All Is Not As It Seems

The tag-line/motto that I use conspicuously here on this blog claims that the core reality of photography lies at the interaction of light and matter, the intersection of energy and mass. I have been thinking about this recently in relation to how physical and biological systems detect light. 

I mentioned previously here that I had been reading about the Stiles-Crawford effect and in doing so came across detailed descriptions of the infinitesimal workings of the light-sensitive cells– the cones and rods– of the human eye. Within these cells are contained micro-miniature energy conversion plants, material manufacturing facilities, and supply transportation pipelines. And below it all is an incredibly intelligent organization scheme, or command structure, which keeps it all running smoothly and efficiently. 

The functional regime which I casually referred to as an "energy conversion plant" is what is directly responsible for the all-important light sensitive aspects of the eye. As photons from the external world flood into the eye they are organized and redirected into the formation of a replica image on the retinal surface at the back of the eye. This retina, which some liken to the film in an old-school camera, is the organ of the eye which is responsible for taking these tiny packets of light energy and transforming them in a near-miraculous manner into electro-chemical energy signals that are sent to the brain for further transformation and analysis. 

Embedded in the retinal tissue are the light sensitive organelles themselves: the rod and cone cells. Within these tiny electro-optical instruments are organic dye materials, the molecules of which are stacked disk-like in the rod cells as if they were columns of Necco wafers and in the cone cells like leaves that are being dried as they lie interleaved in the pages of a thick book. The electro-chemical bonds of these stacks of dye molecules become excited as they absorb the incoming photons and their energy. The photons themselves die and are no more, while the dye molecules'  new-found energy is passed along the length of the cell, becoming the electronic signal that can be passed to outside systems. The signal continues along the electro-chemical pathway that comprises the whole of the optic nerve and into the brain itself.

NECCO Wafers, © New England Confectionery Company (NECCO)

What provoked my thoughts in all this is the commonly heard analogy of eye and camera. How often it is said that "the eye is like a camera, with its lens, iris, dark chamber (camera obscura), and light sensitive film at the back"– as if the camera were the foundational and superior system. We reason that a modern camera, with all of its incredible complexity, inter-working systems and subtle design, must be the pinnacle of imaging systems and data management, and think the eye to be a mere semblance of such obvious engineering excellence. 

But as it turns out so often, not much is like it seems. My years of working around and with vision scientists, and seeing some of the results of their experiments, have taught me that the human visual system ("system," because it entails so much more than simply the eye) is an incomprehensibly complex and subtle creation. The interplay of multitudinous features and schemes leaves one breathless when trying to understand how they all relate. And the engineering and design philosophies (if one can use those terms) underlying the whole system should make any self-respecting engineer (whether optical, mechanical, or electrical) blush with embarrassment at her own feeble attempts. 

My point here is not to disparage the engineer (I am one!) but to point out the simple fact that when it comes to imaging and optical information systems, the human eye and its larger visual system is without peer in this wide world, and perhaps, in this wide universe. At least we've not yet seen anything which beats it.  Some cameras, or even other biological visual systems, may exceed human vision in a particular narrow technical aspect, but nothing exceeds its overall performance, utility, and flexibility. 

So, enjoy your modern (or old-school) camera for what is, but never lose sight of the matchless design and astounding craftsmanship of the visual system that opens its two "shutters" for you each morning. 

The Revealing Power of Light

Light is by any measure astonishing stuff. Its effects are profound and universal. Without the powerful, energizing influence of the sun's light, life on this planet would not exist. And, yet, it cannot be touched or grasped. You can't open a mason jar at high noon, wait until it is full of sunlight and then close the lid, hoping to store some of this wonderful elixir until the dead of winter when the sun is low. 

Arguments have raged on for centuries concerning light's fundamental nature. How should we define it? What is it, down at the core of its reality? For a long period of time the best minds believed it to be a particle. Then, more detailed experiments demonstrated it to be a wave. And later yet many claimed it was both. Clearly, it is not just a particle, nor a wave, or even both (these are simplistic and very limited analogies), but it is simply what it is– light– in all its glorious mystery, and unable to be defined conclusively by men.  

The art of photography obviously depends intrinsically on light, as its very name declares: drawing-by-light, or making images through the agency of light. Most other arts also make great use of light, albeit in less obvious ways. The painter who views an incredible natural scene and strives to interpret it on canvas is making great use of the sunlight which reflects and refracts from the portion of the universe within her field of view, is focused onto the retinal sensory apparatus within her eye, and which finally forms a model of that universe within her mind; modified and manipulated by her experiences, beliefs, and moods. Even after she has completed her work, the viewer and appreciator of her art relies completely on the light to illuminate the work, and to repeat the process of perception. 

Bright Idea, © Bill Brockmeier
All rights reserved

Although we will never fully plumb the depths of the true nature of light, we can certainly appreciate some its more obvious aspects.  I have titled my blog here "Revealing Light" because of light's marvelous ability to bring forth understanding where something was previously hidden. It is almost impossible to overstate the significance of this revealing power of light. In fact, in day to day conversation we often directly (without fully realizing what we are saying) refer to this unsurpassed power that light possesses to bring forth understanding from darkness. We use terms and phrases like "illuminate," "bring to light," "enlightened," "it dawned on me," "shine some light on it," and one of more recent vintage: "focus like a laser beam." 

Photography depends upon this unique revelatory characteristic of light for much of its artful power. Countless photons stream from various directions onto the photographer's subject and into the scene. As they interact with the material surfaces they encounter, they either become diminished, bounce off, shift angle, or are otherwise modified by the subject. Some of these altered photons make their way into the entrance pupil of the camera's lens, bringing with them new information that came from the subject. Just as humans are affected as they interact with each other, or with the things and ideas swirling around them and are changed somehow by the interaction, so photons are forever changed as they encounter objects and conditions in their path. One of Solomon's Proverbs says that "as iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another." That is, people are profoundly changed as they "rub up against" each other. And so, light is changed as it "rubs up against" the universe around it, picking up information and understanding of the things it has encountered. 

For the photographer, the final piece of the interactive power of light is when these photons, carrying information about the subject, encounter the photosensitive material surface within the camera– whether that be silver-based film, or the highly purified silicon from which the photodiodes of a digital camera are made. When this final encounter happens, the photons deliver their load of information and the photograph is crystallized– made manifest as an artifice. The photon, then, is no more. It has given up its life for a new existence: the image, the photograph.  

