If You’ve Seen One Stream, You’ve Seen them All

As I wrote in one of my recent guest blogging installments on 1001 Scribbles, on the final morning of my trip to Great Smoky Mountains National Park last month, I ran into another photographer while shooting in Cades Cove.  After exchanging a few pleasantries we had the following conversation.

Other Photographer:  Have you been in the park long?

Kerry:  A little more than a week.

OP:  Is this the first time you’ve shot here?

K:  Oh no.  This is my fourth extended shoot in the Smokies, but it’s my first time here since 2009.

OP:  So you know the location pretty well then.  This is my first time, and I just got here last night.  What are your favorite spots?  Any suggestions for great places to shoot?

K:  There are lots of terrific locations.  Obviously you know about Cades Cove.  Have you checked out Roaring Fork or Tremont?

OP:  For stream photography you mean?

K:  Yes.

At this point, a funny look came across his face, as though he’d just gotten a whiff of something really unpleasant.

“I have to tell you, I’m really sick of stream photography,” he said.  “This place is lousy with streams.”

Let’s leave aside the fact that he told me that he was “sick of stream photography” even though he’d just arrived the previous night (how is that even possible?).  Saying that the Smokies is “lousy with stream photography” is like saying that the Galapagos Islands are “lousy” with wildlife shooting opportunities.  On the one hand, duh.  On the other hand, if you regard this as a negative, why are you going there in the first place?

After conversing with this gentleman a bit further, it became clear to me that he had the notion that “if you’ve seen one stream, you’ve seen them all.”  This is an attitude with which I heartily disagree.

Working the Scene

You’re probably familiar with the expression “working the scene.”  It refers to the exercise of thoroughly examining a shooting location and milking it for everything it’s worth.  A working-the-scene mindset forces you to consider different ways of looking at the scene beyond the immediately obvious.  It pushes you to consider alternative perspectives, focal lengths, genres.

I want to illustrate this point through a series of examples from my Smokies trip and, yes, my goal is to explode the “if you’ve seen one stream, you’ve seen them all” notion.  I apologize in advance for this image-heavy post.

Greenbrier

My first example comes from the Greenbrier section of the park.  The following three images were all made mere steps from one another.  The first, immediately below, was taken after I waded into the Pigeon River to obtain a low in the water perspective.  This required the appropriate footwear–in this case, a pair of knee-high rubber boots that I have with me any time I’m photographing around water–and some care as I navigated the slippery rocks on the river bottom.

Middle Prong of the Pigeon River, Greenbrier, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

After I’d completed this shot–which was taken in a light drizzle–I climbed out of the river and made my way atop a bridge spanning the river, which was no more than 25 feet behind me when I took the above shot.  This very same scene takes on an entirely different dimension with the “aerial’ perspective afforded by the bridge, as you can see below.

Middle Prong of the Pigeon River, Greenbrier, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

My position for the first shot was just out of the bottom of the scene shown above, a bit below the pair of large overlapping rocks an inch or so inside the lower right corner of the frame.  Note how the two images have a completely different feel.

After the shot from the bridge, I moved downstream roughly 150 feet and waded back into the shallows of the river to produce another series of images, only one of which I’ll include here.  This is looking back upstream, and you can clearly see the bridge that served as my shooting location for the second image in the series.

Middle Prong of the Pigeon River, Greenbrier, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Three stream shots, all within 200 feet of one another, all facing the same direction, in fact.  But despite all of the location and genre similarities, all three, I think you’ll agree, evoke distinct emotions.

Roaring Fork

If it’s possible to take three shots of the same scene and produce different images it should go without saying that it’s possible to take shots from different streams and produce entirely different photographs.  So why am I saying it?  To combat the “when you’ve seen one stream, you’ve seen them all” mentality.

The below shots of Roaring Fork–a very, very different sort of stream from the Middle Prong of the Pigeon River (the Greenbrier material above) or the Middle Prong of the Little River (which flows through the Tremont section of the park, which I’ll illustrate later)–were all taken within walking distance of one another, and several from the exact same location (doubling down on the point made with the Greenbrier images).

The first image, made with a telephoto lens, emphasizes a means for picking out details and using color contrasts to produce a clear center of interest and a very different look from the wider angle shots from Greenbrier (and some of the ensuing Roaring Fork photos).

Roaring Fork, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

The second Roaring Fork shot is also a telephoto intimate, but the black and white conversion places the emphasis squarely on lines, form, tones and contrast, an entirely different theme than exists with any of the other stream shots in this collection presented thus far.

Roaring Fork black & white, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

The remaining shots return to a wider angle approach, but the subject matter is entirely different from the wide shots from Greenbrier.  Roaring Fork is a much, much narrower–and steeper–waterway than the Pigeon River, and includes far different secondary elements, such as mossy rocks and rhododendron and all of this creates the opportunity for distinct imagery.  The main element is still the stream, but note how different the images appear once you move past the superficial similarities.

Roaring Fork, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Again, different perspectives–and experimentation with different technical settings (such as longer or shorter shutter speeds) keep the shots distinct from one another.

Roaring Fork, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Utilizing perspective advantages–such as another of the narrow bridges that cross Roaring Fork at a variety of spots–can also help foster distinct points of view.

Roaring Fork, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Tremont

The Tremont district of the park has its own unique elements and photo opportunities.  It’s still “stream photography,” but take note of how the elements of the scenes included below distinguish themselves from Greenbrier and Roaring Fork.  The inclusion of dogwood trees is one difference, as you can see in the first image below.

Tremont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Tremont can also be a great place for reflections, depending on the weather conditions and the time of day.  Again, it’s still “stream photography,” but it’s completely different from anything else in this collection.

Tremont Reflections, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

The final three shots were all taken within steps of one another, but are completely different renditions of the same scene.  I’ll present the broadest shot–an aerial perspective from high up on the bank of the Middle Prong of the Little River–first.

Tremont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

The second shot is telephoto shot of the main cascade–also taken from up on the bank–in the image immediately above, converted to black and white to emphasize the yin-yang dimension.

Tremont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

For the final image I carefully climbed down the 25 feet or so from the bank to the river’s edge and then climbed on top of the huge boulder you see near the bottom of the frame, immediately below the principal cascade, in the first of these three images.  By crouching low on that boulder I was able to render the scene with an entirely different in-your-face perspective, emphasizing the power of the rapids.

