This sequence of images addresses the question: “How to give life to a still-life?” I was initially attracted to the rectangular shape of my wife’s partially finished jigsaw puzzle. It reminded me of a 35mm frame. Over three days, I gradually lifted the composition to include elements of our backyard. When fog moved in on the fourth day, the composition was already settled.  Interesting images exist around us. They are there, waiting to be seen.

I left this branding and castration. It was too visually chaotic, too (typically) unpromising. I drove to a cafe, ate lunch, felt guilty for leaving and returned. In my absence, part of the branding operation had broken away from the main group. Suddenly there was promise. It was based on the prairie.  It was visually clean all the way to the graceful horizon line. I took up a position in front of the cowboy with the knife in his mouth. He had the most character. From there, the image evolved. Near the end, a man walked through the middle of the composition, carrying a red bucket.  The pressing question was: “Bucket in, or bucket out?”  The photograph works for several reasons, most prominently because of the distant cowboy. He, and the head of his horse, both rise above the horizon line--the very same line that had first appealed to me. 

A sequence of images from the long-term project: “Modern American Realism.” In this episode, I meet a family travelling from Santa Fe to Albuquerque, introduce myself & make a conventional portrait for them. I then concentrate on the composition that I want--one that effectively connects the family in the front layer with the passing landscape on the back layer. I was benefitted by knowing the specific landscape features we were approaching.

This sequence of images represents the work of one day--a day off from my assignment, “Life of Tolstoy.”

The day began with an image of pears ripening on the window sill of our hotel room. It’s a straight rendering of how I first saw the scene. From there on, the pears, curtain, lenses, and point of view all change. That’s uncharacteristic of my straight documentary style, but on this welcome day off, it was consoling to arrange the scene. There are two key moves. In the third image, a distinct dividing horizonal line is introduced. From then on all images are divided by such a line. In the final image, the curtain re-appears. A breeze lifts the curtain bringing its satin hem into the bottom of the composition. It is the presence of the hem that--to me--gives life to this still life. But the picture also partakes of the power of internal framing and of the unifying connection between the pears and the cuppola of St. Basil’s Cathedral. In both the first and the last photographs, I recall the peacefulness of this day off. 

I was teaching impromptu portraiture when we encountered artist Rick Daskam at work. With his permission we walked around him then chose a low angle where separation of layers could be achieved.  In the final frame, Daskam is leaning in, his brush poised. But the paint brushes behind his back were also expressive. They too had to be articulated.

A fine photograph should seem inevitable. In my experience, that ideal is actually acheived by significant work and thought invisible to the viewer. Very characteristically, the setting for this tableau came first. Even empty, this walled street corner spoke to me. It had the structure, atmosphere, and light I desired. Onto this stage late one afternoon two women walked. The finished photograph works because of a delicate harmony between setting, gesture and expression. This image seems inevitable. But, so too does the final frame--of the younger woman seeing her friend safely home. Her head is above the horizon line, her hands are clasped. We need not see her face to know this is a universal moment of loving friendship.

The basic elements of this episode were promising: a young Muslim woman working out on the parallel bars, surrounded by complex structure and an almost seamless setting of brown beach and soft gray sky.  Only the graceless lifeguard hut on the back layer spoiled the scene. I moved to block the boxy building with her body. She did the rest, even giving me the gift of a portrait in the next to last frame. In the final frame, her foot touches the bar and ends the episode.

I saw this moment from a distance. Her stance--far from the other spectators at the steeplechase--and her attire caught my attention. I drew nearer, photographing in a way that kept her head above the hillside. Finally, I took a position behind her. That stance preserved privacy for both of us. The horses raced past. Then, suddenly, a rider-less, run-away horse thundered close by, followed by a chase rider in a red coat. The woman was unmoved and the episode ended as it had begun--with the woman in enigmatic isolation. 

I was stopped by the strange symmetry of the situation: two pelicans side-by-side with two fishermen. I made an exposure, stepped back, re-composed and waited.  A man entered the scene. With head down and hand on phone, he seemed, in his obliviousness, an ideal subject for the “Modern American Realism” project I was undertaking.

In a well-made environmental portrait three elements--expression, gesture, and setting--will harmonize. How to achieve this? Stance is the answer. 

In this sequence of a female sloth, my stance changes three times. Initially, I am behind the sloth (to not be disruptive). Then I’m alongside. Finally, I’m in the river. I am there to dramatically change the graphics of the beach setting, to see her expression and to capture her gesture. This is the essence of street  photography brought to wildlife work. 

I only had moments with Sister Ethel before she wandered off. In that brief spell, I situated her hands and asked her to look up. I stepped back and quickly composed the image, concentrating on separating her head from the background building.  Only before the third and final exposure did I notice the critical need to create space between her neck and the building beyond her.