FIRMAMENT

Some time ago, I was traveling by commercial airlines from the San Antonio area to Boston. I am always fascinated by the ability to travel across the continent by air and I delight in the view from such an elevated platform. When the plane's wheels touch down on the runway at my destination, it always seems too soon.

This flight was just such an eye-full since nearly the entire trip we encountered various forms of exciting atmospheric conditions. This was a great time to try some of the photographic experiments that I like to play with when confronted with such great subjects: huge, towering thunderheads, long stretches of unbroken cloud cover, and unusual sunlit conditions. Often, these experiments are interesting but never materialize in usable photographs since the cabin windows so frequently are very poor in optical quality.

Things like age-crazing, general scratching and scuffing, and big gooey smears of hair gel take a huge toll on the ability to take decent photographs. On top of that, reflections of bright things in the cabin can dominate the view as well. To mitigate some of these issues, I usually try to bring with me micro-fiber cloths to clean the window, and it's also a good idea to wear as much dark clothing as possible to reduce reflections. This trip I was doubly-blessed with a high quality, clean window, and sunlight directions that minimized any reflections.

At one point in mid-flight we were flying near 30,000 feet (over 5 miles up) and traveling along between two layers of clouds: a very high layer of thin clouds, and a lower stratum of complete cloud cover (the earth's surface was entirely hidden behind it). The colors of the sky, where it could be seen, were absolutely entrancing– from a light cyan/turquoise near the surface of the earth (the normal sky-blue we see from down here) graduating to a much deeper and purer blue looking up above the horizon.  When gazing up as high as I could see out of the window, the sky was nearly black, but still discernibly blue (maybe a blue-black or "midnight blue").

FIRMAMENT, © Bill Brockmeier, all rights reserved

I tried some different techniques to capture some of this scene, which overwhelmed me with the vastness of the layering of the clouds, and the pure beauty of the unadulterated colors.

I didn't look at the photos until several weeks after the trip, and when I did I found quite a few semi-interesting shots, but nothing that really stood out to me...until I came across one that I took as we flew between the two layers of clouds.  The image really took me back to when I was observing and enjoying it in person.

Recently, I decided to go back to that photograph and try it out in large scale on canvas. After the photograph had been printed, coated, mounted, and framed I sat the completed work up against the wall in my studio and was amazed at how it had come out. It looked to me, and had the feeling, much like the abstract paintings that I so admire. Then it hit me. Turning it upside-down, I thought "let's make it a little MORE abstract." This new composition, which placed the earth at the top of the canvas and the sky below it, was definitely superior to the conventional view.

The very dark blue of the highest atmosphere was now at the bottom of the image, giving it much more a sense of stability and solidity.  The light gray solid cloud cover was now a band of light towards the top, with the brilliant cyan/turquoise streaking between the two. The deep blue below, although actually a view of the high atmosphere appears to be almost water-like. But if it looks like water, where is the horizon, the distinction between the atmosphere and the ocean? The whole effect is a bit mystifying and one is reduced to the pure simplicity of enjoying the colors and the structure of the image, without being able to really ferret out what is going on.

The more I have looked at this image, the more it seems to me shrouded in the enigmatic mists of the original Creation itself.  Some of the opening phrases of Genesis ("Beginnings") say that "...God made the expanse (the firmament) and separated the water under the expanse from the water above it. And it was so. God called the expanse 'sky.' And there was evening and there was morning– the second Day."

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This photograph is available in an Extremely Limited Edition of only three copies, with just two remaining. The full, framed size is 20 by 72 inches.    Call now to reserve yours— 210-241-6132.

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Note: this article is the first in a weekly series that will showcase my Very Limited Edition photographs. For more information on these editions and how I produce them, click here or on the Very Limited Edition link in the upper right. 

Pumping Blood and Pushing Daisies

Some art strikes its recipients with thunder and lightning. Other art yields its secrets much more slowly and slyly.

At the recent Parade of Artists in Boerne I had wonderful extended periods of time to talk with some of my fellow artists as well as with the art lovers who came to visit. In talking with my brother-in-the-arts, Harold Teel, I asked him to give me a little insight into how he approaches his work, and some of the little things he does to make his art unique.

Many of the significant details that he weaves into his paintings may be missed by the casual observer. Harold pointed some of them out to me in his painting SPRING ROUNDUP and I will try to recall his tour here.

SPRING ROUNDUP, © Harold Teel, all rights reserved by the artist

On the surface, the watercolor painting is composed mainly of two human legs, both clad in chaps, boots, and spurs. The one on the left is the left leg of a cowboy and on the right is the right leg of a cowgirl. There is clearly a romantic involvement here as the legs are closely spaced and the boots are nearly touching.  Moreover, the cowboy's gloved hand clasps the corresponding one of the cowgirl as he extends to her an offering of freshly picked daisies.

A subtle detail missed by many is the tiny heart-shape embossed in the center of the cowboy's spur rowel— evidence of the cowboy's intent.

Heart in the spur's rowel

As I am looking here at the painting, I notice some other parallel details: the half a heart-shape shadow on the lady's chaps, the heart-shape formed by the blue sky (seen beyond the nearly touching legs) and the two clasped hands above, and the near-heart-shape formed by the lady's boot shadow and the dark toe-end of her boot.  I also notice several (three, four, maybe a half-dozen) other hinted-at heart shapes in the image which may be conscious, unconscious, or even subconscious— but perhaps, accidental and serendipitous.

It's also interesting how the heart-shape itself, a purely abstract contemporary icon for "love" (it really doesn't look much at all like our blood pumps), is composed of two symmetric pieces, joined together in the center— what a great graphic device for two joined by love! And the tension between the heart's pointy-end below and the very rounded-end above seems to mirror the tension that exists in real love between its sharp/compelling aspects on one hand and the comfortable/relaxed freedoms on the other.

Eye of the daisy

And then there is the reverberating device in the form of a daisy: the obvious botanical daisies themselves, their shadows, and the profiles of the two spur rowels...with their corresponding two shadows.  And don't miss the detail of the lady's spur rowel with a yellow center, just like the real daisies above. Then, unseen, and above and beyond the image's border, is the daisy-like profile of the sun itself which is obviously and brightly illuminating the entire scene.

Of course there is even much more to see in the image than what I have stated here, but you get the idea. Take your time when observing art. Look beyond the immediate and the obvious. And even look beyond the subtly designed details. Learn to appreciate each piece for what it is, and it may yield up some surprising secrets.

Frenetic Activity

Life sometimes seems in a "neutral gear" mode when to all outside appearances nothing of significance is happening.  Then, suddenly, a flurry of activity is upon you and you wonder if you are going to keep up with it all.