Tremont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

There you have it–13 stream shots, 13 unique images.  I have plenty of other stream photographs from this trip which produce their own unique imprint but I think my point has been made; there’s no need to beat it into the ground any more than I’ve already done.

I’ve focused on streams as the broad subject matter for purposes of illustration, but I could just as easily have been talking about mountains, or lakes or beaches or sunrises/sunsets…really, just about any superficially categorized bit of subject matter.  If you’re having difficulty rendering “common” subjects in differentiating ways, it’s very likely a function of you, not the subject matter itself.  Change things up.  Experiment with a different lens, a different perspective, a different shutter speed…anything that will help you look at your subject with fresh eyes.  Before you know it, you’ll discover just how unique each location is, even if you’ve encountered it many times before.

Example 1: Redbud and Phacelia

It’s fine to be purposeful about your photographic objectives, but if your single-mindedness is causing you to miss unanticipated opportunities, you may want to consider modifying your approach in the field.  Not infrequently you can find photo opportunities that you weren’t expecting–if you give yourself the chance to find them.

During my trip to the Smokies last month, I routinely visited particular sites with a specific goal in mind, but I always try to keep my eyes open and my mind free enough to explore image possibilities that weren’t specifically on my agenda.  Allow me to illustrate the point with a series of examples.

On my first full morning in the Smokies, I was planning to head to the Greenbrier section of the park.  The forecast was for mostly cloudy conditions and I’d been alerted that about 1.5 miles down the Porters Creek Trail was a setting rich with fringed phacelia.  My driving route to Greenbrier took me along the Little River Road and before long I caught a glimpse of a potentially intriguing scene, so I pulled over at the first available pullout and ran back to take a good look.  A redbud, in peak bloom, had caught my attention from the driver’s seat and when I had the opportunity to size up the scene with my feet on the ground, I saw that it was worth a delay on my trip to Greenbrier.  That image is immediately below.

Little River Redbud, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Eventually I was on my way, but the morning’s forecast turned out to be wrong; it was almost completely sunny, so I spent most of my time at Greenbrier scouting.  The report I had received about the phacelia was spot on, and I noted some photo opportunities that would work for better conditions.  I returned the following morning and took advantage of the previous day’s scouting session (see below).

Phacelia Carpet, Porters Creek Trail, Greenbrier, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Moral of the story:  Despite having a clear agenda, I never shut down my image detection sensors.  The redbud shot was entirely different, in style and location, than the “flowerscape” I envisioned at Greenbrier, but I kept my mind open enough to see the Little River possibility when it was presented to me.

Example 2:  Smokemont and Reflections

Later during my week in the Smokies, after a sunrise shoot at Newfound Gap, I wandered down to the North Carolina part of the park to check out the area around the Smokemont Campground, a section of the park I’d never explored before.  I wanted to check out the Lufty Baptist Church, and found the place with little difficulty.  It’s a very photogenic setting as the old church is an attractive building tucked into a heavily forested nook, providing some compositional and exposure challenges.

Lufty Baptist Church, Smokemont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

After I had finished with the church, I wandered back to my car, which was parked alongside the Oconaluftee River.  Something made me take a look at the river and I noticed the effect the still-rising sun was having on reflections in the water.  I was intrigued and spent some time capturing semi-abstract images, including the one below, with a telephoto lens.

Oconaluftee River Reflections, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

Moral of the story:  I gave myself the time to wander and simply look around for something that might catch my fancy.  It can be difficult to recognize these kinds of abstract opportunities when your mind is focused on more literal/traditional landscape subject matter.  I know that I find it easier to spot these types of images when I’m not in pursuit of something specific, or–as will be illustrated in the next example–if I give myself the chance to explore a bit once I’ve gotten my purposeful shot “out of the way.”

Example 3:  Laurel Falls

I hadn’t been up to Laurel Falls since my first trip to the Smokies, way back in the fall of 2004.  For one thing, I hadn’t been all that impressed with what I’d found the first time.  For another, Laurel Falls can become very, very crowded.  It’s not a very long hike (roughly 1.4 miles one way) and while there’s a fair amount of elevation gain, the trail up to the falls is paved, which makes it a very, very easy climb.  Typically, by 9 AM, the area starts getting crowded.  In the middle of the day, the parking lot is overflowing.  If you want to photograph the waterfall it’s best to get up there shortly after sunrise.  In addition to having fewer people to deal with, the waterfall is shaded in the early morning, even on a sunny day.  Thinking that I might have missed something nine years ago, I decided to make the trek one morning, and had the place mostly to myself for roughly an hour.

Laurel Falls is a bit of a challenge to photograph, because it’s impossible to move very far back from the main set of tiers without falling roughly 40 feet down a steep ravine.  This means getting creative with sectional shots or carefully using an ultra-wide angle lens.  (I did both, though only one example of the latter is included here.)

Laurel Falls, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

After I finished shooting the waterfall itself–and I decided that it had been worth the return trip after all–I decided to look around a bit, just to see if there were any less than obvious subjects of interest.  I noticed a bit of an eddy that was forming below the footbridge that’s used to cross in front of the waterfall–just to the right of the frame in the image above.  It was difficult to detect, but it appeared to me that, with a very long exposure, some interesting effects might be yielded.  There were some small potholes in the adjacent rock, dotted with fallen blossoms from one of the nearby flowering trees.

I concocted a composition that included only one moving subject–the water in the main pool– and using a polarizer and and the appropriate exposure settings, I was able to generate an eight-second exposure of the water.  The image you see below is actually a composite of two exposures; the eight-second exposure caused the white flower petals to be blown out, so, with the camera still locked own on the tripod, I took another exposure of two seconds, which allowed me to retain detail in the petals.  I combined the two images in Photoshop, and converted the image to black and white using Nik Silver Efex Pro, to remove the distraction of color from the emphasis on the patterns and textures.

Whirlpool black & white, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Moral of the story:  Once I had freed myself from any limitations imposed by the principle subject of the shoot and gave myself the opportunity to look around, other less-traditional opportunities presented themselves.

Example 4:  Tremont

On my second to last full day in the park I spent the late afternoon and early evening in the Tremont section.  Nine years ago this autumn, I acquired this image near the end of the road in Tremont.  Five years ago, I wanted a shot from the same location in the spring, but the trees were late to leaf out that year and by the time I left the area in 2009 they were just starting to bud in Tremont.

