends which portfolio you are talking about. I don’t see my portrait series as art. But my “storytelling” series I do. But then what ’s the defini- tion of art… ? Some people do like my work and some just don’t. I love to watch people seeing my work at fairs and exhibitions. Some have a short look and move on and others stop and start smiling. I love to see these people smiling. They un- derstand my work and love the humorous touch in my storytelling series. LG: What words of wisdom would you give someone just starting out? AT: Be aware what you want to start with. Don’t forget, wet plate takes you a lot of time and effort. If I want to make a picture somewhere outside, my station wagon has to be fully loaded with stuff. So you have to be persistant or maybe a bit crazy… But as said before, if you really want it, you can learn anything….78 / lookingglasszine.com
ALEX TIMMERMANS BioAlex Timmermans hails from Holland and still makes his home in the Netherlands. Born in 1962, he has been a photogra-pher most of his life. He is passionate about wetplate, and considers it not just a technique, but agestalt. < alextimmermans.com no. 6 looking glass / 79
TALES FROM THE LENS Ghosts, Jesus, and Lunch by Owen Tioga Owen Tioga is the fond pen-name of a California-based photographer and writer. These shots are 6x6 on Fuji Acros. I got these shots at the end of a long day. The kind of long day where you risk life and limb, see ghosts, have at least one come-to-jesus moment, and forget the sandwiches. Yes, that kind of day. I started out by picking up my pal, Red Jack Coso--I generally just call him Red--at his place in a small movie town and heading into the mountains. I couldn’t remember where the turn was to get up to the haunted mining town, but we found it. Of course it’s next to the graveyard, right where the spirit of the old miner shows up with a bottle of hooch and a sardonic smile, pointing you uphill. We went up up and then some more up. On one of those ups, Red decided to hop out and take some pictures after which I stalled the engine and commenced drifting backwards down the mountain while my truck thought about fluid levels and whether or not I deserved a running motor. I wasn’t relishing a reverse compression start and fortunately the truck thought better of its temper tantrum and soon we were heading up again. We got to the town after awhile, poked around, wandered into places we weren’t supposed to, and found out that the ghosts in the hotel had a habit of messing with the electronics in people’s cameras. Since ours were all manual film units, we were fine. The ghosts swung the chandeliers, rattled some pots and pans, and closed doors instead. We picked us up some pretty rocks and headed back down. I checked the cooler for eats. They were still at Red’s place. On one stop I got a little too enthusiastic about the view and hung a wheel over the cliff. No matter, 3 wheel drive beats 2 and after some shots where Red did an imitation of a stunt show on the rock edge, we backed up and headed down. But it was a false security because soon we met a school bus barreling up the dirt road. In the middle of the track. I headed to the cliff side, and so did it. I turned back. So did it. I figured this was the last hurrah, had a short chat with jesus --”Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing??”--and swung back again. Red was howling that the wheels were going to go over, but they didn’t. I saw the white faces of terrified chil- dren as I passed, waiting for the bus to scrape along my side. When I looked in the rear view mirror, there was nothing there but a cloud of dust. Boy was I hungry. The last part of the day was spent in a little town on the edge of the “lake”. At this point it is a barren white- ness, crusted with minerals, and glowing. It is its own sort of beauty if you can forget that there was once a large body of water, a swimming pool, and a playground here. Yes, there is a drought out here in the west, but this place has looked this way for many years. The reflection off the white and the setting sun made for some dramatic light. We went through the open gate of the pool and snapped away. A lot of color film was used and I don’t know how it turned out because it’s sitting in my bathroom still tightly rolled. Taking pictures is all about fact and fiction--which is which?--just like this Tale.80 / lookingglasszine.com
Swim, Surf, FishAll photographs courtesy © the artist no. 6 looking glass / 81
Camps for Rent82 / lookingglasszine.com
Quick Dry Laundry Lines no. 6 looking glass / 83
The Dark Slide The Gift Is In the Suffering by Amanda Tomlin I got a phone call from my daughter the other night, one of the kind where she told me all the things that are going wrong and how crappy she feels about herself. I listened, said uh-huh, and when it came time to offer motherly wisdom, I struggled with what to say, despite the fact that those demons are personal frenemies of mine. I’ve had deep feelings of worthlessness my whole life, which run contrary to my knowledge that I have a lot to offer. I have battled with chronic depression, suicidal thoughts, and a desperate desire to run away from everything. I was on medication for 7 years, which helped a great deal, and have had sessions with at least 10 different therapists over 3 decades. For the last few years, though, I have been generally content. I admit I do not start the day with joy in my heart, but at least I get up, and that is a triumph. My monsters mostly come from a place of feeling like a flim-flam man, a huckster, a fraud. What I show on the outside implies depth within, because I have a lot of skills and talents. But I was always sure that were anyone to scratch my surface they would see my hollow core, a black hole of want, a bottomless pit of nothingness and yearning. I didn’t believe anything people said about how much they admired what I could do because for me it was all superficial, it was the expression of a skill set, not of a person. As a child, I brought home report cards from school that frequently said, “Does not perform to potential.” Those educators probably wrote the same thing for everyone, hoping a little tough love from home would give the children some motivation, but I took those words to heart and