As I have mentioned a few times over the previous months I have been visiting a large and special parcel of land in the Hill Country of Texas with the goal of producing at least one work for the "Arts and Conservation" project of the Cibolo Conservancy. Although I have been wondering how it would all turn out, I am pleased with what finally came about through these efforts. The project happens only once every other year so it is wonderful to be a part of this infrequent event.

The work I have chosen for exhibition in the show is titled "BEFORE THE FALL." This panoramic photograph takes in numerous cypress trees along a mostly unvisited stretch of the Guadalupe River between  Comfort and Twin Sisters, Texas. I have produced the image in my special archival process on canvas and framed it appropriately in a fairly rugged, yet elegant, dark wood.  The pallet of soft green and muted orange of the autumnal leaves of the cypress trees plays a counterpoint to the hard, textured surfaces of the trees' trunks.

In an "artist's statement" to appear alongside the exhibited photograph I have written:

"Living things— displaying scars of their battle with the elements, and yet ever new with the soft evidence of recent growth and renewal. These are the venerable cypress of South Texas. The Kilpatricks' conserved parcel on the Guadalupe is an extraordinary space where these botanical giants dance with water, sky, rocks, and deer. Although cousins of the evergreen conifers, these goliaths of the Hill Country are just turning from the green of summer to the amber/orange of autumn and will soon drop their leaves, to be swept away by the river below."

BEFORE THE FALL, © Bill Brockmeier, 2013, all rights reserved by the artist

The other photograph I will exhibit in the show is titled "DARK MIRROR" and is the image which juried me into the show. All of the selected artists' juried works will be displayed along with their current project works. I have displayed this image here in previous articles about the "Art and Conservation" project and show. The image is a panoramic view captured at the Pedernales Falls State Park, just after the sun had set. My artist's statement to appear alongside it reads:

"Water and stone constitute the "warp" and "woof" of this unique landscape textile that the Creator has woven in Pedernales Falls. The organic softness of liquid contrasts with and complements the durable and inert nature of hard rock– but in the end the water has its way and changes the face of the stone through erosion. Most visitors to the Park see it in the bright light of day, but I composed this image just after sunset, when the crepuscular light had tranfigured the landscape into a dark garden of mysterious beauty."

DARK MIRROR, © Bill Brockmeier, 2013, all rights reserved by the artist

Both of these photographs are available in very limited editions of only eight photographs each and were produced, mounted, and framed using exclusive archival, museum-grade processes. The full size of both framed works are 48 inches long by 14 inches high. The initial retail price of each will be $700 and when the editions are sold out, no further images will be produced. You can see both of these images in person (and all of the other wonderful art!) at the "Arts and Conservation" show, "Our Hidden Treasures," at the Cibolo Nature Center, in Boerne, Texas (check out these links for the location and details). The show exhibits art works of diverse media (not only photographs!) and will be open to the public from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. April 12 and 13 (FRI-SAT) and from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. April 14 (SUN).

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As it often seems to happen I have extended lengths of time when no shows are scheduled, and then suddenly multiple things seem to happen at once.  This has been the case over the past few weeks as I have been preparing for two shows which will be happening simultaneously this coming weekend.  The other show, Boerne Professional Artists' "Parade of Artists," will be happening at the same time— more on that later.

From Inanity To Insanity and Back

The modern state of photography– which is digital from end to end– has become a ubiquity, transforming it from the exclusive province of a few dedicated professionals and passionate amateurs to something entirely different. The capture of photographic images is now everywhere, at all times, and for every purpose– sometimes even for no purpose at all. I suspect (though I haven't actually seen credible estimates) that the number of photographic images captured in just the past five years has probably exceeded the total number of photographs recorded in the previous one hundred and eighty years.  Niepce could never have imagined where this technology would go when he gave birth to it at his French country estate in 1827.

We hardly even think about taking photographs anymore, it has become such a natural and almost automatic act. See something that interests you?– just lift your phone from your pocket, touch its screen, and voila– there it is! Touch the screen again, and there it is on Facebook for all the world to see and marvel at (or maybe not, if it's a photographic record of what you are having for lunch).

Want to see that image in some more "artistic" manifestation of itself?  No worry– you no longer need access to an expensive and difficult-to-master chemical/silver darkroom, or even some excessively high-priced photographic software package. You can simply use the freely-downloaded "app" that already exists in the same phone you took the photo with. Simply touch your screen a couple more times and, for absolutely no monetary (or even temporal) cost, you can be an instant Brady or Adams or Cartier-Bresson. Or so you think.

Photo of me taking a photo of me in the mirror
taking another photo of me in another mirror

The democratization of the photographic arts and sciences is, I believe, a very good thing overall. It has (or will soon) put the amazing power of photography within the palm of nearly person on the face of this earth. This is bound to result in some incredible art that never would have existed otherwise. But I am wondering if all of this instant photographic gratification is taking a toll on our ability to really "see" the world around us, on our capacity to truly experience and enjoy this world.

Holding a camera and intentionally aiming it at something in the world forces us to see in a different way. It is this alternate vision that is the basis for the art of photography. But it is possible to have too much of this good thing. A few years back I realized that I almost always had a camera at the ready– I just didn't want to leave open the possibility of missing that once-in-a-lifetime shot. Those unusual moments when I didn't have my camera with me I would look around me and be thinking– "Oh no!... just look at that!...if only I had my camera, what a shot that would make!"  I found myself elevating the art (or potential art) over the reality from which it was derived.

Since that time I have resolved to take periods of time away from the camera– and away from the desire and compulsion to produce art– and to come back into direct and intimate contact with the real and vibrant world around me. These are times I seek to lay aside my drive to create in order to simply relax and enjoy the real Creation. These usually prove to be times of refreshment and preparation for a whole new (and unexpected) direction in my creative pursuit.

If you happen to find yourself taking photographs too frequently, too casually, or maybe too compulsively, think about taking a break from it all. Lay your camera aside for a while, or hey, you might even lay your phone aside, and find yourself rediscovering an older and deeper way of experiencing the world.  Try it, you'll like it!

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A note to my readers— you may have noticed that my fairly regular (weekly?) blogs have been missing for a couple, no, a few months. Multiple factors (extended business travel, and a physical injury making typing difficult) conspired to knock me off my routine.  Putting the blog off for over a month soon became habit. But I am "back in the saddle" now and ready to ride again.