I was stopped by the space. In its elegant emptiness, it spoke to me. I stepped back, composed and waited. A woman rounded the corner. There are many elements in this seemingly spare image but the ones that I gaze at are the shadows. They are not touching.

June 24th, 1972. I kept a black and white photo diary in the 1970s. I wanted it to tell the story of what my life was actually like: itinerant, impromptu, and a little edgy. My color work was cleaner, quieter, and more controlled. The differences can be seen in a comparison of the black and white contact sheet and color images of the church.  

Two years, and a world of feeling, separate the contact sheet and color versions. But I believed in both.

The atmosphere this morning was ideal: a cool, luminous mist that lasted. The gentle backlighting allowed me to render the fishermen as 

individuals and as statues. Only once was this potential realized: when Clarence’s dory, on the back layer, was lifted by a swell and he rose above the horizon.

The atmosphere this morning was ideal: a cool, luminous mist that lasted. The gentle backlighting allowed me to render the fishermen as 

individuals and as statues. Only once was this potential realized: when Clarence’s dory, on the back layer, was lifted by a swell and he rose above the horizon.

This photograph is a fast first impression.  Though rough, such images have an importance.  They reveal the elements that caught my attention. 

In this case, the elements were: the large glass tank, the fish, the pavement, and the distant tree. The finished photograph has the same elements, just seen differently.

Once the composition was committed, it was only a matter of time until the iridescent fish cleared the tree and their light flashed in my eye.

I passed this complex, disjointed scene of sliding glass window, courtyard, tree and tiled roof twice a day for four weeks. Each day my thought was the same: “There’s an image to be made here.” Then one day the window had been slid in such a way that the elements came together. Then it was just a matter of gathering myself to make an image that in its discipline gave vibrancy to a scene that I believed was always there. Other than the rigorous framing, the most influential element is the strong light which splinters the scene and gives life to this still life.

My father was right: bad weather really does make good pictures. I was thinking about that as I followed the dramatic light of a departing thunder storm. The light led me to an imposing array of giant grain elevators where I was cut off by the arrival of the trans Canada train. I jumped out of my car and made a fast photograph of the conductor lowering the steps on the now slowing train. When stopped, the entire train gleamed in the clear, late afternoon light.  But, I was attracted to the dining car and its windows. Through them, I could see small conversations taking place. 

Edward Hopper had been able to make meaningful art from this---Why couldnt I? 

When a waiter appeared, I let his gesture finish the photograph.

The assignment was “Ireland” which sounded good. But, it had gotten off to a bad start with a mugging in Dublin and week of rain in Dingle. The Innkeeper said: “You should come sailing today. My dog Jock has a relationship with Fungi, the wild dolphin that lives in the bay.” I didn’t believe him, but went anyway. For 20 minutes nothing happened. Then Fungi suddenly shot straight up from the sea and chirped at the dog. As this continued, I photographed---but in the wrong way.  I forgot the setting--Ireland--and chased the subject. Finally, I came to my senses and created a composition with Ireland on the back layer and the dog on the front layer.  Fungi’s re-appearance completed the composition.

I was re-tracing the footsteps of Charlie Russell, “The Cowboy Artist of Montana,” with Ken Perry, the current owner of the ranch where Russell had once been a cowboy.  In the high country, we encountered Gerald Mack, winter keeper of the ranch. After dismounting, Gerald took criticism from Ken for riding his horse too hot in the cold weather. Gerald took the criticism head down, matching the attitude of his horse and dog. I stepped in and composed an image of the three figures. As Ken finished speaking, the horse shivered, alerting the dog. Gerald looked up. I was composed and waiting.

Tolstoy requested burial near a ravine on his rural estate, Yasnaya Polyana. He chose the site because of a fondly remembered game he played in the ravine as a boy. The game was to find a fabled stick upon which was inscribed the secret of happiness in life.

Around the grave, visitors are asked to respect a “Zone of Silence.” I never heard a word spoken, not even when a wedding party arrived and the bride placed a bouquet on the grave site.

These two images illustrate the idea of going back to a place, person, or theme. Over time, the “go back” has been one of the most productive--and pleasurable--aspects of my  photographic life. Ulm was small even by Montana standards: just a scatter of homes surrounding two grain elevators and a bar. But, I liked the way it set up and often stopped to appreciate it in different light. There was an appealing, basic quality to the town, beginning with its name and the way that word worked with the basic word BAR.

I was after images of bison skulls to complete a biography of the artist Charlie Russell. The bison skull was the iconic detail of Russell’s artistic life: an emblem to him of the lost world of the old West.

