Permanence

Manhattan Island is a wide and deep repository of man's creative produce. Contributions there form a spectrum of the world's great cultures— from the very best of the most immediate expressions to those going back decades, many centuries, even millennia. It is breathtaking in the sweep of its scope. Superlatives can accurately describe these works as monumental, astounding, beautiful.

There are arts ephemeral, and fleeting; creations existing only in the moment–
performance arts (music, drama, oration, dance)– that evaporate into the air as soon as created–
gastronomic, culinary, and vintner arts– as they are experienced are soon down the drain and into the sewer.

And then there are arts more permanent– 
painting, literature, sculpture, architecture– lasting beyond the life of the artist.

Yet in the end, even the most enduring of these arts– architecture– will see its end. On the other side of the globe, although having lasted millennia, so far, the great Pyramids will one day be no more than dust. I am reminded of Shelley's sonnet, written on the occasion of seeing the fragmented monumental statue of Ramesses II:

Ozymandias

"I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

The best of man's creative works can be astounding, but given time, all will fade away and be lost. The only creative works to last beyond the test and erosion of time remain those conceived first in the heart of God. As the human artist (or any human for that matter) consults and cooperates with the Holy Spirit, works can come forth that are not only lasting and durable, but everlasting and of eternal worth.

"For what is your life? Certainly it is a mist, or vapor, that appears for a little while and then vanishes away."  — James 4.14

Celebrate Art In Her Garden

IN THE AVENUE OF GIANTS,
© 2007, Bill Brockmeier,
all rights reserved by the artist

You never know where opportunities may come from. I was recently the beneficiary of such when an acquaintance I hadn't spoken with in years unexpectedly contacted me. Sherry Disdier, bonsai artist and long time proprietor of the Bonsai Arbor, emailed me about the possibility of my participating in a La Villita photographic exhibit scheduled to synchronize with Fotoseptiembre USA®, International Photography Festival. Since I had no other shows scheduled for my work during the month of September, I jumped at the chance.

I first met Sherry several years ago when she graciously consented to be one of my subjects in a project I was pursuing at the time that I called a "Celebration of Art in the Garden" (incidentally, this project as well became a Fotoseptiembre® exhibition). This series of panoramic portraits explored the pursuit of arts– in its widely divergent manifestations– in the context of gardens (in their own widely divergent manifestations as well). My portrait of Sherry was a vertically oriented panorama that focused on a relative closeup of Sherry's hands as she worked on a bonsai in her backyard "garden studio." While most of my other photographs in the series merely used a garden as the setting for the pursuit of some otherwise out-of-context artistry, Sherry's art was intrinsically and intimately woven into the very substance of the garden around her. I was blessed to have such a significant and deeply relevant subject for my series.

Sherry's Bonsai Arbor is one of, if not perhaps THE, longest art tenant of San Antonio's oldest art district, "La Villita." She has offered her simply amazing bonsai works, and other art objects, in her La Villita shop for the most of three decades in the historic San Martin/Herrera House #5 along Guadalupe Walk. This coming Sunday (September 22) I will be presenting there one of the largest groupings of my work that I have shown publicly in quite some time. The works I will be showing are nearly all produced in large scale on archival canvas, and whose subjects range from the timeless San Antonio Missions, to the lavender fields of Blanco Texas, to trees of the Hill Country, and beyond.

The Bonsai Arbor is located at 418 Villita Street, Suite 500, near downtown San Antonio (78205). The shop is very near the corner of Villita and South Presa Street (convenient parking is just across South Presa, less than 100 feet away!). The full hours of the show will be about 10am to about 6pm with an "open house" from 12 noon til 4pm. Please check the map for detailed directions.

The La Villita neighborhood itself is an amazing amalgamation of people, art, architecture, history, events, and so much more. Read about its fascinating history.

Come down to La Villita this Sunday and see me and my art...and enjoy the ambiance of one of the unique neighborhoods of San Antonio. And while you're at it, you can try a sample of my "2012 Faccia Del Sole," Hatch chile sherry— while it lasts. This wine that I produced last year is just beginning to come into maturity and is more than I ever imagined it would be. I'll see you there...

