LAVENDER SHADOWS

A few years ago an opportunity made itself known to me to participate in Blanco's "Lavender Festival." A fine art show was attached to the festival and I had been invited to show my work there. The Lavender Festival is usually scheduled for the first weekend in June and is a veritable smorgasbord of lavender-based creations– pastries, candies, sachets, paintings, even wine– any and all things created, with lavender as the common ingredient.

There were crowds of folks as I showed my art that weekend, and Blanco's town square was ebullient. The show was fairly successful for me, and the pieces I displayed were enjoyed and appreciated by many, even those not buying. During a fairly quiet moment in my booth, however, an older lady scrutinized my work but said nothing for quite some time. Finally, she broke the uncomfortable silence: "Hmmmmm...I really like your work, BUT..."

I walked up to her and tried to understand her intentions: "Yes, can I help you? I heard a 'BUT.' Is there a problem?" She responded: "Yes, there IS a problem. I love your work, Bill...BUT...where are your LAVENDER PHOTOGRAPHS?"

With some trepidation, I tried to respond: "Yeah, yeah, I know...this is a 'Lavender Festival' and I have no photographs of lavender. I'd like to have some, but I've never had the opportunity to take any."

"Well, I'll tell you what...I've got a small, private lavender farm just outside of downtown. Here are the security codes to both of the gates that will let you in. Come anytime you'd like and take some photographs. You needn't stop and ask first, or even call ahead. But take some lavender photographs...PLEASE!"

LAVENDER SHADOWS, © Bill Brockmeier, all rights reserved by the artist

About a week later, I and a photographer friend who had recently moved to the Blanco area took up Alice Coverly on her more than generous offer and sought out her farm. The security codes worked as advertised and we soon found ourselves alone and surrounded by her five or so acres of lavender bushes. The light breeze was heavy with the perfume, and the shadows were already lengthening with the sun dropping toward the horizon.

The place seemed an astounding fusion of French Provence and Texas Hill Country– the smell and color of France and the vistas of the Hill Country. Perhaps South Texas is not really that far from southeastern France after all.

The next June at the following "Lavender Festival" I was again showing my work to those seeking lavender in Blanco. This time I was heavily armed with my own lavender offerings. The image you see here– LAVENDER SHADOWS (a very limited edition of only 12 on large canvas)– was made as the sun nearly kissed the horizon. Some of the lush, blooming plants had already been immersed in shadow while others were still in the blaze of sunlight.

As I have shown the two photographs from this series, many have made it plain to me that they believe the photographs are paintings. I've tried to assure them that "No, these are not paintings, but photographs." Some have remained unconvinced, and swear that I must have at least applied some little dabs of paint to some of the blooms to make them stand out and appear 3D. Although I use no digital enhancement to the colors or otherwise, they still find it difficult to believe these are simply straight photographs.

Thanks to a friend of the arts, and a lover of lavender, I was able to make some memorable images of this wonderful plant. Thank you, Alice!

_______________________________________

This photograph is available in a Very Limited Edition of only twelve copies. The full, framed size is 19 by 62 inches.    Call now to reserve yours— 210-241-6132.

ESPADA PRISM

ESPADA PRISM,
© Bill Brockmeier,
all rights reserved by the artist

The San Antonio Spanish Missions are an incredible collection of history, architecture, and living faith.  While the three Missions closest to downtown San Antonio are, by far, the most visited of the five, the two southern-most Missions are remarkable in their own distinct ways and certainly worthy of investing considerable time.

The farthest south— "Mission Espada" (Misión San Francisco de la Espada) is actually outside of Loop/IH-410 and on the very periphery of the San Antonio metropolitan area.  Of the five Missions, this one is probably the smallest in size, but it makes up for its diminutive real estate with intimacy, intensity, and authenticity.

True spiritual relationship is founded upon intimacy, and the ambience of Espada is nothing if not intimate (no pretensions allowed here).  The solace and solitude that can be encountered there is almost palpable.  After entering the much-discussed portal, find your seat, enter the quiet, and wait.  The One to Whom this building was dedicated is, Himself, still waiting to visit His peace upon you.

The morning that I captured this image (ESPADA PRISM), the sunlight streamed through the tall arched window, spilling into the dim interior of Espada.  As the light tumbled through the glass, it fell upon the rugged wood benches, reflecting softly from the satin patina— polished by the generations of parishioners that have sat there.

