Photographs not taken

http://www.wired.com/rawfile/2012/05/photographs-not-taken/ <br><br>

 

"<i>Photographs Not Taken is a book about photography in which there is not a single photograph. It’s a

collection of essays by 62 photographers about the ones that got away: the images — burned to memory and

conscience — that, for one reason or another, the photographer could not make.</i>"<br><br>

 

Did anyone read this book? Comments, reactions, thoughts..?<br><br>

 

Do you have stories of your own about photographs you were <b>unable</b> to take?

<p>Never read the book, interesting idea for a book, though. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.</p>

<p>I passed a photo oppurtunity I liked very much daily, for about a year. I just never really got round to actually taking the photo. When I saw a tourist pass, and take the photo, I accepted that it just was a fine memory of my daily walk to work; I kind of lost the urge to make that photo.<br>

Recently, I made a photo that is very similar, but just another town. For an external viewer, I guess it is identical. For me, not at all. So, I wonder with a photo like this, whether the photo would actually ever communicate properly what I considered worthwhile about it. Either way, I do not miss not having this photo.<br>

There are many many more photos I never took, for whatever reason (no camera, wrong moment, feeling too invasive, empty batteries etc.). It basically happens all the time - maybe I'm scouting the world a bit too much for photographic oppurtunities.</p>

<p>I was photographing a small community of folks over the course of a week. On this day, there was a group gathering of the 30 people I'd been getting to know. It was just before Christmas. Though I was documenting what I could and had my camera with me throughout the week, in playful times and in more intimate times, at this point in the gathering, it just seemed to me like I should put my camera down. There seemed to be a need for personal space. Just a few minutes after I had set down the camera, Emily's sister entered the room, surprising Emily, a visitor for Christmas. Emily shrieked the most genuine and excited shriek as her face lit up with an innocence and love most palpable and she ran (such as she could) to greet her sister. I knew I missed a great photo op. Honestly I didn't care. I was grateful to have witnessed and been part of and moved by the sweet scene. I did, then, pick up my camera and got this shot of the two of them a few seconds after the more "decisive" moment of their reunion. For me, it still carries some of that initial moment, but certainly not the spontaneity or energy of it. I don't mind. Some things (though there are few I can think of) are better for me as un-visualized memories, forever evolving and probably being altered in my mind, but having a privacy that can never be stolen.</p>

<p> </p><div></div>

<p>First of all, " — <em>burned to memory and conscience</em> — " is a howler. If "the" picture wasn't made, what's in memory and conscience is a long, long, <em>long</em> way from whatever might have ended up in an image via a camera lens.</p>

<p>And, setting aside the infinite number of photos-not-taken; assuming the ones that were in the mental crosshairs and for which launch-sequence had been initiated (but then aborted), I'm thinking of two interesting cases (aside from failures of craftsmanship):</p>

<p>There are the pictures of stuff that "some people" aren't supposed to see (you, the photographer, may be either among the permitted or the unpermitted). This is a backstage/onstage or in-movie/off-screen split (or, obviously, public/private).</p>

<p>On the other hand, there are the pictures where you don't want people to see that you were seeing what you were seeing. To see where you were, or what you were doing, or what you weren't doing. Quite different from the first case.</p>

<p>I don't have a confession to make unless you are particularly sensitive to the privacy concerns of animals. I once was taking a picture of two fornicating box turtles when, whether because he was alarmed by me (lying on my stomach, excessively close) or in a paroxism of turtlish joy, the male stood up on his hind legs and tipped over backwards. Where he lay, waving his feet with his privates pointing skyward. He looked so ridiculous that I did not take a picture of that last.</p>

<p>Julie, too bad... I know it's not fair to the turtles, but it would have been a fun photo!<br>

____<br>

It's a good point that the memory isn't a photo, but like in Fred's example a similar photo can help keep the memory vivid. They're not the same, but not entirely unrelated either.<br />And for sure, some moments (be they human, be they turtlish) are better left undisturbed and freeflowing, without shutters opening and closing. Reading the review of the book on the link Kaa provided point to quite a lot of stories in that fashion.</p>