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.  

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.

Speaking of Art

Wine was poured and conversation about art flowed freely as those who love creative pursuits gathered at

The Cibolo Nature Center, (© Lake/Flato Architects)

the Cibolo Nature Center on Thursday evening. It is hard to beat the beautiful combination of spectacular spring weather, good food and drink, stunning musical ambiance, engaging exchange of thoughts, and compelling art. These were marvelously evident at the special opening of the "Our Hidden Treasures" Art and Conservation project at the Center.

I never tire of hearing what people are thinking and feeling when they experience creative works. And it is equally fascinating to listen to an artist lay out their own process of producing these works. Art is about communication, and communication is, itself, an art to be appreciated.

I look forward to the rest of this weekend as I transition to representing my work in the "Parade of Artists." I love rubbing elbows with fellow artists who have such a desire to express the recesses of their hearts to others. And also I love hearing from those who come out to appreciate these creative efforts.

_____________________________________________

Side note: you can read a brief article on me and my work in the April issue of the Boerne Chamber of Commerce newsletter here (check page 23).

Finding the View

Front of an optical viewfinder system
(subject side)

The groundglass was an early and major innovation in composing the photograph and it was soon followed by the viewfinder. While the groundglass was a "focal" (image producing) type of system, the viewfinder is a distinctly "afocal" (non-imaging) scheme. The point of this particular compositional aid is not to produce a duplicate, or surrogate, of the photographic image, but to allow the photographer to continue looking "out into the world"– with the additional assistance of a synthetic framing boundary overlaying the visual scene. This artificial frame represents and marks the region of the scene that will be captured by the actual photograph.

Rear of optical viewfinder system
(eye side)

The first (and most rudimentary) viewfinder was a simple set of wire frames through which the photographer viewed the scene directly with his eyes, with no intervening lenses or other optical components. This simple metal framing device was something akin to the aiming sight on a rifle or gun. It allowed the photographer to retain a fairly intimate connection to the real world while, at the same time, having some objective means of properly aiming the camera and understanding what the photograph's ultimate composition would be. The photographer simply lined up the two metal frames with each other and then observed what part of the scene appeared within the frame. It was simple, quick, cheap, and effective– a very attractive combination of attributes.

As photographic hardware developed over the decades optical technology became not only more sophisticated but less expensive and, therefore, more available. This made it possible for the viewfinder to advance from a simple pair of geometric framing devices to a true optical system comprised of multiple optical components. The optical viewfinder system would allow placement of the camera close to the photographer's eye, and through which the photographer would be able to view the scene, with the ultimate image conveniently framed. The effect of this was something like viewing the world through a telescope or binoculars, albeit with a rectangular rather than circular framed field of view.

Looking into viewfinder

The optical nature of this viewfinder system also allowed many new additions to what this device was capable of. Precision reticles could be inserted into the interior of the viewfinders that would allow changing the field of view to match whatever lens (for example, wide angle or normal) happened to be placed on the camera. The optical components of the viewfinder could also be mechanically coupled to the focusing system of the camera's main lens to help the photographer know when the camera was properly focused without moving his eye from the viewfinder. As practical zoom lenses were eventually invented and added to the photographer's bag of tricks, the viewfinder became a zoomable device as well, with its zooming capability coupled to the main lens's zoom state, thus providing the photographer with an accurate view of the photograph's composition.

As cameras became more and more electronically instrumented, the display of the camera's exposure state (shutter time, lens aperture, and film speed) was ultimately incorporated into what could be seen within the viewfinder. At this point the photographer no longer had to take his eye away from the viewfinder to adjust the camera settings. He could remain looking at the composition of the photograph while simultaneously and actively manipulating the exposure state, lens focus, and zoom of the camera. This was a powerfully attractive capability, but as with most powerful technologies there was a price to be paid.