This time around, things were different, but as I arrived at the designated spot early in the evening, there was still direct sunlight on the scene.  I was going to have to wait a bit to get the shot in even light.  So while I waited for the sun to drift behind the ridge to the southwest, I turned my attention to other possible subjects.  Interestingly, what struck me was the same thing that was “ruining” my planned shot–sunlight on the subject.  I saw some backlit leaves on a nearby tree, hanging over one the cascades of this prong of the Little River, and quickly maneuvered myself to try to take advantage of it before–do you see the irony here?–the sun’s position drifted to the point that the shot lost its impact.  The remarkable dynamic range of the D800E did the rest.  This image is immediately below.

Backlighting, Tremont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Shortly after this took place, the sun fell below the tree line and I was able to produce the shot that had drawn me to the location in the first place, as you can see below.

Middle Prong of the Little River, Tremont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Moral of the story:  Sometimes the “other shot” is being created by the very thing that is inhibiting you from getting the shot you wanted in the first place.  If something is preventing you from getting “your shot,” consider whether there’s a way to turn that “something” to your advantage.

In Sum…

Despite differing circumstances, all of the examples cited here share a commonality:  a willingness to look past the preconceived shot though never, I hasten to add, at the sacrifice of the anticipated image.  In all of these cases–and numerous others I haven’t taken the time to flush out–I obtained the shot I had been looking for, sometimes right away, sometimes after a brief wait, sometimes on a different day entirely.  But I also obtained something I wasn’t looking for, and that came by giving myself the cognitive freedom–by keeping my eyes and my mind open–to look beyond my own preconceived notions.

Great Smoky Mountains National Park (GSMNP) straddles the Tennessee-North Carolina border, about an hour from Knoxville, Tennessee and a bit further from Asheville, North Carolina.  What I love the most about the place is its photographic versatility: misty mountains; rushing streams, creeks and rivers; (in the spring) copious wildflowers; wildlife; verdant valleys; pioneer buildings…the Smokies have it all.  GSMNP is probably the single best location for nature photography east of the Mississippi River in the United States, precisely because of the variety of subject matter available.  There’s always something to shoot, no matter the conditions.

Setting Sun, Clingman’s Dome, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee/North Carolina

I just returned from my fourth extended photo trip to the Smokies; three of those journeys, including this one (obviously), have taken place in the spring.  I arrived mid-afternoon on April 15 and departed following a morning shoot on April 23.  Because of my experience at the location, I know the lay of the land quite well, but I still took the time to explore some new trails and obtain some new perspectives.

White Trillium, Cove Hardwood Nature Trail, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

The images that accompany this entry were all  made on this trip.  I’ve scarcely had time to go through most of the material, but I selected a small sample set of images to prepare to demonstrate the variety of subject matter that is present in GSMNP in the spring.

Middle Prong of the Little River, Tremont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Dating to my trip to West Virginia (also see here and here) in the fall of 2011 and continuing through my trip to Utah/Nevada (see the bottom of the linked entry for links to all related posts) in May of last year and Arizona in August, 2012, I’ve more or less provided a chronological travelogue of my photo excursion experiences on this blog.  I’m not planning to do that with this Smokies trip.  Rather, my intention is to deal with things in a more thematic fashion.  I’ll still post plenty of images from this trip to the Smokies, but rather than simply laying things out in day-by-day form, the approach will (hopefully) be more meaningful.

‘Til next time…

Hyatt Lane Morning, Cades Cove, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

I’m not ordinarily a procrastinator–quite the contrary, in fact.  But on rare occasions I let things go and go and go…

So, after a hiatus of roughly 18 months, I finally updated my website, Lightscapes Nature Photography.  It was last amended in the summer of 2011.  I should have updated it after spending a week in West Virginia in the fall of that year.  But I didn’t.  And then I spent about 10 days in the spring of 2012 in Utah and Nevada.  And before I knew it I was in Arizona in the late summer of last year.  In the interim, I’d been on day trips to various parts of the Midwest as well.  By now, I had a huge image backlog and was actively avoiding a site update.  It wasn’t until late this past winter that I started filtering through this mass of images to decide which ones to upload to the site.  I finally completed that task and then spent every spare moment I had over a 12-day period doing the actual work involved in preparing the site itself.

Ludlow Falls, Miami County, Ohio

It was all done as of this past Tuesday.  Finally.  I desperately wanted this task completed before I took off for the Smokies in about 10 days and came back with yet another large batch of photos.  I will never, ever wait this long to prepare a site update again.

In any case, I humbly request that you take a look and let me know what you think.  Some of the new images on the site have appeared here, on the blog, but by no means all of them.  In addition to all of the new photos, I’ve done some administrative work with the galleries, sub-dividing some of what was there to try to keep the per-gallery image numbers to manageable levels.  Labor on the site remains incomplete as I continue to develop a portfolio of my favorite images, but that won’t be complete until some time after I return from the Smokies.

Freeland Farm Dawn, Tucker County, West Virginia

To read about what’s new on the site, you can go here.  To go straight to the jumping off point for all of the new galleries/images, you can go here.   Clicking on each thumbnail will take you inside the corresponding gallery.

Again, please, have a look around and share your thoughts with me in the comments section here.

Thanks.

The Pulpit and Cottonwoods, Temple of Sinawava, Zion National Park, Utah

The Back Story

I received my Nikon D800E camera body in July of last year, so I’ve had it for nearly nine months now and I think I’ve used it enough at this point to share my thoughts.  Just to be clear, this isn’t meant to be a formal review or a recitation of the camera’s features; there are plenty of both of these scattered all over the Internet (a search engine is your friend).  My intent is simply to muse on my thoughts about how well the camera has met my expectations and perhaps discuss some of the anticipated (and unanticipated) consequences of moving to this camera body.

The Nikon D800E Camera Body

First, some background.  My primary camera body prior to purchasing the D800E was the Nikon D700, which I had used since late 2008.  (The D700 remains in my camera bag as a backup body.)  The most important difference between the two cameras is found in the sensors, principally the number of pixels.  The D700 sensor had 12 (and change) megapixels; the D800E has 36 (and change) megapixels.  That’s a big difference.  The D800E also does an end run around the anti-aliasing filter that the vast, vast majority of digital SLRs possess, as a means to reduce digital artifacts that are inherent in the capture process with cameras using Bayer sensors.