<p>As someone who fishes and photographs, I am no stranger to "the one that got away" in either endeavor. Some are things you see that slip away, others you see ex post facto, and some are in the mind's eye and thus un-photographable, unless you go home and recreate the whole thing, as currently in vogue in some circles.</p>

<p>I see several pics I wish I could have taken every day, and am sure that, like the fish, most are better in memory than they'd be in reality.<br>

____________________________________________________</p>

<p><strong>Julie - " </strong> I once was taking a picture of two fornicating box turtles when, whether because he was alarmed by me (lying on my stomach, excessively close)..."</p>

<p>Disturbing the critters to get the pic! Sheesh. Once I was at Ding Darling preserve in what passes for winter in Florida on Sanibel Island about 100 miles south of here, with another photographer and we decided to bike through the drive right as the park opened (we went back later in the car). It was chilly, and much to my dismay one side of the road (and both in a few spots) were lined with large alligators (a few 10+ footers) sunning themselves, trying to warm up. I expected them to launch into the water when we approached, but none did. I kept to the far side from where they were and kept a steady pace, knowing they can sprint to 20+ mph. I came upon a big one sitting in the <em>middle </em>of the road, so I built up some momentum, and coasted past it, inches from the edge of the road. My friend went right up to within <em>three</em> feet from its snout, put his bike down, and proceeded to burn a roll of this thing with a 24mm lens, and the gator never budged. </p>

<p>"...waving his feet with his privates pointing skyward. He looked so ridiculous... "</p>

<p>No more ridiculous than a grown woman on her belly photographing him, I suppose.</p>

<p>It's turtles all the way up.</p>

<p>I usually don't have a camera with me when those get away. </p>

<p>I can't remember not taking a specific picture because it might have made me feel bad doing so. Like Julie said, what's there to remember or forget? Regret for missing an opportunity isn't the same. There are things I avoid in general - all to do with human subjects. I DO have people pictures I won't show. What I hoped to convey risks being over whelmed by other contradictory messages or essentializes a class of people. I am sensitive about exploiting but not entirely. So it is "When in doubt, don't", or ask someone you trust about it. There is an ugly, anything, I mean <em>anything</em>, goes, side of street photography and PJ I see and hear expressed - a subject tragically caught up in somethng is not off-limits, for example. I have felt close to the limit and scared myself , but later was soothed by my maxim that <em>public </em>means what it means and one should not expect privacy from being photographed.<br /> Didn't read the book.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>one should not expect privacy from being photographed.</p>

</blockquote>

<p>I can afford a place to have privacy, so I'm not always vulnerable to the unwanted eye of a camera. Some cannot afford a place to hide. They are vulnerable. I guess that's just the way it is. The ramifications of p<em>ublic</em> probably vary depending on circumstance and point of view.</p>

<p>"I can afford a place to have privacy, so I'm not always vulnerable to the unwanted eye of a camera. Some cannot afford a place to hide. They are vulnerable. I guess that's just the way it is. "</p>

<p>Me,to. I have asked for a change in the security personnel in my private compound. They really should shoot to wound.</p>

<p>I think that if another photo of me is taken I cannot carry on....the cruelty of it.</p>

<p>Hey, always dress to kill them.</p>

<p>No probs then.</p>

<p>I remember a movie about WW II with a scene showing FDR struggling to climb a ladder to board a battleship. (For those too young to remember, FDR had polio.) On the deck of the ship were several news photographers with Speed Graphics, waiting to take a shot of the President as he boarded. When his struggle became obvious, as a man, the photographers lowered their cameras. No one told them to do that; no one had to. It was a matter of decency and respect. How much of that remains among today's photojournalists?</p>

<p>I've just returned from a visit to Amish country in Ohio. You may know that the Amish do not like to be photographed. I passed on several shots of Amish farmers at work because I felt I would be violating a kind of trust by taking them.</p>

<p>In other words, some things in life are more important than getting the shot...</p>

<blockquote>

<p>It was a matter of decency and respect. How much of that remains among today's photojournalists?</p>

</blockquote>

<p>Good question, William. Thanks for the story.</p>

Every time I'm out making photographs on the street I elect not to take (some) photos for ethical reasons.