Deep Communication

I was recently present at a "celebration" event (some would have referred to it as a funeral, but that would be a misnomer in this case) for a woman I had met a few years before. Although I did not know her well, I was happy not only to attend, but to participate on some level as well. It was a remarkable conclusion to a remarkable life that had been lived well and to more than the fullest extent.

You might wonder what a funeral might have to do with photography or art. As I sat among the group celebrating this lady's life, and being surrounded by some marvelous and captivating music, I began to ponder some of the more profound aspects of this thing we call art. What is it about artful expression that so captures us and draws us into its sphere? How can it gain such access into the deeper regions of our minds, our emotions, our spirits? Why are some of us so driven to produce it and attempt to excel at it?

The music I was hearing was certainly calling out, and speaking to my soul. I experienced the need to respond, and so I did at the appropriate opportunities which were offered. The art of music is obviously brimming with what we would call communication– not simply the transfer of information, but the interchange of something much more more significant and vital.

UNEXPECTED LIGHT, © Bill Brockmeier, 2012
all rights reserved by the artist.

Several times the event was punctuated by profound and relevant periods of prayer. These were not intrusions or distractions in the least, but existed entirely within the flow of the moment. Prayer led to music which flowed into prayer which curled around more music which embraced yet more prayer. The praying and the music all seemed to be involved in the same process, which was a conversation involving those in front who were leading this celebration, as well as those of us in the "audience," and of course, God Himself.

It was clear that there was a profound parallel and resonance between the communication offered through prayer and that offered through musical expression. It was only the mode that was different, and that not by much. The depth, the intensity, the value, and the beauty of each was similar. Each was concerned fundamentally with taking a precious and rich gift from who knows what depths of the heart, bringing it to the surface, and expressing it to one who was listening.

On the drive home I thought more about this and realized that nearly every art form, whether sculpting, painting, poetry, or <<fill in the blank>>, has the goal and capacity  for deep, rich conversation between two or more individuals. And, of course, that is precisely the point and power of prayer as well.

I remember the now-cliched zen koan– "If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?"  I would paraphrase that as– "If someone produces a creative work and no one is there to receive it, is it really art?" I am convinced that real art must have this aspect of true human conversation to it or it is sterile and empty.

And finally, "If someone 'prays' out into the void, not knowing for certain if there is Someone there listening, is it really prayer?" Simply speaking out into the universe is not really conversation as much as it is wishful thinking. First of all, know Who you are speaking to, and then take sufficient time and attention to listen. You might be amazed at what you hear.

Solitude, Silence, and Stillness

About a week ago I took the opportunity to visit my Art and Conservation project site in the Texas Hill Country. If you recall my posts of the summer, I had been assigned a Nature Conservancy land trust that is located somewhere between the little towns of Sisterdale and Comfort. The trust is situated along a nearly one-mile stretch of the cold, clear Guadalupe River.  This was my first chance to return in a couple of months and I was looking forward to spending nearly a full day there: capturing images and getting to know the place.

I had called and left a message with the landowners informing them of my trip out there. Since they hadn't responded within a day of my phone-call  I didn't expect them to be there, and they weren't. I would have this huge natural gem to myself– I almost felt guilty about it.

I had arrived a couple of hours after dawn. Even though it was well into morning, the fairly high bluff on the southeast bank of the river was still deep in shade and the day seemed younger than it was. The air was crisp and new. 

I drove my truck slowly over the nearly invisible trail on the precipice above the silt plane adjacent to the river. The bank on this side was already well lit by the sun. The sun's beams had not yet illuminated the river itself, still a hundred or more yards away, but I imagined I could see ripples sparkling on its surface. I parked and exited my truck, attempting to close my door without breaking the silence that surrounded me. The only sound I could now hear was the whispering babble of the river in the distance, but perhaps I imagined that as well. 

CYPRESS LANE, © Bill Brockmeier, 2012
All rights reserved by the artist

It is really remarkable when you finally find yourself in a place where silence reigns. No street traffic, no humming AC units, no TVs inanely yakking in the distance...not even an aircraft in the clear blue overhead. It is amazing how the immediacy of life comes to the fore when there are no external sounds to distract you. All of a sudden you feel your own heart beating in your own chest. You can feel/hear the rushing "whoosh" of your blood as it streams through the capillaries of your inner ears. And then you start to "hear" your own thoughts. They become so clearly audible that you'd swear you were speaking them, but then you realize that your lips and tongue are not moving and your mouth is still closed. 

The lack of external sound can also amplify the sense of vision. Magnificent, large cypresses lined the river in front of me and their deep green leaves were brilliantly backlit in front of the yet-dark bluff behind them. Even though a hundred yards off, it seemed I was seeing the finely cut "needles" in perfect clarity and in higher resolution than my eyes were physically capable of. 

COLOR IN THE SHADOWS, © Bill Brockmeier, 2012
All rights reserved by the artist.

I headed down to the river itself after taking a few exploratory photographs from afar. Now at the immediate banks of the Guadalupe I could hear the actual sound of it. The audible sensation of running water is something exquisitely marvelous and magical. I don't believe I could ever tire of it. The hearing of it is, to me, as refreshing and enlivening as taking a long, slow drink of it. My ears drink in the sound of it. 

I continued to photograph throughout the day, moving freely through the conservancy trust. It was not only the lack of man-made sound distractions, but also the total absence of any human contact for seven or eight hours that was refreshing and invigorating. It is marvelously cleansing to be immersed in nothing but the Creator's handiwork. And when you come so face-to-face with His Art, it makes communication with Him that much more immediate and powerful.

Personally, I take great joy in talking with people about my own creative work– hearing what they think and feel about it, and giving them my insight into how the work came about and what it means to me. I believe it is the same with the original and authentic Creator– He, and we, can take great joy in conversing about His work as we experience and consider it. And He will give us insight into how this creation came about and what it ultimately means.

Après le Spectacle

As in the past, this year's Texas Hill Country Invitational fine art show was a memorable and valuable experience. One of the best components of the show was the opportunity for frequent and extended interaction with the other artists. It's great to be able to hear about what other people are doing in their work, both creatively as well as business-wise.

SHADOWS ON THE SUN, © Chris Gray, 2012
All rights reserved by the artist

As I spoke with Chris Gray, a fairly recent member of the BPA, he walked me through the interesting process he uses in composing his "tribal art" pen and ink designs. When you simply look at the final product of someone's art you can make guesses at the detailed steps they take to make it, but often you are totally wrong. This was certainly the case for the Chris's work.