Autumn’s Remains, Illinois Canyon, Starved Rock State Park, Illinois

The camera cost me more than $3000; I had to think very long and very hard about whether to commit that kind of money to replace a camera (the D700) that I was basically satisfied with.  What was the new camera giving me that I didn’t already have?  Pixels, mostly, and a whole lot of them.  And a breathtaking amount of dynamic range.  (The D700′s DR is impressive; the D800 series is even better.)  I print quite large, at times; I’ve had orders up to 24×36″ for conventionally oriented images (i.e. those with a 2:3 ratio).  For images with a lot of detail, that’s beginning to really push it for the D700′s files.  (In fairness, though, I had a commercial client who was thrilled with 20×30″ prints that were produced from shots I took with the D200 and its 10 MP (and generations old) sensor.  To some degree, this how-large-can-you-print matter is very much in the eye of the beholder.) I also often occasionally push the envelope in terms of dynamic range with my shooting.  I knew I’d use every bit of the alleged 14 stops of DR that the 800 series has at base ISO, and then some, from time to time.

I was ultimately able to get myself to pull the trigger by telling myself that the D800E might well be my “last camera.”  Let me briefly explain what I mean by that.  It doesn’t mean that I’d committed myself to never buying another camera, ever.  What it meant was that, barring some incredible path breaking new capability that I can’t even imagine coming down the pike some day, I saw nothing in the way of incremental improvements that would have me lusting over another camera if the D800E lived up to its billing.  Not more pixels; not more dynamic range, not any other features.  This was it…and it was, without question, the first time I had ever thought this since I first started shooting with a DSLR back in 2003.  With the purchases of each of my previous cameras–the D100 in 2003; the D200 in the spring of 2006; and the D700 at the tail end of 2008–I’d bought in fully knowing that there were existing cameras (sometimes produced by Nikon, sometimes by other manufacturers) that had capabilities that I wanted myself.  I’d never purchased a digital camera thinking “this is it.”  But this time was different.  Had I not felt that this very well could be “the last camera,” I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger.

The $64,000 question was–would I still feel that way after actually using the camera?

Giant’s Bathtub, Matthiessen State Park, Illinois

Camera In Hand

When I received the D800E last summer, I immediately conducted some controlled (but relatively informal) tests with the camera and my lens lineup, and compared the results with images shot with the D700.  What I expected–and discovered–was that, when pixel-peeping (looking at images at 100% magnification in Photoshop), the effects of diffraction barely became visible at f/8, and were increasingly visible as I stopped lenses down further.  By f/16 they were quite apparent when pixel peeping.  In other words, all other things being equal (which they rarely are, but I digress), it was best to shoot the camera at f/7.1 or below.  (This is not always practical, to put it mildly, in the real world; more on this below.)

I also noted that–again, when pixel peeping–the camera revealed every optical flaw in my lens lineup.  As a refresher, I shoot almost entirely with high(ish) end zoom lenses–the Nikkor 14-24/2.8; the Nikkor 24-70/2.8; the Sigma 70-200/2.8; the Nikkor 80-400/4-5.6.  I also shoot with one prime lens, the Nikkor 200mm micro.  The 80-400 is the weakest optic in my quiver; the 200mm micro is the sharpest, by far.  I saw no obvious flaws with the prime lens, even when I was scouring around looking for them.  With the others, there was some corner softness visible in all of them, with the 80-400 being the worst offender (as expected).  Without careful viewing, all were perfectly acceptable, but images shot with this camera and these lenses, if upsized enough, would reveal the flaws, even at fairly reasonable viewing distances.  How much of an upsizing was “enough”?  That depends, both on the lens in question and the personal opinion of the viewer.

Sunflowers, Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument, Arizona

Reviews of the camera that I’d read prior to pulling the trigger on the purchase consistently discussed what needed to be done “to get the most out of the sensor,” including avoiding shooting at f/8 or above and exclusively using high end prime lenses.  I pretty much knew that I wasn’t going to do either of these things, particularly the latter.  Maybe it’s laziness on my part, but I really like the convenience of carrying an assortment of zoom lenses that cover all of the focal lengths I’m likely to shoot; I like being able to minimize the amount of lens changing I engage in as well.  I’ve already touched on the aperture part of the matter above.  So I was pretty much acknowledging that I wasn’t going to be getting “everything” there was to squeeze out of the sensor in terms of image quality.  The operative question was whether I was going to be getting enough out of it to justify the purchase of the camera.  My speculation was that the answer was yes, but the proof would be in the pudding.

And what about the huge files that the camera produced?  I was looking at 1/3 as many shots per memory card compared with the D700, not to mention (obviously) longer write times.  The D800E has two card slots, one for CF cards and one for SD cards.  I’d never had a camera that accepted SD cards, but given the file sizes I was looking for, I felt that a card upgrade was in order.  I found a sale at Amazon and picked up a 32 GB SD card and a 16 GB CF card which allowed me approximately 600 shots without card swapping (significantly more than I’d ever had with the D700–my biggest card for that camera was an 8 GB CF).  I also spent some time experimenting with file downloads and image processing.  Needless to say, both were significantly slower than what I was used to with the D700 files.  This, too, was anticipated, but could I deal with the added wait times when I had a bulk of files, from multiple days worth of shooting?  I would soon find out.

In the Field/On the Road

I shot with the camera outside in the field a couple of times, and at a botanical garden in Indianapolis, before taking the camera on its first “road trip” to northern Arizona for a workshop in August (which was chronicled at length beginning here).  This was when the pedal hit the metal, so to speak.  I would be dealing with the camera (and the resulting images) all day, every day.

Banana Tree Leaf, White River Gardens, Indiana

As an aside, it’s worth pointing out, I suppose, that I shoot off a tripod at least 99.99% of the time.  (Literally every one of my images that has appeared on this blog was produced with a tripod-mounted camera.)  As a result, handheld ergonomics have never been a particularly important issue to me.  Also, as followers of this blog know, roughly 95% of my imagery can be classified as landscapes/scenics, with almost all of the remaining 5% closeup work (mostly of plants and flowers).  In other words, I’m rarely shooting moving subjects (other than running water and blowing foliage), so a camera’s operational quickness isn’t a prime consideration for me either, particularly given my circumspect (some would say “plodding” or “sluggish”) photographic style in the field.