A cross, clearly formed by the framework of the window's glazing is echoed in the small cross on the wall that signifies the "Sixth Station." A coarse woven cloth lies at the bottom of the window, reminiscent of the garment that was stripped from Jesus before He was hung on the cross. Overhead, beams of wood seem solemn and heavy with weight, as the beam that Jesus carried to His place of execution was physically heavy upon His shoulders, and ultimately, as the weight of the world's sin was heavy upon Him on the cross, and He cried out: "Lord! Lord! Why have you forsaken me?"

Brought down to earth, the beam of light finally rests upon the kneeling rails, illuminating their vividly-hued woven coverings.  The colors seem to be the very spectrum itself, the various wavelengths of light broken apart and spread out from the original white light. I reflected upon the diversity and distinction of individual Believers, refracted, as it were, as individual "colors" from the pure, white Light of the Holy Spirit Himself.

_______________________________________

Note: this is another of Bill's very limited editions on large-scale canvas (20 copies only) from his San Antonio Missions series of photographs

On Espada Prism

   – © Bill Brockmeier

Light.
Living,
   in Truth
   and Beauty—
      unapproachable.

Streaming down,
 the Beam's divided,
   separated,
   cut asunder
 by beams
   vertical,
   horizontal.


Spear point,
 piercing upward,
 separates
      blood from water,
      marrow from bone,
      spirit from flesh.

Horizon,
 cutting outward,
 divides
   hell from heaven,
   death from life,
   dark from light,
   night from day—
The First Day.


The Light cries
 and bleeds,
 weeping great drops of blood,
   dripping down,
   streaming down
 upon the children.

Bloody drops separate,
 cut by bloody hearts
   into tongues of Light,
 resting on the Children.

Light,
 now more finely divided,
   becomes the promise-bow.

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.  

The Groundglass

Composing a photographic image is really the "guts" of the photographic arts.  A little while back here I delved into many of the details involved in the decisions that must be made in order to arrive at a particular composition. Those particular decisions I examined were independent from any hardware considerations. All of these "editing" choices were influenced solely by the mind and artistic sensibilities of the artist. I'd like to turn now to the various hardware (and their related techniques) that enable the photographer to make those choices and effectively arrive at a successful composition.

How does a photographer know and select when the right image has been achieved? Three basic methods (and their respective hardware systems) have been developed over the past couple of centuries: the groundglass, the optical viewfinder, and P&S (point and shoot). Although this list is more or less an historical sequence it does not quite reflect a linear evolution as it has ebbed and flowed and produced hybrid results along the way.

Rudimentary groundglass setup,
using a magnifying glass as the imaging lens,
 and white plastic film as the groundglass,
© Bill Brockmeier, 2012

Early in the development of photography the photosensitive material responsible for the recording of the image was in the form of a plate. In the beginning it was the metal plate (daguerreotypes, tintypes, etc.), which eventually gave way to the glass plate. Since these rigid and planar photosensitive surfaces were modular in form it was pretty obvious early on that they could be simply exchanged for a similar-sized glass plate that was "ground" rough on one side (frosted). This frosted surface would diffusely scatter the image's light, and would act as a kind of projection screen so the image itself could be viewed and focused properly. This would also allow the photographer to adjust the location and direction of the camera while watching the image in real time.

Fundamentally, the operator was looking directly at what the final photograph would look like, identical in size as well as composition, albeit upside-down due to the geometric realities of lenses. When in place, the groundglass became the surrogate for the photographic plate. Once the proper focus and desired composition was set the groundglass could be removed and the actual photographic plate inserted in its place. Finally, the image would be exposed onto the photographic plate and recorded for posterity. With the camera work complete all that remained was to chemically reveal (develop and stabilize) the image on the plate.

HIS OWN WORLD, © Bill Brockmeier, 2012
all rights reserved.

This ability to directly see what the final photograph would be seemed axiomatic for the definition of photographic art. Analogous to a painter viewing a scene and then manipulating pigments on a canvas, the photographer would view the scene directly and then retire to beneath his blackout cloth to view the image on the groundglass and manipulate it by modifying the location and direction of the camera and its lens settings.

Hidden beneath his black cloth and behind his camera, the artist is optically isolated from the real scene and is alone with his illuminated image on the groundglass. Of the three basic composition systems I mentioned above this method probably most removes the artist from the external reality which is the source of his image. This situation, coupled with the fact that the image is being viewed upside-down, provides a certain level of abstraction of the image. Only by frequent immersion in this inverted image-world and by a dogged determination to see the real world-as-it-is beyond this inversion can the abstraction be avoided.

