Great Photo! Great camera...?

We have all been there, at one time or another. It is usually absolutely genuinely meant. It may come from a friend, or a relative, or a total stranger. When you hear those words, though, it is like fingernails on a blackboard for the photographer concerned.

"What a lovely photo! You must have a very good camera..."

What on Earth is an appropriate answer?

"Indeed I have - my sole contribution to the creative process was buying it in the first place..."

"No, it's a cheap piece of crap, but I have the compositional skills of Raphael."

...or something in between?

over the years I have been as guilty as anyone of the typical English passive aggressive non-response in such circumstances - smile, shrug and back away while simultaneously listening to the little inner voice chanting "Blood, blood, blood"... Of course it's hard to be rude when a) someone genuinely thinks they are paying you a compliment and b) they are either elderly or attractive. The natural impulse to snap back is repressed - bad for the blood pressure, I know, but good for the inheritance/prospects of a good night out.

Of course in many cases it is true. It is hard to find a truly bad camera these days. Even the cheapest digi-compact can turn out a halfway decent result if handled right. However, I think it is worth exploring what triggers such a comment. Look at it from the point of view of the other person - your photo has moved them in some way. Why? What was it that drove them to say something? I think in many cases it comes down to what they are used to seeing, and the results that they feel they can produce themselves.

The photos that I find get a strong reaction are those that either have a strong motif, or a particular "look" - that might be a macro shot, or one dominated by a single strong colour, or a powerful monochrome image, or, particularly, one with very shallow depth of focus. That last fascinates me - and I think it is because it is simply not available to anyone using a cameraphone, small sensor digicam or slow-lensed film compact that it is so worthy of comment. It smacks the viewer in the eye, because it isn't the way they see the world, or have been able to capture it themselves.

Okay bokeh?


Do the particpants and professional practitioners of other pursuits have to put up with this, I wonder? Does Gordon Ramsay get told his meals are delicious because of his great pans, or does Elton John get complimented on his choice of piano? I think not. Maybe it is because everyone fancies that they can take a photo, but that you need a "better" camera than the one they have to take a "better" photo than they can.

We aren't going to change the world overnight, though. So what to do? Now I am more grumpy old, than angry young man, I have more of an inclination towards the "mission to inform" approach. I try - gently - to explain that yes, I do have a good camera, but that it does need me to carry it from place to place, aim it in the right direction, decide what settings to use, where to put the point of focus, etc. I try not to sound condescending, but instead try to build a rapport, and generate some genuine interest in how I have achieved an image worthy of their comment, and how they could do the same.

The key to this approach is the counter question - keep it in mind, chant it like a mantra, so that you are ready for the next time.

Ok?

Ready?

Here we go...

"What makes you think that?"

Try it - it works, and is far less likely to get you arrested than clobbering an old lady around the head with a Leica...

Bill

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- All images on this blog are copyright Bill Palmer and may not be reproduced in any format or medium without permission.

Great capture!!!

WOW! What a great image!!! Phantastic Foto!!

...and so on.

Give me a break.

One of the unexpected and largely unwanted by-products of the internet age is the ability to comment upon the work of others in a simplistic and anodyne fashion. Flickr and other photo sharing sites are the worst, by far, but the pernicious plague spreads far and wide to otherwise sensible corners of the web. The almost hysterical shriek of GREAT CAPTURE! leaps from the screen like a pair of fluorescent chartreuse cycle shorts on a middle-aged sumo wrestler. It's the electronic equivalent of a "high five", or chummy slap on the back, and generally has the same tea-spitting effect as the latter.

Do other pastimes have the equivalent, I wonder? Do watercolourists run around each other in circles shouting WOOT! at the sight of a well-rendered landscape? Do quilters experience orgasmic glee when confronted by a particularly, er, well-filled, one?

Now, you will probably by this point be thinking of me as a bit of a curmudgeon. Why shouldn't people be encouraging (and encouraged), I hear you say. What's wrong with a bit of heartfelt enthusiasm?

There's the rub.

What's missing for me, 99.9 times out of 100, is the little matter of "sincerity". Let's dwell on that thought for a moment. The origins of the word give us a clue as to what it is all about. It is from the Latin, "sin cere", meaning "without wax". I understand (I wasn't there...) that an unscrupulous sculptor back in the days of the Roman Empire might use an inferior quality of marble, or cover up careless chisel marks, by using wax as a filler. This worked well as a cunning ruse to fool the unwary art lover right up to the point that their newly acquired household god, tasteful nude or priapic faun was hit by the warming rays of the sun as it streamed across the Aventine. The wax would melt, leaving our hapless purchaser with something that looked like a large tabby had sharpened their claws on it. The sculpture was revealed as not genuine. The real thing was "sin cere"...

A genuine comment, truly meant, is worth a thousand times more than something that has been cut'n'pasted a dozen times already in that browsing session alone. I swear that some people leave such comments like some sort of electronic paper trail, just to prove that they have been there. They are probably the same people who had "I-Spy" books as children, bought to keep them quiet on long journeys as they assiduously ticked off each type of lorry, tree, pylon or whatever. Big Chief I-Spy has heap much to answer for, I fear.

I'm not saying don't comment - but if you have nothing genuine to say, then I don't think I'm alone in saying that I'd rather you said nothing at all. If you have the time, the inclination and the mastery of your keyboard to use the q,y,i,o,s,d,f,h,j,k*,l,z,x,v,b,n and m keys in addition to those that go to make up that most empty of plaudits, please do so. The best comments are thought-provoking. They make the photographer look at their own image afresh, to see it with new eyes. The vast majority of photographers are terrible self-editors, who need all the help they can get to separate their wheat from the chaff. Thoughtless praise for mediocrity, lightly given, simply encourages more mediocrity.

Like it? Loathe it? Let me know. But DON'T say "Great capture!"

Original is here: Berlin

There is another dimension to this. There seems to be an almost paranoid fear of causing offense. Critical comments, especially constructive and well-composed ones, are so rare that the WWF are starting an appeal. I suspect that this is in part because it is easier to carpet-bomb with smileys than snarlys (Is that a word? It deserves to be). Constructive criticism, or critique, is HARD, because it requires TIME and THOUGHT. Those are increasingly precious commodities in the modern World, where Apple and Blackberry are now communication devices instead of something that goes well with crumble and custard.

So.

Please - comment away, but do so with your mind in gear, not your rubber stamp in hand.

Bill

*I'm assuming that you are not one of those who think it's cute to spell capture with a K...

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- All images on this blog are copyright Bill Palmer and may not be reproduced in any format or medium without permission.
- This Blog entry has been brought to you by the Provisional wing of the Popular Front for the Promulgation and Preservation of Constructive Criticism.