So, how did the camera perform?

The answer was quite well, thank you.  There were a few differences in the camera’s controls, compared to the D700, and with the menus as well, but the similarities greatly outweighed the discriminating points.  It wasn’t a difficult adjustment to go from one camera to the other, particularly given the sloth-like nature of my in-the-field workflow.  I did notice that the D800E was, on occasion, a bit slower to complete the card-writing process than the D700, but that was to be expected and it really wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated.  And the dynamic range was absolutely breathtaking.  Even with scenes possessing an exceptionally wide contrast, it was often necessary to underexpose images–often by several stops–to produce silhouettes of objects against bright dawn or dusk skies.  In fact, I stopped trying, with the full knowledge that the effect could easily be teased out in postprocessing.  So using the camera wasn’t a problem.

Mittens Dawn Silhouette, Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park, Arizona

What about the image quality?  That was always the main issue.  Was I seeing a meaningful, real world improvement over shots from the D700?  The short answer is, yes.  Regardless of the lenses I used, apples-to-apples comparisons of images (i.e. when D700 images were up-sized to the equivalent of D800E shots or D800E images were binned to the same size as D700 photos) revealed that the shots from the D800E held more detail–period, end of report.  And they should; 36 MP really ought to trump 12 MP, particularly when the former is of a newer generation than the latter.  The point of obtaining the D800E was to up the ante when it came to printing large, and based on some tests I did after returning from Arizona, that holds up.  I up-sized a detail-filled D800E shot to the equivalent of 24×36″ and printed a cropped 8×10 section of it; I did the same with a D700 shot.  (Both were taken with the same 24-70 lens.)  The D700 version was actually pretty decent; not phenomenal, but quite good.  But the D800E shot…it was almost as though it hadn’t been interpolated at all.

What about the lenses?  Given my options, how had images held up?  It was essentially as expected.  Shots with the 200mm macro (i.e. micro, in Nikon-speak) held up from corner to corner, even when pixel peeping.  Shots with the other lenses still held up very nicely, even when enlarged.  Yes, the corner degradation could be spotted when pixel peeping, but large prints, seen at a normal viewing distance, were immaculate.

Wildflowers, Grand Canyon National Park – North Rim, Arizona

And the aperture issue?  I had decided to shoot for the needed depth of field and live with the incumbent diffraction, even if that meant f/16 (though I didn’t often need to go beyond f/11).  This paid off, in my opinion.  With adjustments made to postprocessing sharpening techniques, the effects of diffraction were mitigated to the point of effective irrelevance.

Final Thoughts

In the end, I concluded that this may very well, in fact, be my “last camera” (in the sense described above).  I’m extremely happy with the performance; I’m completely satisfied with image quality, even with the limits of my current lenses (though I may end up replacing the 80-400 with Nikon’s recently announced new version of that lens, if it pans out in real world tests and if I can get past the price!), and I didn’t even have to compromise my in-field shooting choices with regard to aperture selection.  File sizes and computer requirements will become non-issues as I naturally upgrade hardware over time (though I hasten to add that, despite shooting with the camera for the better part of a year now, I’m still using computers that are 3-5 years old).

This is more camera than most people need; if you don’t have the intention to print large, you really have no need for it, in my view.   It’s arguably more camera than I need myself.  If the D3X had come with the same price tag as the D800 when the former was released four-odd years ago (instead, it cost $8000!), I might well have bought one and, if I had, I’d almost certainly still be using it, even though that would mean leaving 12 MP on the table.  (The D3X has a 24.5 MP sensor.)  But if you’re going to buy your “last camera,” you may as well give yourself some headroom, I think, and that’s what the D800E gives me.  Would have I been satisfied with the non-”E” version of the D800?  Almost certainly, yes.  But again, I gave myself a bit of extra sharpness, particularly when I use my macro lens.

Lower Antelope Canyon, Arizona

I look forward to having the camera with me during a planned trip to the Smoky Mountains in mid-April.  During my last extended trip there, six years ago, I was still shooting with the D200.

The D800E won’t make me a better photographer–that was never part of the consideration–but it will allow me to print larger with considerably more effectiveness.  Since that was my hope when I bought the camera, I couldn’t be more satisfied with the purchase.

Recently, I’ve received a number of e-mails asking how I deal with exposure settings in the field.  These aren’t “how do you meter” questions; the queries fall more in line with the notion of “what part of the exposure settings triad do you prioritize” when approaching a particular scene, and why?

The broad answer (and I’m sure you saw this coming0 is, “it depends.”  And, to respond to a question that often accompanies the one detailed above–”how will I know what to do?”–it comes with experience.

I’ve had enough of these questions that I thought a dedicated entry covering the subject was warranted.  What I’m laying out here is second nature to experienced photographers, so I apologize to those of you reading this who already know this stuff, but for relative newbies–and even some intermediate photographers who have largely let their cameras choose their settings–this may be somewhat helpful.  Note that, as alluded to above, this isn’t a primer on how to meter a scene per se; it’s more about how to go about prioritizing the process of setting your exposure benchmarks.

The Exposure Triad

Just to clarify, when I use the term “exposure triad,” I’m referring to the basic set of three adjustable settings that impact exposure in combination with one another.  They are, in no particular order:

1. Shutter Speed
2. Aperture (f-stop)
3. ISO

You should be familiar with all of these concepts already and understand that, in the most fundamental sense, all three can be used interchangeably, in equal increments, to impact image exposure in either direction (i.e. make the image lighter or darker).

(That’s as much as I’m planning to say about the true exposure basics in this piece, because I sense that most readers of this blog already understand the fundamentals.  If there are readers out there who would like a basic primer about how the exposure triad functions, let me know, in the comments and/or by e-mail, and I’ll prepare something on that subject down the road.)

The “Correct” Exposure:  A Brief Cautionary Tale

I want to briefly touch upon a related topic:  the notion of the “correct” exposure.  The entire phrase is a bit of a misnomer because the correct exposure for any given scene is the one that establishes the look you’re trying to achieve, whatever that may be.  The classic example would be trying to render a silhouette of some foreground object against a bright sky, or trying to show detail in a foreground object against that same sky.  (Even leaving out the possibilities of multi-image blends and HDR; with many, if not most, current DSLRs, both options are typically available to you.)  The “correct” exposure in this instance depends on your intent.