Scene framed in viewfinder

Just as the groundglass caused earlier generations of photographers to retreat from the real world under the isolation of their blackout cloth, this new generation would be isolated behind the camera body, with their open eye pressed up close to the rear of the optical viewfinder. The world beyond the photographer (the subject) could not now maintain true eye contact with the photographer, who began to appear as something of a mechanical man– his head and face replaced by a black rectangular box and a glass lens as his Cyclopean eye, staring coldly out into the world.

It would seem that regardless of the technology involved, there is always a tendency for the photographic artist to be removed from their immersion in the real world and be inserted into an isolated, artificial world. And perhaps that is the bain of all artists– that their art would attempt to dominate and replace the real, objective universe and the real human lives within it with a world of their own making. The power and beauty of artful creation can be seductive– for the creator as well as the beholder.

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.

The Ties That Bind

During an extended break in my recent jury duty in district court I remembered that a Fiber Art exhibition had been showing in the downtown gallery in New Braunfels. I made my way down there and was extremely gratified to find out that it was still on display.

FUCHSIA NECKTIE
© 2012, Nadia Kahn
photograph © 2012, Bill Brockmeier

Several years ago, the gallery had hosted a similar show and it was one of the most creative displays I had seen at the gallery. I believe this current show has topped that one. The exhuberence and passion these twenty-two artists have for their medium of choice is obvious in the works they have produced.

The range of style, approach and technique shown throughout the show is remarkable. There are small scale but serious works, like seen in the vertical showcase housing an incredible array of birdnest-like baskets. The colors, textures, and details displayed by this collection is wonderful. And then there are large, elegant, and thought-provoking works like the huge, vertically oriented silk design wafting in the breeze of the overhead fans.

While fiber-based works are not at the top of my mind when I think of creative pursuits, whenever I have the opportunity to view some serious examples I am always impressed by the possibilities. It's astounding to realize how this media can cover much of the same ground as painting, sculpture, architecture, and even photography. On top of that, you can even wear some of it!

The Feminine Thread

Though most of the works in the show are abstract creations meant to be displayed by hanging on the wall or standing on a table, there are certainly many that were made to be displayed on the human body. Of these, the great majority were scarves, hats, jackets, and dresses that were clearly intended to compliment the feminine form. And I suppose that is as it should be. Of the twenty two artists showing their work there, every one of them is a woman. Of course, not every single fiber artist in the world is a woman, but there does seem to be some sort of natural bond between the feminine psyche and the "thread."

SPOTTED RED NECKTIE
© 2012, Nadia Kahn
photograph © 2012, Bill Brockmeier

The sculptural qualities of these garments are quite remarkable. Even as static sculptures draped upon abstract manniquins in the show they are very dynamic in their form.  I can only imagine how truly dynamic they would be, draped upon a living, breathing, moving woman of flesh, and sinuously waving in the currents of air as she walks down the street.

The Masculine Scarf

Not every item of apparel in the show was intended for the feminine form. There was a trio of neckties that caught my attention. Even if not worn on the body these ties could be marvelous abstract paintings, worthy of framing and hanging on a wall in a place of prominence.  Their colors were sumptuous and their designs intruiguing. On top of that, they were fabricated from silk, insuring a tactile sensation satisfaction.

I'm a sucker for the feel of certain fabrics. Some of my earliest treasured memories (before I entered school) are times that I accompanied my mother to the various fabric stores she frequented. I loved leaving her behind as she scouted the store for some specific need. I would find my own adventures among the endless aisles of bolts of fabric that towered above my four year old frame. The colors and patterns alone were amazing enough to the sensation-sponge that was my mind, but what really hooked me was the way these fabrics felt to my little fingers and face. I couldn't help but touch them. To this day I can't go into a fabric store and only look.