I've never counted or kept track, but a dozen or more each time out wouldn't surprise me. It comes with

the territory of shooting on the street. There are times, far fewer, where it's not specifically about ethics,

but knowing taking a candid shot could provoke an unwelcome response, either from a potential subject or from a group of people

nearby becoming quickly motivated.

<p>I am still waiting and chasing always for the perfect double rainbow shot. Certain slant of light through clouds over the mountains. Evanescent light effects burn in my imagination. If I were better at painting, but I left the brushes and oils for the lens.</p>

<p> No worries for me. I do not need a photo of everything. Besides most of the time I am at work or asleep anyway. </p>

<p>Well put, William. Sometimes, in my experience, I have encountered a scene or a situation that was so incredibly impactful that taking a photograph was the last thing on my mind. </p>

<p>I have the Kindle e-book of the work referred to in the original post. I've read several of the essays but not the entire book. Of the essays I've read, none were specifically about missed photos or "the ones that got away". They were simple essays based on personal experiences that sometimes had only peripheral involvement with photography. Emmett Gowin's essay, for instance, concerned discovering that a reporter sent to interview him was the daughter of a favorite writer whose work he used in his classes. Since I haven't read all of the book, I can't really give an informed opinion on the content, however, it doesn't appear to be exactly like the promo described. </p>

<p>The myth of the photo not taken is that it would have been a great one, since we never have to see that it came out looking rather ordinary.</p>

<p>I can think of a number of them, personally . . .</p>

<p> I have a series of shots I never took because I respected the Amish. A barn raising with all the woman on the porch, children playing with a round huluhoop wheel thing, all the males on the barn and horses and carriages all lined up. <br>

But martin is right. It's like a perfect golf swing with out the ball. </p>

 

<p>But I fear that once you start not taking certain pictures for various reasons, it's the beginning of the end. All the potentially impactful pictures you might have taken, you don't.</p>

<p>Consider this my review of the book, not made.</p>

<p><strong id="internal-source-marker_0.07148565375246108">I read most of the essays in this book before I discovered this forum. It certainly met my need to learn something about how photographers think, not technically, but emotionally about their work. The picture not taken theme is a device that the photographers respond to in many different ways. Some of the brief essays are quite profound some are not. I enjoyed the range of the essays and looking up the work of some of the photographers after I had read their words. I now look forward to seeing the pictures of the members of this forum.<br /><br />Here are extracts from three of the essays.<br /><br />Among the most moving was Tim Hetherington’s where he wonders whether his hesitation about publishing a picture of a dead American soldier. “My hesitation troubled me. Was I sensitive this time because the soldier wasn’t a nameless African? Perhaps I had changed and realized that there should be limits on what is released to the public? I certainly wouldn’t have been in that questioning position if I’d never taken the photograph in the first place…but I did, and perhp\aps these things are worth thinking and confronting after all [Tim Hetherington]”<br /><br />“I couldn’t bring myself to take a picture of the man and his cat. The sight of a tough guy on a dark night tearfully cradling a dead cat won’t soon leave my mind. But the moment seemed too raw. He was too sad. And I didn’t have any good reason to give him as to why I might want to take a picture [Dave Anderson].”<br /><br />As a fifteen year old he finds his camera has no film, but he ‘takes pictures’ of men in a bar. “This was the access and openness I’d always wanted my photography to have…but I never knew how to get it…I was brought back to earth when I remembered there was no film in the camera. For a second it felt like I blew it. Oddly that feeling went away quickly. …I realized that some door had been opened for me. I had found a way in with thesepeople, they accepted me and my camera, and I wasn’t afraid [Timothy Archibald].”</strong></p>