Totem Pole at Sunrise, Monument Valley Tribal Park, Navajo Reservation, Arizona

So don’t buy into the notion that there’s a single “correct” exposure for a given scene.  The exposure of choice is the one that enables you to render your vision in the resulting image.

Examples

Here are some images that will illustrate the point of different exposure triad priorities.  I’ll show the image and then explain what my priorities were and why, and how I went about implementing them.  Note that in many cases there are multiple priorities.

Oaks and Maples, Morton Arboretum, Illinois

Background:  It was a windy, overcast day.  The breezy conditions meant that the foliage was blowing around quite a bit, and my goal was to freeze the leaves.  Based on a bit of brief experimentation, that meant a minimum shutter speed of 1/30 of a second.  It could be faster than that, but no slower.  The problem was that, given how relatively dark it was (remember, it was completely overcast), achieving those shutter speed at base ISO (200, with the D700 I was using at the time), meant a fairly wide aperture–less than f/8.  But in this instance, f/8 didn’t provide an adequate depth of field to render the entire scene acceptably sharp from front to back.  I needed f/11…and I couldn’t even get f/8!  Focus stacking, using a wider aperture, was out because the movement of the foliage would make compiling a single image from multiple frames impossible (i.e. the elements wouldn’t line up).  What to do?

Raise the ISO.  I always shoot at base ISO when I can…but generally speaking with the last few generations of digital sensors, almost nothing in the way of image quality is surrendered by raising the ISO a few stops.  If you need to do it, it’s there.  In this case, I was able to boost the ISO to 400 and achieve the minimally acceptable shutter speed (though I also waited for a lull in the breeze, just to be sure).

So again…the scene required a minimum shutter speed (to freeze the foliage) and a maximum aperture (for depth of field purposes).  I knew the minimally acceptable settings.  When I found that they couldn’t be achieved with the base ISO, I adjusted the third element of the triad to achieve the required settings.

Virgin River, Zion Canyon, Zion National Park, Utah

This one was fairly easy.  I was trying to achieve a simplified hard (rock)/soft (water), yin-yang contrast.  I wanted to slow the shutter speed down a great deal, to get as detail-free a look in the water as possible.  Depth of field was no consideration at all here.  So, I dropped the ISO to it’s lowest level (the equivalent of 100).  I closed the aperture down to f/16.  I put a polarizing filter on the lens.  I still wasn’t getting a slow enough shutter speed.  So I pulled out one of my neutral density filters (a three-stop) and, removing the polarizer, placed that on the lens, then stacked the polarizer on top of that.  Bingo.

Again, this was all about obtaining a very slow shutter speed (in this instance, 15 seconds)–that was essentially the only priority here–and I used all three elements of the triad–plus filters–to realize the goal.

Clingman’s Dome Sunset, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee/North Carolina

In this case I was just trying to get an exposure that would retain detail throughout the image, so the goal was to expose this as brightly as possible without blowing the highlights (with the possible exception of the sun itself).  I used a middling aperture (f/8), the base ISO (100, with the D200 I was using at the time) and whatever shutter speed (1/20 sec. in this case) would do the trick, with f/8 and ISO 200 as the other components.  I was perfectly happy to let the foreground ridge go black since this was fundamentally a layered image.   There were plenty of other exposure setting combinations that would have provided an equivalent result.

Mill Creek Rapids, Cataract Falls State Recreation Area, Indiana

This situation is similar to the first example, but not identical because I was looking at a narrow range of acceptable shutter speeds, rather than a minimum.  Two equally important priorities played a role here.  Because of the foreground objects (the leaf and the rocks), depth of field was a major consideration.  I was looking at f/11 or so.  This image was shot with the D800E and, frankly, diffraction becomes apparent at f/8 with this camera, but sometimes, you need something narrower than f/8 to achieve the desired depth of field.  I’d rather shoot for the necessary DOF and deal with any elements of diffraction, but I do try to keep the aperture as close to f/7.1 as possible.  This scene might have lent itself to focus stacking, but I chose not to go that route.

Every bit as important as depth of field here was the chosen shutter speed.  I was looking for some water blur, but not too much (i.e. nothing like what I was aiming for in the Virgin River example above).  I had the polarizer on the lens and, with a bit of tweaking, I was able to get a shutter speed in the 1/6 of a second range at f/11, using base ISO (100 on the D800E) which was more or less what I was looking for.  That allowed me to render the water the way I wanted to and obtain the necessary depth of field.

Summing Up

You can see that prioritization of the exposure triad depends on what you’re trying to accomplish (which itself will vary depending on the scene you’re dealing with).  With a minimal amount of experience, these kinds of decisions will become instinctive.  If they’re not second nature to you yet, spend some more time in the field.  What better assignment could a photographer ask for?

As much as I enjoy making images, I’ve been journeying to the kinds of places I go now to take pictures long before I got serious about photography.  In fact, one of the things I like about image making is that it allows me to capture a moment and relive the  experience whenever I view the corresponding image.

An acquaintance of mine once told me that when he saw my images, he often had the feeling that he was seeing a pristine landscape—as though he was the first person ever to see the setting.  I’ve rarely, if ever, received more meaningful praise, because one of the most appealing aspects of most of the photo shoots I go on is a sense of quiet—at least, in terms of man made sound.  I frequently find myself listening to the sounds of running water, the wind, birds and other wildlife…or nothing at all.

Each of the images accompanying this entry reminds me of a peaceful, bucolic experience.

Cades Cove Morning, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

On this morning, I was third in line at the gate to get into Cades Cove at sunrise.  When the rangers opened the gate, I made a beeline for the back side of the loop road, while others stopped at Sparks and Hyatt Lanes.  That gave me the rare opportunity to experience this open meadow with no one else around which made for a very quiet setting…except for some deer moving through the fields and the occasional gobbling of wild turkeys.

Wooly Back Overlook, Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina

I spent almost two hours at this overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway, during which time only three cars passed by.  The rest of the time I heard nothing but the sound of the occasional songbird and the rustling of leaves in the light breeze.

Heart of the Dunes, White Sands National Monument, New Mexico

I hiked into the “Heart of the Dunes” at White Sands National Monument about two hours before sunset and returned after the sun had gone down.  I never saw or heard another soul.  In fact, the only sound I ever heard was my own feet in the sand.  When I stood still, the silence was ear-splitting.