Like the majority of men these days (at least those born post-mid-twentieth-century) I was not at first a fan of the "noose."  I viewed neckties as not-quite-necessary evils to be endured only once or twice a year, and I would avoid that if at all possible.  But several years ago I began to see them as something else. They seemed to have become such a rarely worn item around a man's neck that they have now transcended what they once were– a required uniform of drudgery– and are now a new freedom, offering a unique and refreshing opportunity for a man to wear art.  A generation or two ago, our culture afforded only women the common luxury of being draped with beautiful designs and creations.  Now men can just as easily (though maybe not as naturally) don the beautiful.  (...and if you need to learn how to tie a necktie, check out these manly videos...)

So, I paid for the two ties whose colors I especially appreciated and told the gallery docents I would be back to pick them up at the close of the show. I am looking forward to wearing these ties at the Texas Hill Country Invitational show in which I will participate the third weekend of October. Come see me there, and I might even let you touch my tie!

By the way— the beautiful neckties I now possess (and illustrated above) were painted by Nadia Kahn, an incredible silk artist whom you can contact at: NadiaKahnSilks@gmail.com

Another Dimension

In the physical universe there are multiple spatial dimensions: three translational and three rotational, as we have seen. But there is also a single dimension of time. It is this time component that is of paramount concern to the photographer. Once all of the geometric choices have been have been made (the translational "where" and rotational "what") there is still one more dimension of choice to be made– the "when."

MORNING GUARD
© Bill Brockmeier, 2012

Once a specific shot has been completely set up in a geometric sense– the camera is attached to a tripod, then aimed and locked in a specific direction and orientation, and the focal length selected– the specific, unique image is still waiting to be determined. What will actually constitute that image will only be revealed as time unfolds, and at some specific instant a choice is made by the photographer to release the shutter and record the photograph. At that singularity the moment crystallizes and the photograph is born. The image now has creative life. Once having existence only as objects in the physical universe and ideas within the mind of the artist, these two combine in a mysterious transformation and transition from a fleeting existence in the physical realm to a more enduring existence in the photographic universe.

All around us the flow of time streams on, inhibited by nothing. All in the physical universe is moving, changing, living, dying. Nothing remains as it was. A rock, half buried in the surface of the earth, seems to be inert and unchanged by the years. And yet it is part of this globe that spins on its axis at a thousand miles per hour, and revolves around its parent star at sixty times that speed, and through this galaxy at who knows how fast. And given enough time on a geological scale it will erode away by wind and water and chemistry, carried into the planet's oceans, deposited on the sea floor, and possibly carried downward into the hot interior of the earth to be melted once again.

PARADE REST
© Bill Brockmeier, 2012

But the photograph lives outside of the physical universe that gave it birth. This extra-physical existence is now outside of time and outside of the movement of time that changes everything. This is an absolutely different kind of existence. Even if the photograph itself, the printed form, degrades, erodes, and fades away, the photograph itself– the crystallized vision of the artist– remains the same. Though derived from material existence and objects, the photograph has a fundamentally different type of existence.

One can have a camera on a tripod, locked in a specific direction, with the focal length fixed, and take a virtually limitless set of different images. As the sun rises in the morning, arcs across the zenith, and settles below the western horizon, this single day alone can provide a wealth of diverse photographic ideas. As the seasons change– fall, winter, spring, summer– what is seen by the camera is continually growing, moving, morphing. And as the decades and centuries and millennia fly by the view continues to change, evolving from what was to what is and ultimately to what will be.

And all the while the photographer is there, waiting. Waiting to grab the moment that will become his art, his image.

High Yield Crop

Once the location of a photographic shot has been chosen (the center of perspective), and the direction and orientation of the camera has been selected (the center of the perception), there is yet one more significant geometric choice of editing to be made. After choosing the place from which to observe and also the direction to look toward, there is still most of the universe to see. The action of what has come to be called cropping a shot will further limit the scope of the view to the final image (this is another segment of the "what?" editing dimension).

There are actually two components to the crop. The first occurs in the camera. The selection of the lens focal length is actually a cropping action. The longer the focal length (this tends toward telescopic or "telephoto") the narrower the camera's field of view, and thus, the smaller the piece of the universe that the camera can see. As the focal length is shortened, the wider the camera's field of view becomes, and the larger the piece of the universe it can see.