After a year of searching, I found this array of weathering skulls and made a series of images. They were bland.

Six months later, I returned. It was bitterly cold but the light was strong. In the few seconds of it that remained, I set up to make a still life connected to a landscape. Then a bull bison strode into the background, completing a composition worthy of Russell.

Because I was not a credentialed member of the resident press corps, my access on the Imperial Palace story was severely restricted. As a “work around,” I received an invitation to the Emperor’s Spring Garden Party from the American Embassy. It wasn’t enough. Upon discovering me just inside the Palace entrance, Mr. Takahashi, my minder, exploded in anger: “Do not move from this spot!” I turned, looked at “this spot,” and thought: “I can work with this!”  I composed the picture and waited. I timed only one element: the central umbrella. If it “fit,” then the other elements of the choreography also could work.

In hopes of getting the elusive image of the Emperor of Japan in action, I flew to Tokyo and then took a train to a distant island off Kyushu.The event was the Emperor’s annual tree planting ceremony. But the event was a deadly “photo-op.” There would be no real photograph of the Emperor. But the prepared site of the tree planting appealed to me.  In its minimalism--three miniature Mt. Fuji’s surrounding a subtly shaped soil bowl--I felt I was seeing something distinctly Japanese.  Occasionally, a still isn’t still, It speaks.

I was after an image of “the wet,” NW Australia’s season of torrential rain. But, it was the driest “wet” in decades. So, I went looking for a cyclone. I told the pilot to stay outside the storm. That didn’t happen. Inside the storm, our situation seemed unsurvivable. To settle myself, I photographed. I also did it because there was a unique beauty to the storm. I’d never seen a luminous horizon like it created and I knew I never would again.

My mindset this day did not include making this photograph. I was concentrating on men unloading seal pelts from the hold of a ship. In the midst of that single-minded shoot, I made a single exposure of this still life. For years the image went unvalued. I was not aesthetically enough developed to appreciate it. That took years.   Consequently I’ve come to believe that we photograph ahead of ourselves. The person we are to become makes the image, not the person we are. Now this image is the foundation of a set of photographs that pays homage to the Japanese aesthetic philosophy of wabi-sabi, a tenet which espouses seeing beauty where none is evident.

One of my aspirations as a photographer was to be present with the subject of the image. That led me to use medium wide angle lenses. Looking through the viewfinder gave me a sense of being part of the scene. It does the same for the viewer. These two images--of a dog in a car and a canoe in a swamp--both work because the viewer is taken into the belief that the car and the canoe are theirs. 

One of my aspirations as a photographer was to be present with the subject of the image. That led me to use medium wide angle lenses. Looking through the viewfinder gave me a sense of being part of the scene. It does the same for the viewer. These two images--of a dog in a car and a canoe in a swamp--both work because the viewer is taken into the belief that the car and the canoe are theirs. 

By now, you have read, seen, and started to internalize the how and the what that gives a long life to many of the photographs in this book. Sam hopes that you will now be able to apply these lessons to your own unique process as a photographer: when a scene or subject grabs you, work with your instincts and apply some of Thad’s lessons, and you will create images that have a long life.

By presenting contact sheets as well as finished photographs, this books suggests that the act of seeing, seeking, and making a photograph is a dynamic process with no absolute ending, as time and thought continue to shape an image. The life of a photograph begins at the intersection of the imaginative inner world of the photographer and the illustrated outer world of encountered experiences. It often begins imperfectly, as life rarely presents fully finished photographs. An image evolves, often from a single strand of visual interest: a distant horizon, a moment of light, a held expression. These initial, often imperfect impressions are what stops you in the first place and compels you to take a picture. But, as the lessons in the book demonstrate, the making of a finished photograph requires a bit more thought and effort. Fortunately, some of this thought and effort can be directed in the same manner as Thad Abell encouraged young Sammy at the 

train station in Painesville, Ohio:

“Compose and wait...for something to happen...for a gesture...for a moment.”

“Look for a strong diagonal...a leading line...an S-curve.”

“Get down and take a low angle...try a different point of view...a different perspective.”

“Life is rich with many layers...try to separate the layers so each stands on its own.”

“Compose carefully...head above the horizon line...micro-compose to separate different elements.”

“Keep the sun to your side...go out in a storm...bad weather makes good pictures.”

When several of these elements come together in the making of an image, there is a good chance that the photograph will have a much longer life than a snapshot that was grabbed with an initial impulse. A photograph with a long life cannot be memorized, so the viewer feels the need to come back again and again to refresh what was seen. A photograph with a long life is not perfect, as imperfections create interest and intrigue. A photograph with a long life creates connections and opens a door on memory--inviting the viewer into your scene so that it becomes the viewers’s scene.