Pictures are like Snowflakes

When starting out as an artist, the best and worst thing you can do is peruse similar work of other artists.  It can be and usually is monumentally inspiring and enlightening, but it can also be a brutally disheartening experience for many.  Looking at your own work and comparing it to the work of others.  Gawd...I sux!  Especially when partaking in the work of those who have honed their craft over years...decades.  But you don't stop to consider even when your logical mind tells you 'duh!'.  I am good at a lot of things, I should be able to pick this up and play with the Philadelphia Philharmonic next week, right?  Srsly?  Not even that blunt reality check softens the blow. 

 It has been just over a year since I picked up my first DSLR.  Ok, yes, if you count my first experience over a dozen years ago, no...but that was a learning experience all its own.  The previous paragraph's point notwithstanding, most of us are level-headed enough to know that there are always technical and artistic learning curves and we balance ourselves accordingly as we pursue a dream of expressing to others what it is we see in our minds.  As I navigated my own winding trails I learned an incredible amount about myself.  One of the worst parts was the idea of trying to make enough money to support myself.  The idea of the the 'starving artist' is infectious in our culture; unfortunately I feel many don't pursue their passions because of this and it saddens me.  Then there's the fact that Peter Lik just broke the world record the other day with a $6.5 million sale of a B&W version of his 'Ghost'.  This is what we hear; what we don't hear about as often are those people who make decent to very good livings doing what they love and are not in mainstream media.  I like to think of it as living a satisfying level of success while reaching for Lik-like notoriety (that you might actually realize and enjoy before you're fertilizing daisies, if that is your goal...my point being that some artists are only popular because they're dead and their work is finite!) and doing as much as you can to help out your fellow artists who have yet to realize true stability.  The stability that allows you to sleep comfortably at night, take care of your loved ones and, of course, gather those tools you need to help you put forth the best work...the best art...you're capable of.  A solid shelter needs a foundation before walls, walls before roof.  It takes work...and yes, I'm reminding myself as much as I am you as I write that! 

Once you reach the point of relaxing comfortably with your own progress you really start to grow.  It amazed me.  Even going back and looking at some of your earliest material, your eye has grown to be far more discerning...far more realistic; it sees much more potential in pieces that your novice eye couldn't see due to its own clouded idealism.  "It isn't worth $250k, so it isn't worth anything".  Yeah.  I felt really stupid when I stepped back into those shoes, and it strikes me as painfully laughable.  Uh, I am 45.  Have I learned nothing yet?  Not like this I haven't!  Great...I snorted at myself just typing that.  BRB...need some TP...yuk. 

Every snowflake is different, and they're all magical in their own unique way.  Certain patterns will appeal to some more than others, but every single one is appreciated.  Maybe there is a stage during creation that makes one stand out...a bit of moisture on a tiny grain of dust high up in the atmosphere.  Maybe it is when it is frozen solid and symmetrical in its maturity...and stuck to a berry that it is most majestic.  Or maybe when it starts to melt...an oddly uneven but still captivating scene.

Every photograph is different.  It is not possible for you to get the exact same image twice.  Not using a strip of film, not a digital sensor, not a living retina.  Depending on how deeply you wish to delve into this argument, I'll argue right down to the impurities in the silicon in the sensor, the silver in the film or the blood vessels in an eye.  There are, of course, limits to details discernible by the viewer's eye, but then, with respect to photography, it becomes a question of framing, settings, and artistic taste.  I fantasize about lining up one hundred photographers, all ages, all experience levels...each with their own favorite equipment and shooting the Tetons.  I don't know why the Tetons.  It is just the way that fantasy materialized so I stick with it.  Ultimately anywhere would be great.  Everyone would frame up a subject slightly differently.  Some would prefer refreshingly light and others moody and dark.  Some would make radical changes in post, some wouldn't retouch it at all.  Some would saturate color, some would convert to B&W.  Someday I might try to organize something like this.  The One Hundred.  Give or take.  We're all busy and I wouldn't want to exclude anyone, ever.  You get the idea.  ;o)  Then we put everyone's work in a gallery, one shot each that they themselves choose to bring forth, open to the public and see which visitors like what.  Vote.  Sure, some are going to feel left out because a few invariably will have more of an eye that resonates with more people with that wonderful mountain range...but what happens when you do another shoot with the stars?  A dragonfly?  A pair of twin, blonde, sibling children?  A puppy at play?  A rose?  A rock?  A bottle of Jack?  And if a bottle of Jack, where is it? 

In my pursuit of great artwork (artwork...art-work...it is amazing how things hit you differently and when) with respect to photography, the realization that pictures are like snowflakes helped me immensely, even if only on a philosophical note.  I feel this is where I achieved a balance of my own, something I could progress with.  I had finally learned patience with myself.  I understood...I 'got it'.  Better yet, I 'got' a new facet of myself.  Starting to walk a different kind of talk.  And as many have said thousands of times over, it is about the process, the exploration, the journey.  A different stride, and you can't talk your way down a path.

Yet...? 



©2014 Michael Pichahchy