If you've listened to the last few episodes of On Taking Pictures, especially Episode 148, Idle Hands Problem, you know that I've been in a creative and emotional funk. Truth be told, I've been more or less in this place for years, but I finally may have gotten to the root of why, and am developing some tools to help chart a new course through it. One of these tools is to produce more work, without any thought given to who may or may not like it, link to it or even care about it. The point is just to do the work, to get the wheels spinning and get my mind back in the swing of creative problem solving. Interiors is the first of these project-based exercises and the idea is quite simple: every day of the month of March, I'll take (but not necessarily post) a photograph of some sort of interior. It could be a house, a car, a plane, or a violin. The point is that each photograph has to have some thought behind it - I can't just be driving down the freeway and take a photo out the car window. So, this first photo was taken yesterday, March 1st. I won't tell you where, but give yourself a few bonus points if you can peg the spot. As I mentioned, this is just one of the new tools and exercises I'm trying out to help get me to a better place, both emotionally and creatively. My name is Jeffery Saddoris, and I'm an artist...there, I said it. Now let's move forward.
Today would have been my father's 74th birthday, but as many of you know he passed away a year ago November. For many years I had a tempestuous relationship with my dad, but when he got sick, we each found a way to put aside the things that for so long had seemed so important to us - important enough to argue over, fight about, or not speak to each other for years at a time. It's ironic that the very thing that proved to be the catalyst that would allow us to find our way back to one another would ultimately take him from me. In the last years of his life, we each worked to find a balance - a respect for one another not just as father and son, but as men. The once character-defining differences that so often left us at odds faded away into obscurity - they simply no longer mattered and in truth, probably never did. At least not as much as each would have had the other believe. In the end, our time here and with the ones we love is over in an instant. No matter how long we have, it's never enough. We will always be left with the ache of wanting just one more sunrise with family and friends. Unlike when I lost my mother five years ago, I was with my father when he died - holding his hand, rubbing his head, telling him how much I loved him and how proud I was to have had the opportunity to be his son. Happy birthday, dad. I miss you and mom so, so much.
While I was working on F to the Power of Three, I started a new painting based on a photo of a couple taken in what looks like the late 50s or early 60s. I had no context whatsoever for them, but a back story began to take shape in my head. I decided to use them as the core of a narrative that will ultimately span several pieces. I'm not going to reveal the narrative, other than through the work, but I will say that it's an evolution of some of my previous work - namely Fields of Gold and One Nation Under Ground. I'm calling the series Redacted, and while I'm not sure how many pieces it will yield, the narrative begins as a trilogy that establishes the overall arc of the story. Additional pieces will flesh out at least some of the details.
This piece has actually been in the works for quite some time. I started it, didn't really like where it was going and recently took another run at it. It's a little different than my previous thematic work, but I actually love where it ended up. Mixed media on panel, 2014
A few of the many faces of B. Too bad she's so shy.
Five years ago, I put down my paint brushes. A few weeks ago, I picked them back up.
Who controls the flow of information, and at what cost? Which truths are made public, and which are withheld? Redacted is my new mixed media series that explores misdirection, disinformation, and the fractured landscape between power and corruption.
Recently, I was inspired by a terrific portrait project by Mark Dixon and while I don't have a Fancy Corner to shoot in, I do have a nice section of unfinished drywall out in the garage, so I decided to take a stab at making some portraits of my beloved bear Smokey.
Like many people trying to live a creative life – whatever that means – and trying to reconcile who I am with what I do, I often find myself neck-deep in The Sea of What Does It All Mean. Sometimes I’m only there for a few hours, but I have also spent weeks or months at a time there, treading water, looking for the current that will take me back to shore. I chose this path a long time ago and while I get the whole Steven Pressfield idea that art – which, again is subjective, so let’s agree to say creativity – comes from struggle on an intellectual level, I don’t completely agree with it. Where he and I differ is on the idea that struggle has to be synonymous with pain. I don’t think that creativity has to come from pain, far from it, but I do believe that there has to be struggle – call it effort, if you like or even “skin in the game.” Choosing to lead a creative life, a fulfilling life, means saying yes to struggle, to effort, to process.
I find great joy in the process, whatever form it may take – from grinding coffee beans by hand to writing using actual pencil and paper, to building one of my paintings with layer after layer of acrylic medium. My joy is as much in the doing as it is in the thinking, maybe even more so. My effort – or pain, if that’s where you need to be – comes from the starting. Beginnings are extraordinarily difficult for me because beginnings are rooted in uncertainty and uncertainty is often a neighbor of paralysis. But, as one of my heroes Seth Godin points out, “If you don’t start, you will fail.” Starting is what we have control over.
I’ve spoken about this several times on episodes of On Taking Pictures, most recently in episode #115. I’ve also made no secret about the fact that I have at times felt lost, without direction after the death of my mom. She was not only my biggest fan, but also my North – not that she told me what to do or what direction to go in, but she gave me things to think about that I would often not get to on my own and working through those things would help me to set and follow a course. A few months ago, I was talking to David duChemin on the phone. We were talking about Faded + Blurred and I was telling him how frustrated I was creatively and that I’d hoped that “by now” it and I would be much more (again, whatever that means) than it is and I am. “You have to remember that you’re playing a Long Game,” he said. “Yours is the path of persistence and integrity.” I’ve gone back to that conversation several times and when we had the chance to sit down for the first episode of Process Driven, we talked about the addiction to certainty and how believing that you need to know the outcome is actually counterproductive to letting the process – whatever the process may be – run its course. When I lose my way in the Long Game, I somehow shift from leaper to looker. I go, at least partially, from embracing the unpredictable excitement of letting the creative process run its course to a seemingly inexorable addiction to certainty. I find myself searching for answers that I cannot possibly know, forgetting that, as Rilke points out, I would not be able to live them even if I did. “And the point is to live everything,” he wrote in Letters to a Young Poet. “Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
After listening to Bill and me wrestle with this on the last episode of On Taking Pictures, a listener posted this to the OTP G+ Community, writing “If you ever get the feeling that you’re not good enough or your career isn’t moving along as quickly as you would like, you need to give this a watch.” It’s all about the Long Game and how the payoff is in the doing and doing and doing. The effort becomes its own reward.