The image on the groundglass is actually evidence not of the scene (the objective reality) but rather of the photograph– the image, the art, even the mind of the artist (the subjective reality). This groundglass method of composing the image, as archaic and outmoded as it seems today, has achieved a high renaissance in recent years. Although most don't realize it, modern computerized digital cameras possess their own high-technology version of the groundglass– the electronic display.

The electronic display–
a modern version of the groundglass plate,
© Bill Brockmeier, 2012

This electronic display sits on the back of the camera, just like the real groundglass of more than a century ago, and is the ultimate result of an image focused on the photosensitive surface inside the camera. While the true groundglass reveals the image simply and directly, the electronic display is coupled to the image by a hidden and unimaginably complex chain of digital electronics. The photographer here, as with the groundglass, is looking at a surrogate of what the final photograph will actually be, rather than somehow looking out directly into the scene itself. One difference, however, is that modern camera makers have bowed to conventional notions of reality and have re-inverted (or maybe un-inverted) the image so the photographer views it right-side-up. Although most users probably appreciate this I'm not sure this is actually a plus for the artist. I believe that leaving the image upside-down can allow a more intimate access to the actual power and subtlety residing in the composition of the image.

Also, because the photographer is looking at an image that is within arm's reach (for both the groundglass and the electronic display) he is further separated from the external world. The fact that this image is physically close to the photographer causes his eyes to accommodate, or focus closer, on this nearby object. That may not seem like much of a consideration, but the brain interprets what it sees substantially based on this level of accommodation. Certain powerful optical illusions (like the "moon illusion") depend heavily upon the degree to which the eye's lens is focused. Looking at an absolutely identical image at close range is perceptually very different than seeing the original scene at a distance. This effect can further abstract the image for the photographer.

These abstracting aspects of the electronic display– the new "groundglass"– have revolutionized my own approach to this art. Once I became connected to the immediate ability to hold in my own hands a replica of the final photograph– before it had even been taken– I couldn't imagine ever going back to the "dark ages" of shoot-and-hope.

Creating An Image– the Hole Truth

Photography can be defined as the creation of an image through the interaction of light and some material agency. The most obvious and common instrument involved in this process is the device we have come to call the "camera"– what began as the 17th century painter's "camera obscura," or "dark chamber." The camera is an optical system designed for the primary purpose of producing an image (as was the camera obscura).

We may glibly speak of "creating an image," but what, exactly, is going on in the process? If you ask most photographers how an image is actually formed in the back of a camera, they might say something like– "Well, it's obvious...the lens in the front of the camera focuses the light from the scene, and the image is produced in the back at the focal point." This answer may satisfy some, but it is a trivial answer and doesn't really provide any significant information.

And what about the pinhole camera? This is probably the simplest camera of all, and it doesn't even possess a lens with which to "focus" an image at the back of the camera.

The creation of an image is possible through diverse means (at least five that I can think of right now), but all rely on using some simple geometric trick to work.

Just as a pinhole camera is the simplest of all cameras, it also uses the simplest of all imaging strategies. As the name implies, a very small hole (the "pinhole") is at the heart of the imaging technique. Here is how it works–

Imagine that the scene before the camera is simply a standard traffic light, with its red light at the top, an amber light in the middle, and a green one at the bottom. The camera's front wall (in which the pinhole resides) blocks something like 99.999% of the light emitted from the scene which otherwise would end up at the back of the camera. The remaining 0.001% of the light gets through the tiny pinhole and heads toward the back of the camera.

A pinhole geometrically selects the correct rays to form an image in the back of a camera
© Bill Brockmeier, 2012

Since light travels in a straight line, the few light rays that came from the amber light in the middle of the traffic signal  go straight through the pinhole and end up as an amber spot in the middle of the film plane in the back of the camera. Then, the light rays from the red light at the top of the signal, also traveling in a straight line, go through the pinhole and finally strike the film toward the bottom as a red spot. Lastly, the light rays from the green light at the bottom of the signal travel through the pinhole and end up on the film toward the top, making a green spot.

If you think about where these spots of light ended up, you can easily see how an image of the traffic signal is being formed on the film, and further, why the image ends up being inverted rather than right-side-up. If you substitute a more complex scene before the camera, the geometry is still exactly the same, with each tiny spot of light in the scene making a corresponding little spot of light at the back of the camera, but in an inverted location.

The pinhole is what is commonly called a "spatial filter," or a device which selects only a very narrow geometry of light rays to enter the camera. The pinhole effectively screens out almost all light rays, allowing through only those very few that will contribute to forming an image. The elegance of this system is breathtaking in its sheer simplicity.