On the last day a woman came into my booth and had much to discuss with me concerning my photographs. She happened to be a fiber artist and mentioned to me something I might consider for my images. What she had to say was not an entirely novel thought for me, but it certainly dusted off the cobwebs of an old idea I'd had some time ago.

EXPLORATION, © Kay Reinke, 2012
All rights reserved by the artist.

Adjacent to my booth were the displays of Kay Reinke's paintings and her sister Karen Cruce's fine art pottery. I recounted for them the discussion I'd had with the fiber artist, and they both jumped on the "new" idea for making my images available to a whole new set of possible collectors. Their excitement was contagious and I promised to attempt developing the required process over the next month or so.  I'll let you know how this turns out.

And finally, despite all of the wonderful aspects of this year's THCI, there was a darker undercurrent lingering through the three days of the show. It is clear that the economy of the US is not even close to being healthy, as sales of work— my own and others— were decidedly puny. Even though the show itself was absolutely wonderful and easily the pinnacle of what Boerne Professional Artists has produced over the years, people obviously did not come to buy. Fine art is, and always has been, a luxury item. When an economy is down, purchases of fine art are probably the first thing to drop off the budget as not a necessary expense. When fine art sales return then you can finally say that the economy is on the mend.

SUNSET HORIZON, © Karen Cruce, 2012
All rights reserved by the artist

Here's looking to next year's Texas Hill Country Invitational– may it build upon the successes of this year, and add robust sales to boot!

The Richer For It

He is not only a professional photographer but a window-cleaning professional as well. My friend, whom I had not seen in quite some, time stopped by unexpectedly and we shared some truly enriching conversation. His unusual mix of creative and practical work always brings an interesting perspective to our conversation.

The two hours that we spent yacking (or is that "yakking?") covered a lot of ground and of course we solved many of the world's ills in the process. One thing that came up was the intriguing interplay between individuality and community in creative pursuits.

As an artist it is always obvious how personal the act of creating is. It is about taking something that is very significant personally, and expressing it. It is about taking something internal, hidden, and owned, and making it external, visible, and in a sense, giving it away. Art always starts with an individual personality who values something deeply. It always starts with some one.

Frozen Mustang Grapes—
Turning them into wine, the project at hand
© Bill Brockmeier, 2012

If anything is to happen creatively an artist must initiate– he must seize those nuggets of inspiration and take a risk. The artist has to act, or risk losing those glimmers of what might have been.

If I have learned anything about photography (and art in general, for that matter) you can't see something and then say to yourself– "Wow...that would make a great shot! I'll have to remember to come back to that when I have time tomorrow..." No, you'd better at least attempt to take a great shot of it now, as tomorrow will, most likely, never come. If inspiration strikes, the moment needs to be seized, or the moment (and the art that accompanies it) will be lost. This is the personal prerogative of the artist, and he can blame no one else if he let's the potential creation slip away. The inspiration comes in a personal way, and the person is responsible to act on it.

As our conversation continued, we began to discuss the fact that art and its creation is not entirely individual and personal, but is also a function of community. I have already indirectly referred to this communal aspect when I mentioned above that the internal, personal creation must ultimately be given away. Yes, this giving away is a personal act, but obviously it must have an object; there must be someone to whom it is given. Without some audience, without someone to see, hear, feel, or otherwise evaluate and appreciate the creative work, this art is simply a masturbatory excercise. If the art remains a personal thing and doesn't connect with another, it remains pointless and empty– sterile.

And the importance of human relationship to art is not only that someone is out there to receive it. Our ability to "speak" creatively to the community is not simply a one-way street, for if we only ever spoke, and never listened, this, too, would end up being empty. We have ears to listen, and eyes to see, and we need to be taking into our personal, internal beings what others are communicating to us (whether those others be artists or not).

As my friend and I conversed, I was reminded of some experiences of several years ago. A co-worker, who happens to be both a jazz saxophonist as well as a mechanical designer, was commenting one day on some of my photographs. He spoke in some detail about all of the things he was seeing in my work– geometric relationships in the composition, the emotional ground and tone of the images, and so on. I had to admit to him that I hadn't really seen some of these things before in my own work, and, frankly, I was amazed that these things were there. That simple interchange caused me not only to see those things in my past work, but to actually look for them in the world around me so I could consciouslly strive to incorpororate them into new work. And it also causes me to now look (and appreciate)  much more deeply the work of other artists.

The direction of the conversation that my friend and I had been pursuing began taking another turn. We realized that so much of what were talking about was incredibly parallel to what we both know of true spiritual community. He and I have known each other for many, many years, and before we ever shared common interests in photographic pursuits, we knew each other as spiritual "brothers." In true, Christian spiritual community, the term "brother" is not merely a cliche to be thrown around trivially, but is a vital truth of our existence. And it is in this sense that we began realizing the dual, two-track nature of our conversation.

Just as with the artist, the creative act begins for our spiritual nature as an intensely personal thing. These "things" rise up within us, striving and yearning to make it to the surface, struggling to burst out of us and become external realities. These "things" are the "creative," spiritual acts that are generated, not by us, but by the Holy Spirit of the Creator Himself– God Almighty actually living in us, and in some miraculous, incomprehensible way, through us.

And just as with the artist, we believers have a choice before us. We can either respond by saying "Wow, that was a great inspirational thought or understanding or impulse...I'll act on that when I have more time tomorrow...," or we can choose to actually act on it and say "Wow...there is no time like the present...in fact, there IS NO TIME BUT THE PRESENT! I will take a hold of that inpiration and flesh it now to the best of my ability, for there may not be any further opportunity to act on this. Thank you Lord!"

The interesting thing of this is that even in this intensely personal act, it begins not actually with us, but with another– the One Who is the ultimate Creator! We simply need to respond to His creative impulse, so even in this we have community and relationship at work.

But then, there are the more obvious relational aspects of the spiritual life– the "brother"-liness (and sister-liness) that I mentioned above. Just as with the creative expression of an artist, the true spiritual person aims for her life to connect with others, for her spiritually creative impulses (initiated by the Spirit of God) to impact the lives of other people. If we sit on these "things" and don't let them see the light of day, they are pointless, void, and sterile. We need to seize these nuggets of inspiration and breathe life into them by breathing them into others' lives.

Finally, my "brother" and I agreed that the other direction of relational life is just as important for our spirits as it is for the artist. To listen intently to others, to try to see what they are trying to show us is essential for our lives. It is essential for a properly balanced view of ourselves, as well as for an accurate view of others. We seriously need to cultivate and attune our receptive skills. The musician calls this intonnation, and he values this as one of his most important attributes– the ability to listen carefully and precisely to the other players in the ensemble, so he can effectively "play in-tune" with them and thereby produce powerful and beautiful and timeless music that can take the breath away.