felt a responsibility to live up to what others thought of me. Anytime I was good at something, that was potential, and I was supposed to use that ability to be a better me. Whether or not my work was an authentic expression of myself, it nevertheless kept me going in many adverse situations. I was the middle of 5 children and I loved making things. When even one kid was busy and not requiring attention, it was a parental triumph and all my creative forays were encouraged. I taught myself all kinds of crafts, and creativity came to be a measure of my mental state. As long as I was making something, I would survive, but if days went by with no output, I knew I was heading down. Over the years, my creative work seemed to sort itself into 3 categories: the first level is where things like knitting and sewing live. They do require thought, and creative decisions, but their execution, even from my own patterns, is mostly an exercise in skill, not art. The second level houses most drawing, photography, and painting. It is where the darkroom lives and most alternative processes. I put a lot more creative energy into producing this stuff, but again, it is mostly a reflection of my skills. The deepest level is where my real work lives. This is the stuff that takes years to complete and that I don’t show to many people. It is generally a compilation of several things— painting, photography, and drawing perhaps—and might really be classed as sculpture. It is open-ended in that the viewer can move parts around, and is difficult to define because there are infinite combinations of pieces. It is only when I started to make the 3rd level work that the demons began to dissipate. I know it began when, at age 35, I enrolled in an oil painting class at the local college. I cried when the teacher, Jack Scott, made a presentation about his work. My tears came because I realized I wanted that artist’s life so very very badly, but I was a housewife with 2 young children. I wasn’t going to be living in a garret in Paris anytime soon, discussing84 / lookingglasszine.com
Owens LakeAll photographs courtesy © the artist no. 6 looking glass / 85
The Dark Slide positive and negative space at the local café. I wasn’t going to have the luxury of spending a day in my studio thinking about a piece, or visiting artist friends in theirs. I wasn’t going to be exhibiting and hob-nobbing and answering deep artistic questions. But I did put up an easel in my garage and every time I did laundry or wan- dered in there for a tool or light bulb, I would be looking at a canvas and thinking thinking thinking. Painting was an activity that made me feel like I was fulfilling my potential, even though I figured I started too late in life to do any real work. When I thought about ideas that I wanted to express in paint, I bypassed that big empty space in me, and the longing got just a little bit less. The sadness that lived just below the surface of my consciousness did not pop up quite so easily when I painted. Moving the brush over the canvas was a kind of mediation, a kind of prayer, a deep connection with a rich inner world. When I got ready to try exhibiting, I quit. I called it something else of course, but I stopped. Putting my art in the public eye called my self-worth into question as well as my artistic ability. Revealing myself through my art to an anonymous audience, and the certain judgment it would involve, brought up all those huckster feel- ings again (although they had never really left). Instead of doing it anyway, I folded, and picked up a camera instead. I am at the same point again and the baying of demons is never far away. While I feel like I am largely living the potential that I showed as a child, I cannot say I brim with confidence. I still get annoyed by praise for my lesser creations, or the fixation some have on a few of my popular images. Gushing over my work makes me dreadfully uncomfortable, a feeling rooted in the conviction that I am not that good and don’t deserve the praise, not to mention the rather puritan admonition instilled by my parents not to ‘get a swelled head.’ I’m still working on overcoming that fear, trying to figure out the difference between vanity and self-confi- dence; how to pull myself out of the ring when I find I am getting pounded by self-doubt; waking up to the positive and beautiful in life; not taking on the pain and responsibility of others; feeling comfortable with all the things I can do, and do well, and accepting the sincere praise I am given, with humility and gratitude. I still feel suicidal at times, although now I want to be dead only for a little while. I still have a well of sadness that lurks beneath the surface, but not every day. I still feel desperate to run away, and hamstrung by self-doubt, but it passes. My contentment is acceptance, but it is far from complete, far from perfect. In the end, the beauty of my depression is the opportunity it has provided me to really look at myself, to de- velop coping skills, and to figure out where I might fit into this world. Without that struggle I would have been unable to feel compassion for others, or appreciate the days that go well for the gift they are. The only way I have found to quell the voices, the ogres, the doubt, is to do work that is meaningful to me, even if it is for a couple of minutes every few days, and to focus on the things I want to say in whatever media I am using. My message is important because I am telling it to myself, pulling myself up, finding myself out. To my daughter I can only say that this is something you will have to find your own way through, but when you begin to answer the call that your soul sends out, the demons retreat a little, and for a time you can breathe. Breathe deep, my love, for the struggle makes it the sweetest breath you will take. About the author: Amanda Tomlin has been a writer most of her life. The 75 journals packed into various cubbyholes will testify to her penchant for writing things down. She writes an occasional blog and contributes to the esc4p.org website. Her articles have appeared in View Camera Magazine and Quilter’s Newsletter and her visual work has appeared in numerous publications. She holds a Master’s in library science.86 / lookingglasszine.com
Search