In a following article I will look at the details of how a lens is able to form an image.

Light It, and Like It! (Part 3)

Another concern when installing art illumination is the angle created between the source of light, the art's surface, and the observer. For the most part, you don't want the angle such that the light will specularly reflect from the art's major surface directly to the viewer. A specular reflection is that glaring, shiny reflection you can get from a varnished oil painting, or glossy photograph, when it is illuminated from certain angles. This is like the reflection you get from sunlight glancing off the surface of water at a certain angle. Bright specular reflections like this will significanlty destroy the contrast of tonal gradations in a painting or photograph, resulting in washed-out colors and details.

Lighting Angle That Avoids Glare

Lighting Angle That Creates Glare

Alternatively, the avoidance of all specular reflections is not simply a hard and fast rule. It is possible that you may want to actually enhance and utilize some specular reflections, for instance, in highlighting the texture of interesting brushwork or palette knife impasto techniques. Here, specular reflections may be your friend instead of your enemy. The important thing is to make sure that the angle of illumination you use enhances the work rather than degrading it. Before simply guessing, you should always temporarily try the lighting in various angular relationships with the art before you permanently install it. When you find that "sweet spot" for the light that best shows the work, install it there.

Oil painting illuminated straight-on, 
little texture is evident, art appears flat
(SUNFLOWERS, © Nancy Bower, all rights reserved)

Oil painting illuminated with glancing light, 
brushwork texture is obvious and three dimensional
(SUNFLOWERS, © Nancy Bower, all rights reserved)

There is much more that could be said about the proper illumination of art, but this should be enough to whet your appetite and try it out for yourself. It is actually difficult to put "too much" light on an art object. Almost always (although there are exceptions) more light is better. Generally, you will find that the more light you put on the subject, the brighter and truer the colors appear, the easier fine details can be seen, and the greater the contrast range will be. About the only time that there can be too much light is when the light is either sunlight or fluorescent light– each of these should be absolutely avoided as they contain significant amounts of damaging ultraviolet light.

All of these effects having to do with more light being better are due to the idiosyncracies of the human vision system. More light is important for the appreciation of fine detail, since these features are mostly detected by the cone cells of human vision in the central high-resolution spot of the retina (the fovea). Since these cells are not very responsive to dim light, details can be lost when light brightness is low.

Also, the human perception of color is entirely dependent on these same cone cells, making it imperative that enough light is present to make color perception robust. Finally, although the dynamic contrast ratio of the human vision system is incredibly large (up to as much as a million to one), the static contrast ratio is fairly small (only about 100:1). This static contrast ratio has to do with how much of a tonal range can be perceived in a single illuminated view, as is the case of viewing a single work of art at a single time.  The greater the illumination, the more of the art's original tonal range can be appreciated.

Please, take the time, and make the modest investment required, to best illuminate the art that you so love. You appreciated it enough to spend a considerable amount of time finding it, and you spent a considerable amount of money to buy it. And the artist didn't spend their own emotional energy and creative capital so that you would hide it in some dim corner of your home or business.

Light it, and like it!

Don't Try Violating the Maier Principle (Part 2)

There is no good excuse for art to remain in the shadows, because excellent lighting is now both easy to afford and fairly simple to install. There are some absolutely wonderful high-end illumination systems out there, but you need not go that far to achieve a powerful result. There are many ways to go about it, but for my own studio/gallery presentation, and in my on-the-road art show booth, I use miniature quarz-halogen spot reflector-type bulbs (type GU10 in either 35 or 50 watt versions).

While these bulbs used to be fairly pricey, they are now inexpensive (only two to three dollars apiece) and easy to incorporate in a lighting setup. This is an excellent technology to use, as they are truly "broadband" devices and their continuous optical spectra will reveal all of the nuances of color gradation and subtlety in the artwork. Further, the built-in metallized glass spot reflector directs nearly all of the light onto the art itself, not wasting it in illuminating the room in general.

GU10 bulb, front

GU10 bulb, rear

Although CF (compact fluorescent) technology is a wonderful way of saving conserving electrical power, it is a very poor way (at least with the current devices available) of illuminating fine art. The problem is that the optical spectra of the light produced is not continuous, but broken into discontinuous spectral "bands" of light. This can then cause what is called "metamerism" when a work is viewed under it. Metamerism is when the colors of a material (the various pigments in a painting, for instance) appear a different color than expected under a different light source. If you want your art to appear as the artist intended, a broadband light source is essential. CFs are also a fairly "extended source," rather than a small "point source." This makes it such that the CF's light output cannot be effectively redirected to light only the art (like a spot light).