He had to leave, and I had to finish the project I was working on, so we parted ways that day, both the richer for it.

Don't make the mistake of waiting for "just the right time" to act on creative impulses: either artistic or spiritual. And don't make the mistake of thinking that artistic pursuits or spiritual life are only singular, personal pursuits. Live in the community as well as your own skin, and your life will certainly be the richer for it.

A Knife That Cannot Cut

A knife, that cuts, is a valuable and appreciated practical implement, and has been for millennia. A knife that cuts, and cuts extremely well, is treasured as a craft taken to the level of art. And a knife that isn't even useful for the purpose of cutting, but has been totally infused and transformed by pure imagination, can become sought after as a royal treasure and symbol of sheer power and authority.

Business end of Karamojong
spear (about 6 inches)

A friend and I were recently discussing the interrelationship between functionalism and art. I was describing for him some African weapons I possess– a nine-foot spear in particular– that are so beautifully and expertly made, with so little resources available, that they are surely wondrous examples of functional art. The function of these weapons (to intimidate and to kill) has so directed their design and fabrication that a spare and elegant aesthetic has floated to their surface.

The combination of dark steel head and tail (glinting with silver highlights where worn and polished), with amber wooden shaft and hard rawhide edge sheath is a study in contrasting materials. The tapering steel tail is perfectly balanced visually with the curving razor edges of the point. And the art to be appreciated in this spear is not visual only.

Joinery of hand-forged steel
socket and wooden shaft, secured
with hot-melt animal glue

The heft of the spear's mass is satisfying but surprisingly light. The balance is exceptional as gripping the wooden shaft in its center so verifies. The feel of the wooden shaft is incredibly smooth, yet it is hard to imagine it slipping out of the hand, as the diameter perfectly suits the encircling fingers and palm. Shaking the spear activates the weapon system's substantial flexibility and toughness. This is a sculptural work of the highest order. And it can defend and disseminate justice to boot.

North American scraping knife
and simple arrow point,
(circa 18-19th century?)

This kind of art sprouts out of the ground of necessity, but when taken to its final conclusion becomes art of yet another level. I spoke to my friend about another colleague who had become enthralled with amateur archeology. Along the way, he began learning the art of flint knapping– the skill of percussively flaking and shaping a chunk of hard, brittle stone into a useful, sharp-edged tool. This is the craft utilized in the making of stone arrowheads. I once borrowed from him some magazines devoted to the modern revival of this art. On the cover of one of these journals was the photograph of something the likes of which I had not only never seen before, but never even imagined was possible.

A gentleman was holding up a large (10-12 inches long) stone object that apparently had been recently made by himself. As I looked at it closely, it was clear that the object had been made by some flint-knapping technique. But, Oh, WHAT technique! <<Note: I have searched for a photo of this creation but come up empty, so it is not represented here.>>

"Tiny" piece of the Mandlebrot
fractal set

The stone piece was some kind of "knife," but I use the term "knife" with definite reservation, as this "knife" could never be used to actually cut something. Instead of a smooth, continuous and gently curving blade, there was a "blade" that had been totally interrupted by curves within curves within curves. The "edge" had the overall effect of something akin to the Mandelbrot "fractal" set. The detail and complexity of the edge alone nearly took my breath away. And how could something like this possibly be made by the difficult-to-control process of breaking rocks? It seemed close to impossible for a human being to actually make something like this– let alone conceive it in the first place.

Some years after seeing this astounding piece of art, I came across what was probably the inspiration for such a work. There are many (dozens, maybe hundreds) of examples of Mayan archeological artifacts that have been referred to as "eccentric flints." These objects are knife-like flint-knapped ornaments (I hesitate to call them tools) that almost defie description. Many of them possess the same doubly (or even triply) detailed edges like a fractal pattern. One of the most interesting I have come across is in the possession of the Dallas Museum of Art.

CROCODILE CANOE WITH PASSENGERS, eccentric flint
© Dallas Museum of Art

This piece is referred to as "Crocodile Canoe With Passengers." The work displays a known Mayan creation myth wherein the first beings ride into existence in a canoe formed from a crocodile-god (presumably, the Milky Way). Knowing some of the highly skilled processes necessary, I cannot even imagine how the artist first approached the creation of this piece centuries ago. And how many attempts were either fatally flawed or even totally destroyed before completing the example the Museum now has? What kind of high-flying imagination and optimism did it take to think that such a thing was even possible?

This kind of art has totally transcended any notion of functionalism. These flints were most probably prized by kings and priests as representative and declarative of their positions of power. These were treasures no longer useful for the practical purpose of cutting something, but instead, were so highly valued simply because they were so rare, so beautiful, and so improbable. The extraordinary difficulty of making such a piece guaranteed that it possessed some power of its own, and perhaps could even bestow some of that power upon its owner.

This brings us back to a central question of "why art?" Perhaps part of our appreciation of and desire to own art is that we, too, desire to somehow have "rub off" on us the power of the art that we so admire– that somehow the beauty and attraction of art can become our own personal attributes as well.

The Presence of Beauty and Truth

My recent exhibit for the Parade of Artists show in Boerne was a wonderful success. I had the distinct pleasure of conversing with great folks from the Hill Country region, and from as far away as Washington, Michigan, and Cape Cod. It's always stimulating as an artist to not only have the opportunity to talk with art lovers about my work, but also to hear their own responses to it and engage in some deep, thoughtful interaction. Some of my conversations with them were totally unexpected, and surprising in their depth and significance.



It's also great to see some of my work going home with people who have appreciated some of the same things that I appreciate. When you are able to make this kind of connection with people it is a special event.

One young man came into my exhibit early Saturday morning and sort of woke me up with a "simple" question: "Do you try to convey any message with your art?" The question somewhat startled me, and I began to stumble through something of an answer to his question. Pretty soon, though, the conversation took a decided turn away from the "small" (but deep) universe of aesthetics and the meaning and purpose of art. We eventually found ourselves wandering down an entirely different conversational street of profound relevance to both our lives, but of even greater significance than the relatively ephemeral nature of art. We were both blessed to have received such a gift.

Art has an amazing capacity to speak to and from the deep recesses of people's minds and hearts. And it is not simply an end in itself, but can be a gateway to those things that really last, and really matter. I hope to remember this as I go about my work of attempting to capture the presence of beauty and truth.