THIS LITTLE LIGHT,
crop A,
© 2012, Bill Brockmeier

THIS LITTLE LIGHT,
crop B,
© 2012, Bill Brockmeier

Once a photograph has been recorded by a camera, there is a final cropping action that can yet take place. Before or during the printing, or otherwise displaying of the final photographic image, the frame can be further cropped. Although the field of view of the image can no longer be made wider it can be made smaller and the orientation even rotated somewhat.

The two photographs I have shown here demonstrate the dramatic difference a slight crop at printing can make in an image. Both images were derived from the same original full panoramic photograph, and both have exactly the same size and aspect ratio (height to width ratio). The first crop (on the left here) reveals more of the immediate objects at hand near the original observer, including the floor on which one would be standing. This gives an immediate connection with what the environment was like in the location, and puts the viewer of the photograph back at the scene.

The second crop (on the right) tends to extract the viewer of the photograph from the original location and brings more of a thoughtful, abstract quality to the image. The overall effect of the image is to cause the viewer to raise their vision upward, from the little light below to the more celestial bluish light that illuminates the upper portion of the image. The objects in the image are now all unconnected to the floor upon which the viewer would be standing and moves the viewer's thoughts from down here below to up above. While the depth of the former image was very much locked within the original location, the depth of the latter image is definitely moved beyond the simple physical reality of the original space. This second crop, although derived from exactly the same image as the first becomes an entirely different photograph.

These cropping edits at both ends of the photographic process cannot alter the geometric relationships between objects within the view, but its main function is to select or limit which features reside in the image. The narrower the image is cropped, the more the image reveals the details and subtleties of the remaining objects. The wider the image's view (the less it is cropped), the more the objects are shown in relationship to their surroundings.

Cropping is also a way of eliminating distracting or irrelevant features from the image. The more that objects are cropped from view, the less the remainder is connected to its environment, and the more abstract it tends to become.  The less that is left in an image, the less distractions there are, and the more opportunity there is for the viewer to think on what remains– and to think on what is not visible to the eye.

Next stop in editing— the Time Zone. 

Center of the Perception

After the Prime Location– the Center of Perspective– has been selected the second dimension of editing that a photographer normally enters into is the direction into the universe that the camera is aimed. Before this choice is made, the camera is free to rotate in any direction, pivoting about the center of perspective. This pointing in space is the axis, or vector, that further defines the image to be created. Just as the location of the center of perspective is a choice of one spatial point out of the infinititude of possible points, the direction that the camera is ultimately to look must be a single choice out of equally infinite possible directions.

Direction of View, A

And as the point of perspective defines the center of the photographer's perception, so the direction of view of the camera will define the center of the final image, or the center of interest for the final observer of the photograph (this is part of the "what?" dimension of editing). While the point of perspective is the place the photographer is looking from, the direction of aim (direction of view) is the point infinitely far away that the viewer of the photograph will be looking toward. This is not to say that the major point of interest for the photograph's viewer is always the geometric center of the image, as that is rarely the case in reality. But it is to say that this is the cardinal reference point for the viewer– the point to which all items of interest in the image are referenced or related.

One could think of the point of perspective as the center of the perceiver (or the camera), and the direction of view as the center of the perception (the image).

Direction of View, B

 There are two rotational dimensions that comprise the camera's aiming direction. These are commonly called the elevation and the azimuth. The elevation is fairly obvious– this is how high above (or how far below) the horizon the camera is pointed. The azimuth, while not quite so obvious, is basically what "compass direction" the camera is pointed toward.

The three photos to the right may not be all that interesting from a visual standpoint, but they will serve to illustrate the issue at hand. Even though the camera's entrance pupil is at exactly the same place for each shot, pointing the camera in a slightly different direction drastically changes the composition and substance of the shot. And even much more subtle changes in the camera's direction than I have used here can still dramatically change the look and feel of the final photograph.