Current LED light sources, as expensive as they are, also have problems with narrow, discontinuous bands. Until this technology is improved in this area, LED lights should be avoided, too.

Miniature incandescent sources (like the  GU10 bulbs I mentioned previously) can be used in a vast array of lamp types and configurations. Your local home improvement center is generally a great place to find these fixtures. They are available in multiple-lamp track configurations, single ceiling mount fixtures, or even in table-top lamps. The main thing is to make sure that you have enough light on the subject. If it turns out that you install lighting and then think you might not have enough, you can always add more fixtures. Most of these fixtures are fairly simple to install by most home owners.

Various GU10 Spot Lighting Fixtures in Track

The only caveat in mounting these lamps is that you don't place them so close to the art that they significantly heat it up. To find out if you have placed your lighting too close to the art, place the back of your hand immediately in front of the illuminated art at its closest point to the lighting. You should NOT be able to perceive any heating of the back of your hand, due to the lamp. If you have the slightest sensation of heating of your hand, either move the art slightly away from the lighting, or move the lighting farther from the art. Generally, a single 50 watt  GU10 type halogen bulb should be no closer than about two feet from the closest point of the art.

Your art is "a terrible thing to waste." Give it the light that it's due. As an optical engineer who I worked with for many years was fond of saying: "You can't violate the 'Maier Principle,' which, in short, states– 'if you ain't got enough photons, you ain't gonna see it!'" 

Revealing the Power of Art With Light (part 1)

Flipping the switch up into the "ON" position, I then stood back a couple of paces and looked upon the art on the wall with renewed appreciation. The colors were now vibrant- almost dazzling. The range of contrast, from the deepest shadows to the bright white clouds was amazing. Subtle nuances as well as the strong statements of the underlying composition were now fully evident and no longer in question. Yes, the light switch is certainly an important component of the proper presentation of a work of art.

Several years ago, I had been invited to show in a unique venue that I had not been to before. The clientele that came to the show was fairly knowledgeable about art, and I was looking forward to not only showing my work there, but probably making some important sales as well. The hall in which I was displaying seemed reasonably well lit, the other artists' booths looked pretty good, and my own presentation of my work was inviting. People seemed to genuinely like my work, but in the end, I made absolutely no sales.

In talking with a friend later (he is a photographer and his wife is a painter) I mentioned that I thought I could probably have made some good sales if only my presentation had been stronger- perhaps with some good lighting. He made me promise then and there that I would put together a good lighting setup before my next show. Of course I found myself scrambling the last three days before that show arrived, to put into effect my new lighting system– I wasn't about to be confronted by my friend when he showed up at the show and asked: "So where's your new lighting system you promised to build?"

When I finally got the system designed, engineered, components purchased, and installed, I lit the lights in my booth (temporarily set up in my front yard) and then began to hang photographs. From the very first piece of art hung, I was asking myself: "Why, in the world, didn't I do this earlier?" Clearly, the art would now be able to speak for itself, and probably sell itself.

Photograph on wall, properly lit with good broadband spot-lighting

I believe that many folks (probably the vast majority) who greatly appreciate and value art works have little appreciation for the value of proper lighting. Someone may spend hundreds or even thousands of dollars on remarkable pieces, only to relegate them to some dark wall in their home where the true value of the work can never come to light. On the one hand, it is, indeed, important to make sure that art is placed well away from where it might encounter the harsh UV light that is a component of natural sunlight. Ultraviolet is a certain destroyer of fine artwork, and can reduce its lifetime from generations to mere years. But on the other hand, simply leaving it alone in the dark is kind of like leaving a bottle of fine, exquisite wine to gather dust in the cellar– wine is MEANT TO BE DRUNK, not just stored– and fine art is MEANT TO BE APPRECIATED, not just protected!

Photograph on wall, illuminated with only existing room lighting

When purchasing fine art, one should invest at least a portion of their art budget in decent lighting. It is simply insane to spend $5000 on a wonderful painting and then light it with a 75 cent, 60 watt standard bulb in a table lamp over in the corner– or even worse, a two-dollar compact fluorescent in the same fixture. This would be kind of like having the President of the United States (substitute your important dignitary of choice) visit you for dinner, then feeding him or her a baloney sandwich, and finally having them wash it down with a glass of Koolaid®.

There are many fine (and relatively inexpensive) options available for lighting artwork which I will explore in a follow-on post. 

Don't let your art languish– let it be luminous! 

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.