Collaboration To the Max

I recently read a very thought provoking (and practical) article that had been passed along to me by a bright young architect and colleague. The article, "Practice Matters" by Andrew Pressman (FAIA), appeared in the 04/2009 volume of Architectural Record.

The article explores the importance of teamwork in the architectural practice and then goes on to explain how it can be fostered. As I read the article, I kept going back to my own professional pursuits in the area of photographic art, and although I generally work "alone," much of what was being related seemed germane to my own creative work. How could creative teamwork have anything to do with me? I finally realized what was going on.

Collaboration of a Dark and Aged Sort
(more on this in a follow-on article)

When I leave the studio and visit a potential site for creative work, there are at least three entities that end up being involved the process. The most obvious one is myself. If I am not involved, there simply is no creative process at work. This may seem like a trivial matter not even worth discussing, but there really is something important to consider here. My words here– "If I am not involved..."– describe the issue precisely. For anything significant to occur, I must be involved. Simply showing up is of no profit. I have to be fully engaged in the process, open to what is going on around me (as well as within me), and ready to change course in a moment's notice if required. This is a very dynamic and active process for the individual artist.

The second entity is not quite as obvious, but it certainly comes to mind if you think about it just a little. This would be the subject. When the creative matter at hand is portraiture, it is pretty obvious that the subject is an entity with whom the creative agent can and needs to communicate and relate on a very personal level. Generally, the deeper and richer the communication is between these two, the deeper and richer the potential creative result can be.

If the image to be made is not a portrait, the subject is less likely to be engaged in an interactive relationship. Here, the subject (architecture, landscape, abstract, or other) will mostly be involved in one-way communication (speaking, not listening), but just because it's one-way, doesn't mean you shouldn't be fully engaged with it. In fact, this makes it even more important for the artist to listen carefully, and to look closely in order to discover what the subject is saying. And even then, it can be helpful for the artist to verbalize their own response to what they believe the subject is saying. Speaking these thoughts out loud can even clarify what is transpiring internally in you (yes, people may whisper about you if they witness this, but so what?!).

And this brings us to the third entity. What could be more stimulating, and more productive for an artist than to collaborate with the One Who is, in fact, the ultimate Creator? So often the Creator is given short shrift in the creative process, but we do so to our own detriment. The Creator did not simply finish His active creating in the beginning and then retire for the remainder of eternity. He may have "rested" for a day, but then His activity began again in ernest.

As we are involved in the process of creating art (or any other creative activity) it is of high significance to seek personal communication and relationship with the One Who created all. And as with any personal relationship, we cannot make it happen on our own. All we can do is simply seek the relationship and be open to it. It is His prerogative to invite us into His sphere, His initiative to give us the incredible benefits of His thoughts, and His power and gifts to enable us to create worthy art.

This is collaboration taken to the ultimate degree. If you want to know what creativity is all about, spend some time with the Creator.

On a final note, this post itself is an interesting example of some of the details offered in Pressman's article mentioned above. In my next entry here, I'll flesh this out a little more (see the image above for a hint)...

The Nature of Light and Colour

Several years ago, a colleague pointed me to a powerful and life impacting resource. I had been working along side Dr. Hector Acosta, a "human factors" professional, on a research project in the area of vision as it related to human performance. Human factors strives to understand and optimize things like ergonomics, performance, and acceptability.

I have always genuinely enjoyed my conversations with Dr. Acosta, and have learned a tremendous amount from him in our professional relationship. Dr. Acosta's doctoral dissertation was centered on another quite interesting research project that I grilled him about mercilessly (and he was always more than happy to oblige!).

His dissertation investigated the interactive physiological and psychological mechanisms that might be responsible for the long-known optical illusion that has been commonly referred to as "the moon illusion." Although an extremely intriguing topic in itself, I won't be going into the moon illusion here (though I might be persuaded to take that up in a future post).

During one of our conversations Hector mentioned a book he had in his library that might be able to answer one of my questions that had come up in our conversation. He turned around and exited our conversation, leaving me hanging there temporarily, and in a few moments returned from his office, holding a book out in his hand. He said: "Here it is! You really ought to read this...you won't regret it!"

I quickly thumbed through the book, noting its frequent and rather archaic/quaint hand drawn illustrations. I couldn't help but comment to him: "Cool! Looks like this thing was written in the '40s or '50s!" He responded that I was quite correct in my assumption, and that the author was a Belgian fellow. I thanked him, took the book home and devoured its 360 or so pages in just a few evenings.

I found the book to be an incredible exposition of very diverse visible atmospheric phenomena, and of profound interest to me as an optical engineer as well as a photographer of nature. The book was written by the Belgian astronomer (both an asteroid and a crater on the moon were named for him), biologist, and keen observer of nature, Marcel Minnaert, in 1954. The volume contains detailed (and yet easily accessible by the laymen) descriptions and explanations of common atmospheric phenomena such as the blueness of the sky, the redness of sunsets, and the colors and shape of rainbows. The explanations are exhaustive (at least when the understanding is completely known by science), yet engaging and readable.

For Minnaert, these common sights in the sky are a mere preamble and appetizer for the main courses. He goes on to describe a whole spectrum of delights to be seen in the earth's sky, and on its surface as well.  He delves into fascinating detail when recounting the common (but rarely appreciated) sight of the "earth's shadow," which can actually be easily seen almost every clear evening immediately after sunset. Minnaert explores hundreds of such visible effects– from the extremely common and ubiquitous, to the fairly unusual, to the extremely rare once-in-a-lifetime sight.

When I went online to buy my own copy several years ago (the early days of Amazon and eBay), I was just about to order a copy I had come across, only to abandon the effort when I reread the description and found that it was the original Dutch language version! I finally located a paperback copy of the English translation (completed in 1954) and purchased it. The more recently reprinted book I found was the easily available "The Nature of Light and Colour In the Open Air," for which I paid about $10. An even more recent reprint, "Light and Color Outdoors," contains color photographs rather than the original drawings, but costs on the order of $100 new.

The book can give the reader a deeper appreciation of and desire to look for many very interesting phenomena that are fairly easy to experience but usually missed by the average person. I have used this book to change the way I look at the world. Previously, when I saw something amazing in the sky or on the earth, I was prompted to observe it keenly and make its memory the fodder of my future creative efforts– strictly a reactive process. Now, I more often than not walk through my day anticipating that I will see something interesting (even specific phenomena), and when I do, I am able to better understand what I am looking at, and maybe even point out the phenomenon to someone else in the vicinity.

Get a hold of this book and let it widen your horizons. 