There is another part of this rotational editing that generally occurs at the same time as the direction of view. But unlike choosing the direction that the camera is aimed, this choice is nearly always by default. This is the orientation of the camera, or the angle of rotation between the bottom edge of the image and some reference plane in the universe (for instance, the surface of the earth).

Direction of View, C

Nearly always, the photographer leaves this to the conventional choice and doesn't even think about it. That, in itself, is a choice. Convention would declare that the bottom edge of the image should be parallel to the horizon– and that "down" in the image should conform to "down" in the real world. But there is nothing that says this orientation is the only useful, significant, or valuable orientation possible. It's just the most obvious. In fact, if this orientation is actually allowed to be anything within the 360 degrees of rotation, whole new possibilities of creativity begin to reveal themselves.

We saw previously that the point of perspective is defined by its location in space, and this location is  composed of three translational dimensions– how high, how far left or right, and how far forward or backward (or as the mathematician has it: the X, Y, and Z).

Interestingly, the vectors that define the aiming of the camera are also three dimensional. There is the single rotational dimension of the image's orientation, and then there are the two rotational dimensions (elevation and azimuth) that define the camera's pointing direction. These two sets of three dimensions (three translational and three rotational) comprise the complete complement of what the physicist or mathematician considers the six spatial "degrees of freedom."  These "degrees of freedom" are what give the photographer the freedom to choose any possible shot from the limitless possibilities.

Use your freedoms wisely and don't simply settle for the obvious. 

Center of the Universe

I wrote previously that editing is one of the fundamental tools, maybe THE fundamental tool, of photography. The photographer starts with an external, previously created universe and then begins a process of decisions culminating in either inclusion or exclusion of various components of that reality. These decisions can be incredibly detailed and complex, but for the most part they tend to fall into three primary dimensions of choice.

Often the first dimension of decision that a photographer makes is one that I would call the point of perspective, or the point of view, or maybe the center of the photograph's universe. This has to do with the photographer's location, or more precisely, the location of the center of the camera's entrance pupil.

It has been said that "the eyes are the windows of the soul," and similarly, you can think of the entrance pupil of the camera as the window of the "soul of the photograph." If you look into the front of a camera's lens, you will see a dark hole right in the middle– the entrance pupil– the gate through which all light that ends up producing the photograph is channeled. And for the photographer, the camera's pupil becomes an extension of his own anatomical pupil. In this article, I will use the two interchangeably: the photographer's own pupil, and the entrance pupil of the camera.

When you open your eyes and look out into the universe, in a sense, you are at the geometric center of everything you perceive. For better or for worse, you ARE the center of your own perceptions. Your perception of the universe is limited by your own location. The way everything looks to you is based upon where you stand– your location in space. The visual relationship of various objects outside of you is a function not only of their geometric relationship to each other in space, but even more so of your geometric relationship to them.

Center of Perspective
at first location
(three poles aligned)
© Bill Brockmeier

Center of Perspective
farther to the right
© Bill Brockmeier

Center of Perspective
slightly to the right
© Bill Brockmeier

The phenomenon of parallax is the prime example of this principle. If three objects are aligned with each other, and you view them directly from the front, the one in front and the one in back appears neither to the right nor to the left of the one in between ("first location" in photo above). But if you move off to the right of them, the one in front now appears to be to the left of the middle one (tall white pole), and the rear (crossing sign) appears to the right.  And if you move even farther to the right, they appear separated even more. Although the three objects appear to be moving in relationship with one another, they are actually fixed in space– it is your own motion which has caused the apparent motion of the objects.

Center of Perspective
at street level

Center of Perspective
three floors above street level

How things appear is largely based upon where you stand– what your point of perspective is. And it is the same with a photograph. How things appear in the photograph is largely based upon where the camera (and most importantly, its entrance pupil) is located.


The apparent geometric relationships of the objects in a photograph are formed and then secured by the location that the photographer chooses for the camera. And this location not only affects where they seem to be in respect to each other, but their relative sizes as well. It should be obvious that the closer the camera is to an object the larger it appears, and vice versa.