Mill Creek Rapids, Cataract Falls State Recreation Area, Indiana

I didn’t see a single person during the late morning/early afternoon I spent at Cataract Falls State Recreation Area.  I heard the unfettered sound of the rushing rapids of Mill Creek, and nothing else.

Swift Creek Overlook at Sunrise, Red River Gorge, Daniel Boone National Forest, Kentucky

I could hear—but not see—the distant waters of Swift Creek, far below the narrow rock outcropping that I had all to myself on a morning that found the Red River Gorge choked with fog.

The Fire Wave at Dusk, Valley of Fire State Park, Nevada

There had been a few other people at the Fire Wave during the hour-plus that I had been at this location, waiting for the light to improve.  Fortunately, by the time it reached its apex, I was all by myself.  I could have heard a pin drop a mile away, but there wasn’t anyone there to drop one.

Red Jack Lake, Hiawatha National Forest, Michigan

I was all alone on a morning so quiet I could hear myself think at Red Jack Lake, miles into the Hiawatha National Forest.  It seemed like the epitome of irreverence to make a sound.

Bandon Beach at Sunset, Oregon

Depending on the time of day, you can wander for miles on Bandon Beach and never see another soul.  Not long after making this photograph, I hiked roughly three miles back to Coquille Point, in the gathering gloom, with only the sound of the surf as a companion.

I don’t know if these are among my best images, but they are among my favorites, precisely because of the memories they trigger.  Perhaps that implicitly makes them among my “best”…

[While in the process of preparing the piece below, I read a timely entry on Jerry's Quiet Solo Pursuits blog that helped crystallize my thinking on the subject.  My thanks to Jerry for the inspiration.]

Over the years, I’ve entered prints of my photographs in a number of mixed media art exhibits/competitions.  By mixed media, I mean that multiple forms of visual art are accepted—paintings and drawings; sometimes collages, sculpture and digital art, as well as photographs.  The percentage of entries that are photos typically ranges between a quarter and a half of the total.  In all of these mixed media shows over the years, I have never seen a photograph win best in show—not mine and not anyone else’s either.  In fact, unless it’s the kind of show that gives out honorable mentions, photographs typically don’t win awards at all.

What’s going on?

It’s defies credulity to believe that all the photographs in such exhibits are simply inherently inferior (whatever that means) all of the time.  No, there’s something else afoot.

Cataract Covered Bridge, Cataract Falls State Recreation Area, Indiana

After I entered a few of these exhibitions a number of years ago and began to observe the trend I detailed above, it began to occur to me that maybe—just maybe—in the minds of the people who judge these contests, photography is not on the same aesthetic plane as the other eligible forms of art.

And then, four or five years ago, I had my suspicions confirmed.  After the awards were revealed, I had a friendly discussion with a judge for a mixed media exhibit—a show where my entry received a third place ribbon and another photographer received second place (an almost unprecedented level of success, in my experience, for photographs at a mixed media show).  This woman—a professor of art at a Chicago area university—told me, flat out, that for her to select photographs over, say, paintings or sketches, the photos had to be a clear cut better.  A theoretical tie, in other words, would go to the painting, 100 times out of 100, and if the photograph was slightly better than the painting…the painting would still be selected.

Now, this was probably intended to be a compliment; in other words, my photograph (and the photo of the gentleman who won second place, for that matter) was so good that she couldn’t pass it up.  But hidden in that statement was the dirty little truth that I had long suspected:  photography, in the eyes of most people (including art professionals), is the poor stepchild of the art world.

Sulphur Springs, South Chagrin Reservation, Cleveland Metroparks, Ohio

That episode took place years ago and everything I’ve experienced since has reaffirmed it.  In fact, I’ve mostly stopped participating in mixed media exhibits because I have no intention of banging my head against a brick wall.  To be fair, I have won some awards in mixed media shows, but, as a photographer competing with painters and sculptors (etc.), I’m clearly not operating on a level playing field.

My point here isn’t to whine about being treated unfairly; I know the score and I can choose to participate in spite of what I’ve learned or I can opt out.  That’s how things are–empirically.  I’m more interested in the normative end of the issue: is this how things should be?

I’m not talking about mixed media shows in particular; I’m referring more generally toward the attitude about photography relative to other forms of visual art.  Is it reasonable to conclude that photography is inherently inferior to painting, drawing and sculpting?

Hidden Hollow, McConnells Mill State Park, Pennsylvania

I understand, intellectually, the argument in favor of this thesis.  The superficial argument—and while this may seem like a bit of a straw man, I don’t believe it is—is that the more exalted art forms require unquestioned innate talent to produce a “good” piece of work.  Photography, on the other hand, is more about the camera (or at least as much about the camera) than the person behind it.

The counterargument can be made, of course, that in all cases, a tool is being used—a camera in the case of a photographer, obviously, but the painter uses a brush, a sketch requires a pen (or pencil, or some form of drawing implement), and so forth.

Those promulgating the photography-is-inferior argument will say that the other art forms require not just skill with a tool, but natural talent and creativity to boot.  The artist must conceive of the inspirational vision and then reproduce it using the medium of choice.  But those who support the photography-is-equal claim will point out that those who paint, draw and sculpt often use models (or even—gasp—photographs!) as inspiration for their art.  How is that different, they ask, than a photographer using his/her creativity compositionally, for instance, or to capture and render light?

Olympic High Country and the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Olympic National Park, Washington

I’m obviously biased, but it may surprise some of you to know that I was truly ambivalent about this question for quite some time.  However, I have gradually come around to the opinion that photography is the equal of these other visual art forms and really ought to be truly recognized as such.

I’m curious to hear the thoughts of others.  Please feel free to weigh in below.

I’ve been reading Nate Silver’s book, The Signal and the Noise:  Why so Many Predictions Fail—But Some Don’t, recently.  As someone with a deep formal background in disciplinary statistics and research methods, the subject matter is naturally of interest to me.  While the book dips into many specific examples—without ever burying readers deeply in the minutiae of formulas and statistical nomenclature—its points are conceptual in nature.  Among these precepts, though by no means the most important, is the notion that the trappings of the modeling so widely used for making predictions—data, algorithms, advancing technology, and so forth—are no substitute for human thought.