Genesis Moment

It is incredibly faint– ghostlike. Moving your gaze about in the dim shrine, you occasionally catch a glimpse of something long gone. Attempting to refocus, you strain your eyes to see something that might not even be there. A certain patience is required to see something so rare as this...

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Estate at Le Gras
Support the Nicéphore Niépce House–
© Spéos

Nearly two centuries ago in rural France, Nicéphore (Joseph) Niépce climbed the stairs in the early morning hours into the second story of his family's country estate and set up a scientific experiment, the likes of which the world had never before seen, and which would change the world forever. Just inside the window, he set up a camera obscura consisting of an imaging lens mounted on a wooden box, with a special pewter plate at the rear. He had previously coated the plate with a thin layer of a unique material– bitumen of Judea dissolved in oil of lavender. After carefully focusing the lens, he could easily see on the pewter plate the upside-down, lit image of the roof and farm buildings outside the window.

Nicéphore had previously experimented with such photo-sensitive plates in his successful attempts to reproduce graphical materials (mainly artistic engravings) through the use of light imaged through a lens. Wherever the brightest light of an image struck the special coating on the plate, the bitumen became solid and permanent, forming a long-lasting material image. Now, he sought to reproduce not just simple graphics, but the physical, natural world itself through the medium of light. What an audacious dream– to reproduce what the world looked like, through the agency of nature itself, and without the intervention of an artist's skill and tools! Could such an enterprise be possible? It seemed too good to be true.

Satisfied that the focused image was as clear as possible, he settled back on a wooden chair and girded up his patience, knowing that this would take the entire day. As he waited, the brilliantly sunlit scene outside poured its photonic energy through the window. The scrambled beams of light were precisely redirected and reordered as they pushed their way through the glass lens, finally impinging upon the sensitive surface of the polished metal plate.

Nicéphore continued waiting, eating his lunch while the sun rose high in the French-blue sky overhead. The foreshortened shadows on the ground eventually began to lengthen, and still the photons in the image were building up a physical, material image on the plate. Thin layer upon thin layer of solid, permanent bitumen were formed in the brightest regions of the image.

Hungry again as the sun descended in the west, he supped on bread and sipped on wine, waiting the fullest extent of time for the image that was developing on his plate. Finally, the sun sank below the horizon and he removed the plate from the rear of the box. Working in the dim, golden light of a few oil lamps, he carefully rinsed the surface of the plate with more oil of lavender, hoping to see a real, physical image on the substrate.

He dried the remaining solvent and then examined the plate in the light of the lamps. At first, the metal surface seemed as it had before– simply a shiny gray, metallic gleam. But as he turned and tilted it in the light, something finally caught his eye...was that an image? He couldn't quite decipher what he was looking at until he turned the plate 180°– he had been looking at it upside down, forgetting that the projected image on the plate had been inverted!

Having now seen something that the world outside had not yet imagined,  Nicéphore set himself to refining his process. He began collaborating with Louis Daguerre, who would ultimately stand in the spotlight of public celebrity as the pioneer of photography. Nicéphore Joseph Niépce eventually receded into obscurity, remembered by only a handful who appreciated his foundational role in the invention.

His original photographic plate, containing the image of the estate at Le Gras was given to an admiring botanist and artist in England, Mr. Francis Bauer. Bauer wrote a detailed description on the back of the photograph in both French and English, proclaiming it to be the first artifice "...fixing permanently the image from Nature."

In the mid-twentieth century Niépce had been generally acknowledged as the inventor of photography, although there was no known physical evidence of this work. But Helmut Gernsheim, photographer and photographic historian and collector, and his wife Alison, devoted three years to researching and tracking down such evidence– if it still existed. Tantalizing, obscure references in the literature beckoned them to press on in the pursuit. Through hard work and perseverance they would track the possession of this treasure through at least a half-dozen separate individuals who had owned it through the period of more than a century.

Niépce's "View From the Window at Le Gras"
©, Harry Ransom Center and J. Paul Getty Museum

In February 1952, the culmination of their search took them to the final owner, a Mrs. Pritchard of London, England. Although her family had previously expressed to Gernsheim that the plate had been stolen or otherwise permanently lost from them, it had recently been rediscovered. The long sought image had been found in a dusty old trunk beneath "old clothes, books, and other family relics." A meeting between Mrs. Pritchard and the Gernsheims was at last arranged and they would have the opportunity to see it with their own eyes. As Mrs. Pritchard handed the ornately framed article to Helmut, she expressed her dismay that the image had totally faded away. Looking at the back, he first noticed the clearly worded description of the transaction of this item from Niépce to Bauer. Turning it over, he saw what appeared to be simply a dark, polished metallic plate. But where was the photographic image?

Just as Niépce had done more than a century before, he turned and tilted the plate in the light streaming through the window, until he finally began to see what was there– an image of the country estate at Le Gras, outside the upper floor window. His heart pounded as he realized the fruition of his quest.

Sometime later, the plate passed into his own possession, and eventually into the archives of the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, a part of the University of Texas at Austin. The "First Photograph" is currently and permanently on display in the lobby of the Harry Ransom Center.

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The First Photograph Shrine,
in the lobby of the Harry Ransom Center

If you possess a serious interest in photography (or the arts and communication in general), and you find yourself in the vicinity of central Texas you should seriously consider a pilgrimage to the Harry Ransom Center in Austin. The Center, itself, is reason enough to visit the area but the "First Photograph" makes it mandatory. This relic is simply the Holy Grail of photography. Like viewing the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution in the National Archives, this is a unique and memorable experience.

As I reflected in the opening lines of this post, the image is difficult to see and at first glance it appears to be nothing more than a mirror. However, your patience will be rewarded as you find the proper angle to observe it, and Niépce's family estate at Le Gras reveals itself once again. A photograph of this photograph (as can be seen above in the Getty photo) is always less than satisfying, and it can only truly be seen in person. This is an experience that should not be missed.

one of only five complete copies of the Gutenberg Bible
in the United States, Harry Ransom Center lobby

While you are in the lobby of the Center you can view another amazing genesis of modern communication– one of the very few existing complete copies of Gutenberg's printed Bible. This was where printing, as we know it, began so many centuries ago. To see these two incredible inventions in the same room at the same time is a priceless experience.

Finally, read the details of the amazing journey that Helmut and Alison Gernsheim took to rediscover the "First Photograph,"

and discover for yourself the intriguing new finds at Niépce's family estate (and now a photographic museum) in Saint-Loup-de-Varennes, France.