So, where the photographer chooses to set up his camera is the first decision of editing that must be made. This will drive a stake in the universe at the center of perspective for the image. The infinitude of other possibilities for the arrangement of objects in the universe has been excluded, and this singular point in space now begins to define the potential image.

Two other dimensions of editing will be explored in following articles...

The Editor's Knife

Photography, for the most part, is not an art based on creation ex nihilo, out of the void, but it relies instead on working with something that came before– something that already exists.  Down at the very ground level the photographer's task is that of an editor. The ever present questions before the photographer are— "what do I leave out of the image?" and "what do I incorporate into the image?"

The media– the raw materials and components– from which the photographic artist composes her "work" is the physical universe itself. The environment, the surroundings, the ambience in which she is immersed is the canvas and pallette and pigments that she will use to paint her creations. But maybe more to the point, and a better analogy perhaps, is to liken the photographer to a sculptor, whose work it is to take an existing mass of stone, imagine within it the art she desires to express, and then cut away everything from outside that does not match that artistic vision.

Unfinished Slave ("Blockhead Slave")
by Michelangelo Buonarroti,
housed in the Accademia in Florence

Near the top of nearly everyone's lists of remarkable artists is the Italian sculptor (and painter and poet and architect and engineer) Michelangelo Buonarroti. His work is extraordinary not only because of the virtuosic technical skill he enjoyed, but maybe even more so because of his profound and penetrating grasp of the creative purpose and process. One of his enduring perspectives on this process is his statement that the most significant sculpting is about understanding the art– the figure– that already exists within the physical stone. He wrote:

"In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me, shaped and perfect in attitude and action. I have only to hew away the rough walls that imprison the lovely apparition to reveal it to the other eyes as mine see it."

According to Michelangelo the sculptor must strive to see the figure hidden within the stone, and in the same way the photographer must work to see the image that lies beyond a surface view of the world. And then, just as the sculptor must be an editor of rock, chiseling off, chipping away, and grinding down the original raw surfaces, the photographer must be at work selecting a specific place to shoot, a unique direction to aim the lens, a singular cropping for the final print. The decisions to be made by the photographer are manifold, and laying out the whole spectrum of them deserves an article of its own.

It mostly comes down to the need to use the "knife." The photographer must cut keenly between what exists in the physical universe that belongs in his image, and what does not. There is an infinite amount of material that must be eliminated from the potential image, with only a trace– just a whiff– of the universe left. Ruthless decisions must be made. It's either in or it's out.

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.

Art & Conservation

I was pleased this past week to open an email from the Cibolo Nature Center and discover an acceptance letter for the 2012-2013 "Our Hidden Treasures" project for their ongoing "Art & Conservation" program. The every-other-year project, which began in 2007, is a collaboration between the Cibolo Nature Center, Cibolo Arts Council, and the Cibolo Conservancy.

The Cibolo Creek watershed and surrounding Hill Country region is not only a treasure to the state of Texas, but is such a remarkable gift of natural diversity that people from all over the nation come here to enjoy its richness.

The "Art & Conservation" project juries applicants from a wide spectrum of the visual arts and then pairs the selected finalists with varous landowners from the region (the image I submitted for the jurying process appears below). The properties chosen for the project are veritable jewels of our natural heritage and this collaboration is aimed at highlighting these spaces' unique and precious gifts through creative expression.

DARK MIRROR, Pedernales Falls State Park, © Bill Brockmeier, 2009

The selected artists will visit the places that they have been paired with over a period of mostly a year and will have the opportunity of experiencing the seasonal changes in the land. The creative focus is on the natural and unique ambience of these places, and a determined goal of the project is to avoid the inclusion of man-made structures and common artist cliches.

I am certainly looking forward to experiencing and expressing the wonder of the place I will visit— a ranch on the Guadalupe River east of Comfort, Texas. As the project unfolds, you'll read about it here.

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.