Jacob Fork, South Mountains State Park, North Carolina

When I was in graduate school at the University of Chicago, I had the good fortune to be given the opportunity to assist in the design of my degree program.  It was a generous mix of standard classes in statistics as well as some less formulaic offerings in the underpinnings of research methodology, including some independent study that focused on some of the limitations of quantitative and qualitative research in the social sciences.  (I’m sure this all sounds like a thrill a minute to most of you, but take my word for it—it was some pretty intriguing stuff.)

Among the more conventional coursework was a two-semester offering in multivariate statistics that was taught by a statistician in the Department of Education.  Roughly ¾ of the students were doctoral students in education.  The remainder consisted of some grad students in the economics department (and me).  The ed students were required to take the courses, and most of them weren’t particularly happy about it.  I can’t say that I blamed them, since most were headed for careers in education academe or in secondary school administration and thus regarded statistics as superfluous to their future endeavors.  The university required that grad students in ed take statistics because of the huge output in educational research in the United States.  Tens of billions of dollars are devoted to research in the field of education every year and the Department of Education felt its students ought to know more than a thing or two about it.

In any event, when we reached the point of the itinerary where we began dealing with tests of statistical significance, a lot of the education students felt that perhaps the effort had been worth it after all.  Here was something akin to a magic silver bullet.  A test of significance, a lot of these folks decided, was a sure fire way of determining whether effects were “real” or not.  Just run the appropriate test on your data and you had a hard and fast answer; your hypothesis could be accepted or rejected and that was that.

Would that it were so.

Battleship Rock, Santa Fe National Forest, New Mexico

I’d been around the block with statistics before and I knew better and the professor, of course, cautioned against the sort of attitude that a lot of the students had developed by explaining (stop me if this sounds familiar) that the tests were just a tool and were no substitute for keen thought on the part of the investigator.

I’m sure many of you are asking a pointed question right now:  what the hell has any of this got to do with photography?  Strictly speaking, the answer is nothing, but humor me for a moment and perhaps you’ll see the analogy.

Many photographers fall into the habit of turning image-making into little more than a rote exercise.  This shows up in the form of letting their camera make decisions for them (exposure, picture modes, focus, etc.) as well as falling into the trap of habitual perspectives and other repetitive aesthetic considerations.  The very term “point-and-shoot” more or less encourages this kind of behavior.  Just whip out your camera and hit the button; no muss, no fuss.  The camera is so sophisticated, it saves you the trouble of making all these extraneous decisions.

Trees in Dancing Light panorama, Acadia National Park, Maine

I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this: the decisions aren’t extraneous; in fact, they’re what the art of photography is all about.  Of course, there are types of shots that lend themselves very nicely to this approach—candid pictures of kids and pets, for instance.  But for the kind of images that I normally discuss on this blog—nature—using this snapshot approach is selling yourself short.

No matter how advanced the feature set, the camera is still just a tool—a means to an end.  A camera’s advanced feature set is no substitute for taking the time to think about what you want to achieve and using the camera to make it happen—even if the best way to achieve what you’re after is to use most or all of those advanced features.  And make no mistake—it’s not about the style of camera.  You can use the most expensive cameras on the market as glorified point-and-shoots and you can use the least expensive digicams in thoughtful, creative, expressive ways.

Regardless, there’s no shortcut, no technological substitute, for self-application.  The art of photography, in the end, is about using cameras, lenses and accessories as a means to express yourself, and self-expression requires self-application.  In the end, there’s no substitute for you.

The Remains of the Day, Baker Beach Recreation Area, Oregon

A number of years ago I was an active participant on an Internet landscape photography forum that attracted a large number of full-time professional photographers as well as a significant group of wannabe pros.  A substantial percentage of these individuals were seemingly obsessed with the matter of style; people were thrilled when, after posting an image, someone would post a comment along the lines of “I knew this was your image as soon as I saw it; it had your distinct imprint all over it.”

Ferns, Shades State Park, Indiana

This focus on developing and refining an identifiable, individual look to one’s images is, at some level, entirely understandable.  People who are trying to make it as professionals often find an obvious benefit in having their work stand out among the crowded marketplace of imagery that predominates the art world.

Anderson Falls, Bartholomew County, Indiana

Some of these folks attempted to establish a style by photographing a particular type of subject matter (mountain settings, for instance, the seaside, forests, etc.), or limiting themselves to shooting in a specific geographic location.  Others focused on certain kinds of light, or on a singular type of photographic perspective.  Some settled on a certain type of rendering (monochrome, for instance, or infrared); a few concentrated on shooting in the panorama format, or on square crops.  Some shot exclusively with ultrawide angle lenses; others stuck with telephotos.  Some used some combination of some or all of these, in concert.

Serpentine black & white, Bayocean Spit, Oregon

The potential value that results from the instantaneous recognition of work as belonging to a particular individual is incalculable, and the undeniably conscious effort among many photographers to develop and promulgate a particular style is entirely unsurprising.

And yet…

Cades Cove Morning, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

I can honestly say that I have never been concerned with portraying a particular style of my own. I have no idea, in fact, whether I have an identifiable singular manner of portraying the landscape; if I do, I’m not aware of it.

Admittedly, as someone who isn’t a full-time professional and has no ambition to become one, my concerns differ from many of the individuals who participated on the forum referenced above.  I always assumed that if I had a legitimate style, it would emerge naturally.  In fact, I not only haven’t tried to develop any style of my own, I’ve actually been a bit concerned on occasion that I not develop one.

Hemlock Hill Winter, Morton Arboretum, Illinois

What on earth am I talking about?  Why would I be concerned about displaying a style–even a naturally emerging one?

I’ve always hoped that I would be able to have my approach to shooting a scene be dictated by the landscape itself, rather than imposing my own vision upon it.  I had always hoped that I would have the self-awareness and open mind necessary to be able to “listen” to the natural world and allow it to instruct me as to how I should go about approaching it in the most aesthetically pleasing–but still organic–manner.

Sunrise Silhouette, Hiawatha National Forest, Michigan

Perhaps that was a hopelessly naive notion.  Or perhaps that is, in fact–and ready yourself for some high irony–my personal style.  Or is it possibly both?  Or neither?  I honestly don’t know.  But it remains my personal ambition, every time I head out with my camera, even though it may very well be an entirely unattainable goal.