Still life, and death

By Erik Hogan

Landscape and nature photography revolve around the skills of observation and noticing. At first glance, these may seem synonymous. However, there is a subtle distinction between the two. This may not adhere to strict dictionary definitions of the these terms, but perhaps suggests a useful way of conceptualizing the skills. Observation is looking in its broadest sense. It involves being fully present in the moment, completely aware of one’s surroundings. This includes the sounds, ambient temperatures, weather, the flora and fauna all around, and most importantly, the light. Capturing the light is the art of photography.

So, focusing in on a specific element of the surroundings would be the skill of noticing. With this skill, value is assigned to a specific element, such as the light, and it is sought out. Perhaps sought not to the exclusion of all else, but definitely as a priority.

Ansel Adams, possibly the most iconic landscape photographer of all, once famously stated that “A good photograph is knowing where to stand.” This is a beautifully simple truth, but it overlays an extensive amount of groundwork that makes this possible. Knowing where to stand is a culmination. A finely honed skill of observing and of noticing the light. It is a relationship with Nature herself, to not only witness and recognize what she offers in the moment, but also to understand her moods, temperaments, and motives, and to anticipate what she may reveal next.

Still life photography is different. Within this genre light is not appreciated as is. Rather, it is utilized as a tool. Crafted, manipulated. In order to even begin to do this effectively, the light itself must be understood. The temperature of it, the intensity, how the temperature affects the brightness, its proximity, and angle.

There are rules for shaping light like this. And likely formula to quantify it. However, as a novice to this genre I lack this educational understanding. Instead, what I can bring to bear is some level of proficiency in the observation and noticing of the qualities of light. Couple this with an adventurous curiosity, eagerness for experimentation, and a willing acceptance of the failures ahead. It should be enough to get started on this path.

One looming question remains for an aspiring still life photographer. What on earth do I photograph?

Of course, the subject must be something already at hand around the house. Natural things with texture. Or maybe color. Something that just by its visual image evokes memories in the fingertips. Something that induces a viewer to taste its visual impression. To the kitchen I go!

Eggs from a friend’s farm. Not bleached industrially produced eggs, these have each their own unique visage. Different colors, speckled imperfections, textures. They beg to be cradled in a naturalistic container of some sort. I do not have a wooden bowl, but a simple basket will do.

It is time to wrap the eggs with light. But, while light is the tool that reveals, perhaps artistry lies in its inverse. This is shadow work, embracing the darkness, sculpting negative space. To craft the shadows is to swathe the subject in mystery. How much to reveal, lay bare to the light, to expose? What portion to keep secret as an enticement to the unknown?

Egg work offers only so many possibilities. Or, more correctly, the possibilities that I see at this stage in my still life journey are limited. My mind turns to color and, keeping in the realm of foods, evoking taste with a visual. Avocados stand out as the next point of interest.

Slicing it, dicing it, I spread the avocado’s velvety greenish yellow flesh on a cutting board and sprinkle it with coarse salt. But the angle of view does not sing as eloquently as with the eggs. This display calls for an overhead shot.

Delicate, silky, buttery with the granular contrast of salt. So smooth on the tongue. The fresh taste of green. Can the eyes savor this image? Does the light describe what the mouth already knows? After taking the photograph I no longer have to wonder.

Consider grasses. Often overlooked as trivial or commonplace, grass can catch light and stand radiantly aglow. Could this be replicated in the studio? The power line cut behind my property holds grasses aplenty, still standing tall in mid winter. After a short excursion I’ve gathered a bundle, rife with seeds ready to catch the wind and take flight.

Arranged in a vase, light delicately caresses the stalks from the side. I want to back light them. To let the light work its way through the grasses and seed, igniting their inner luminance. But I don’t know how to do this here. Shooting towards the light in the studio would be to have the light source in the image. There is a geometry at play here that will have to wait for future experimentation.

These fragile stalks stand courageously in the midst of the surrounding negative space. The darkness reveals as much as the light, defining the character and quiet strength of this simple subject.

The grasses may do well with some company. A deer skull looking down from a nearby bookshelf may appear striking in oblique warm light. This skull was found by a bow hunter. A few years ago that hunter shot a doe in the power line cut where these grasses grew. The deer fled into my yard and the hunter came to my door in the darkness, asking to search for her. I helped and found her down in a patch of ivy. The skull was the hunter’s grateful gift.

I arrange it with the grass. These elements somehow seem uniquely suited to one another.

How much does the unconscious contribute to creativity? Art may be a collage of rational choices, but how strong is the subconscious influence that guides them?

I process the images I’ve taken and begin to see a connection. Without having made any conscious decision to do so, the subjects I’ve chosen to photograph represent the entire span of life itself. The eggs are anticipatory, symbolic of new birth and beginnings. Ripening, vitality, and attainment are demonstrated in the avocado. The grasses show a receding, and a dispersal of seeds to pass on life to the next generation. And finally, the skull. Death itself. A quiet disintegration back into the elements that gave rise to that noble animal.

This notion of death lingers. As does the idea that working with light is actually a crafting of shadows; sculpting mystery. Embracing the shadows is a loving acceptance of death and by doing so, a celebration of life. Darkness, the eternal unknown, frames our own existence. Within the snapshot of a life, it may be the shadows that reveal the texture, the color, the radiant luminosity of the individual standing with dignity in the negative space.

This is still life, an embrace of light and dark.

Erik Hogan is an Athens police officer whose photography focuses on capturing the beauty of nature.