The first SLR I ever owned was a Pentax Super Program, which I bought at Frank’s in Highland Park during my sophomore year of high school. It was a terrific camera – definitely a step up from the Pentax K1000 I was using in my photography class, even if it wasn’t the all-black Super-A version they had in Europe. But it wasn’t the one I really wanted. The camera I coveted most was a Nikon F2AS Photomic with the DP-12 finder – in black, of course. That was the Holy Grail of cameras – a near-legendary workhorse used by the top photojournalists in the world, which was a list on which I someday wanted to see my name. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my Pentax and used it for years, stocked mostly with Tri-X that my best friend Mark and I would buy in 100′ rolls, but it wasn’t an F2.
Years later, when I rediscovered my love for photography and picked up a camera again, I often thought about the F2, despite the fact that most everyone I knew had gone digital. A friend of my mother’s heard that I was shooting again and told my mom that he had some gear that he hadn’t used since college and if I was interested in it to come by his house and pick it up. She had no idea what he had, but I appreciated the offer and was only too happy to take him up on it. When I got there, what he presented me with instantly brought me back to high school, days spent shooting for the love of it, followed by long nights in my garage darkroom hoping I actually managed to get something good. What lay before me in its worn leather case was a mint condition Nikon F2AS Photomic with the DP-12 finder – in black, of course. It was absolutely flawless and mounted to the front was an equally pristine 50mm 1.2 lens. I picked it up with what I can only describe as a reverence that few objects had ever received in my hands. Despite the fact that this was the first time I had actually held one, the cold metal body felt like a pair of favorite jeans just out of the dryer. Perfect. After a few moments, I returned it to the case and told my mom’s friend thank you but that I couldn’t possibly accept this. He assured me that I could, and that if I didn’t take it, it would go back into the closet where it had been for more than 30 years. Reluctantly (though secretly giddy), I accepted, thanked him profusely and left with my prize, now imbued with the talent and tenacity of all those who used one before me.
Several weeks passed and I still hadn’t shot anything with the F2. I had taken it out of the case and exposed it to the world nearly every day – learning its weight and its angles – but couldn’t bring myself to run a roll of film through it. What I had come to realize was that over those long years since high school, this tool – which was not so different from a hammer or a cordless drill – had become a talisman of sorts. It was no longer a camera, but rather an Object – not for using, but for merely admiring. What was I afraid of? It was as if somehow by not using it, the Object was able to retain the near-mythical status I had granted it so many years ago. If I were to use it, any flaws in the outcome (read: terrible photographs) would be mine, anchored firmly in my own lack of vision and not in any way the fault of the Object. I had made the tool into something precious, ignoring the irony that it was the use of the Object which is what had elevated its stature in the first place. The F2 got the reputation of being a tough-as-nails workhorse of a camera because photographers routinely beat the shit out of it – rain, sleet, snow, sandstorms, conflict zones – you name it, this camera survived it. Yet here’s me, smack in the middle of suburbia intimidated to the point of creative paralysis rather than just loading it up with Tri-X and heading out into the world to see what I can see. Not to uphold some imaginary legacy of vision, but just to see what I could see.
I’ve included a few photographs that you may or may not recognize. They are the cameras used by Garry Winogrand, Elliott Erwitt and Jim Marshall. Is there any doubt in looking at these cameras – these tools – that each of them were used and used well? Absolutely not. Every ding, dent, scratch and scrape is a story waiting to be told. Chrome worn through to brass shows not only the metal of the tool, but the mettle of the handler. What it took me years to realize is while the F2 felt like a pair of jeans fresh from the dryer, they were a new pair of jeans, which everyone knows only get better the more you wear them – that’s what really makes them yours. Photography is a craft and while the tools are important to do the job, what’s more important is using them to the point where they disappear and only light, subject and composition remain.
I have no way of knowing where I am on my photographic journey; there are no maps for these territories. What I do know is that I’m not so precious about the tools I use as I once was. My Fuji XPro doesn’t get nearly the time in the wild it deserves, but I have noticed some brass peeking out of the black on the thumb grip, which tells me I finally just might be on the right track.
A unique photographic style is one of the benchmarks of a great photographer. In 2007, Tom Hoops, was working as a web designer in Thailand, unfamiliar with names like Richard Avedon, Helmut Newton, or Paolo Roversi. But, after borrowing a friend’s camera one afternoon, a new creative passion emerged and, for the past six years, Tom has been refining a style and building a body of work that is both instantly recognizable and uniquely his own. His dramatic black & white portraiture and brilliant editorial work have earned him an ardent following and are increasingly in demand, particularly in the world of fashion. I got the chance to sit down with Tom to talk about how his work has evolved, the importance of shooting what you love and why he wants his photography to be like a black polo neck.
“You should shoot what you want to put on your wall… I want dramatic, dark, powerful photos. That’s what I’d like on my wall, so that’s what I want to shoot. That’s what I should be shooting.”
On staying true to yourself:
“If you don’t do what is essentially you, in terms of what is your creative vision, then what you’re going to produce is going to be a bit weak.”
When asked whether photography has made him a better person:
“I don’t know if it’s made me better. It has made me more observant and I think it’s made me very keenly observant about people.”