Years ago I was a student at the Art Center College of Design in Los Angeles. It was a wonderful experience. Full immersion into learning the art and craft of photography and design, with an emphasis on developing skills for a career in applied commercial photography.
Most of us had the attitude that we should carefully construct the images we made. We learned lighting. We learned composition and design. We learned lab and studio techniques. We learned how to edit and present our work in a professional manner. And we were critiqued on our successes and failures. It was all part of the process of learning what we were doing and crafting the best images we could possibly make. Lessons learned there have paid dividends throughout the years.
One class, though, taught me a very vivid and important lesson. Strangely enough, it wasn't taught by a photographer – almost all our classes were taught by professionals – but was taught by a graduate student in painting. It was a class in art concepts, and he brought to our attention ideas that were current in the rarefied atmosphere of the fine art world. A few weeks into the semester he brought in a Thomas Guide to Los Angeles. This was a book of highly accurate and richly detailed maps of Los Angeles County. Each page covered an area of a few blocks.
Our instructor had us come up, one at a time. He blindfolded us, gave us a push-pin, and told us to open the book at random and kind of “pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey” onto the page we chanced upon. He then explained that during the coming week we were to go to that exact spot in the Greater Los Angeles area and make a photograph. And we were expected to make good photographs.
You might expect that the response to the assignment by a class full of 4th semester commercial photographers was less than enthusiastic. We moaned and complained about lack of control, about wanting to get more specific directions as we normally received from our teachers. He was adamant. The lesson would be explained after we did it.
I happened to like the idea. I stuck my in pin on a page showing a small section of Compton. Compton was a predominantly black neighborhood, and I was a predominantly white Utahn unfamiliar with the area. Nevertheless, when I had an opening in my schedule off I went to the corner to which chance had pinned me. It was an afternoon, and I happened to get there about the time school let out. I happened to be standing on a corner that kids passed by on their way home. I had a camera. You can guess what happened. “Hey, mister. Take our picture!”
“Okay,” I said, “Get together and I will.” You can see the result in the photograph posted here. It was a great moment, and I love the shot. It wears well.
The next class we all showed our photos. Most of the offerings reflected discomfort with the assignment. Not a lot of inspiration there. But my shot was a hit, not because I was the best photographer, far from it, but because I intuitively understood the lessons our teacher was trying to teach:
Chance is an important part of art, and of life.
Quit trying to control everything about the things you shoot, and trust your ability to respond to life's unexpected possibilities.
Control your response.
Learn to work with Chance.
Allow yourself to be surprised.
Sometimes, the best images are the ones we can't engineer.
Most of us had the attitude that we should carefully construct the images we made. We learned lighting. We learned composition and design. We learned lab and studio techniques. We learned how to edit and present our work in a professional manner. And we were critiqued on our successes and failures. It was all part of the process of learning what we were doing and crafting the best images we could possibly make. Lessons learned there have paid dividends throughout the years.
One class, though, taught me a very vivid and important lesson. Strangely enough, it wasn't taught by a photographer – almost all our classes were taught by professionals – but was taught by a graduate student in painting. It was a class in art concepts, and he brought to our attention ideas that were current in the rarefied atmosphere of the fine art world. A few weeks into the semester he brought in a Thomas Guide to Los Angeles. This was a book of highly accurate and richly detailed maps of Los Angeles County. Each page covered an area of a few blocks.
Our instructor had us come up, one at a time. He blindfolded us, gave us a push-pin, and told us to open the book at random and kind of “pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey” onto the page we chanced upon. He then explained that during the coming week we were to go to that exact spot in the Greater Los Angeles area and make a photograph. And we were expected to make good photographs.
You might expect that the response to the assignment by a class full of 4th semester commercial photographers was less than enthusiastic. We moaned and complained about lack of control, about wanting to get more specific directions as we normally received from our teachers. He was adamant. The lesson would be explained after we did it.
I happened to like the idea. I stuck my in pin on a page showing a small section of Compton. Compton was a predominantly black neighborhood, and I was a predominantly white Utahn unfamiliar with the area. Nevertheless, when I had an opening in my schedule off I went to the corner to which chance had pinned me. It was an afternoon, and I happened to get there about the time school let out. I happened to be standing on a corner that kids passed by on their way home. I had a camera. You can guess what happened. “Hey, mister. Take our picture!”
“Okay,” I said, “Get together and I will.” You can see the result in the photograph posted here. It was a great moment, and I love the shot. It wears well.
The next class we all showed our photos. Most of the offerings reflected discomfort with the assignment. Not a lot of inspiration there. But my shot was a hit, not because I was the best photographer, far from it, but because I intuitively understood the lessons our teacher was trying to teach:
Chance is an important part of art, and of life.
Quit trying to control everything about the things you shoot, and trust your ability to respond to life's unexpected possibilities.
Control your response.
Learn to work with Chance.
Allow yourself to be surprised.
Sometimes, the best images are the ones we can't engineer.
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