Our Own Way

How do we, who pursue a creative path, find this path, our own path or our own way through the jungle of possible expressions and possibilities? How do we navigate our way through this maze towards something that feels genuinely and authentically ours?

The question came up during a workshop I just taught. One of the younger participants expressed frustration about this struggle to figure out who she is artistically and what her path would be. As such, it’s struggle most artists and creatives grapple with or has grappled with. In fact, we all do, at some point, if not all the time. What we are try to figure out gives cause for much frustration, because the path is not visible from the onset, only when looking back after having walked it.

A week has passed since I got back from my latest photo tour. It took place in the lush and beautiful Nicaragua with participants from both Europe and USA. Always, after an intense week of organizing and teaching a photo tour or workshop, I need time to process the impressions and thoughts from the trip. Among others, has been this question about navigating our path.

My immediate response to the participant was to just walk on. Try different directions; try different approaches, even if you start out feeling blindfolded. If you come across some work from other artists that resonate with you, copy it, try it out yourself. Be open-minded for what may come into your exploration. Be curious, and don’t try to define yourself, who you are and in what direction you need to move artistically, particularly not when you are in the beginning of your creative pursuit. You won’t find your way, it will find you—if you let it.

Imagine a world of only two possible paths to travel. One is the path of reason and certainty. Well trodden, well mapped, it is a path of averages: average pleasures, average pain, average joy, average sorrow. Above all, average results. Along this road, you are certain to experience an aggregate blend, a mean, the middle of what’s possible.

The scond path is your path. Springing from within and obeying your heart’s compass, it is unique to you. Your path isn’t devoid of reason or certainty, but it’s not trapped by them, either. It’s not average because there is no data set to establish an average. Just you. At every intersection, you choose the direction using all your faculties, not just reason: intuition, instinct, heart. This might seem like the risky choice, but it’s far riskier to play it safe. On your path, nothing you do is perfect, but all of it is right. You are doing the best you can with everything you have, in tune with your authentic self. Because of this, nothing you do is ever wasted. Every experience contributes to this journey.

Life is about choices. And so is the creative pursuit. Even when we have no clue about where to go. We just have to start walking in one direction, whichever feels right or just happens to be showing up. Of course and since you don’t know what you are doing, the choice may not be the one for you. That’s OK. If you really aren’t suited to it, you are free to go back to the drawing board. But commit to finishing a few pieces of work before moving on. You will learn something about yourself in the process. Each and every step along the creative path is a step forward; there is no wrong turns for an artist, only branches in a continuing evolution as you learn to express yourself.

What matter is that you start. Start before you are ready. Start with fear. Start with uncertainty. Just start. That’s the only way to go about finding your own path.

Photos are taken during the photo tour in Nicaragua.

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Three Photographers. One Week. One City

The passed week I spent in Naples, Italy. The purpose: nothing but photograph people of the city. Once before, I have been in Naples. It’s a hectic and chaotic city, with proud inhabitants. Although such a description fits many, if not all cities, in Italy, Naples is more so than any other I have visited up through the years.

I didn’t travel alone this week. We were three photographers who had decided to make Naples into a common photo project. We arrived respectively from Sweden, Germany and Norway (me that is). At times, we photographed side by side, all three of us, or only two. At other times we photographed on our own.

Being three on such a photo project is both inspiring and pushes each of us to do more than we maybe would have done single-handedly. It’s something about the energy in a group, the group dynamics and maybe also a little competition between the three of us. The latter however, wasn’t more than we respected each other when shooting together, and helped each other whenever that was needed.

I have noticed with amazement before, when photographers photograph next to each other, how different they (or we in this case) see the world and capture it in the images. Even when standing side by side, the photos come out quite differently. And often I saw one of my colleagues and friends photograph something I thought would be rather boring or uninteresting, only later to see an astonishing result. We all have our independent, well developed vision and voice. Experiencing this is maybe the most inspiring part of photographing together during a week such as this.

Apart from the photographic experience, it was not the least good to be able to be on the road again. For two years travelling has been quite limited, if not nonexistent. Being able to travel again feels like being liberated.

Here I have posted some of the images I captured during the week in Naples.

Back from Summer

Summer is on its final last stanza—for us on the northern hemisphere, that is. Days are already significantly shorter; at the longitude I am and today, 3 hours and 17 minutes compare to summer solstice.

Once again, we have had a summer out of the ordinary (and hopefully it won’t be the new ordinary). Like last summer, travel restrictions were imposed as we, as in the world, are still fighting covid-19. In fact, the numbers of infected are once again on the rise many a place.

Nevertheless, some travel has been possible this summer, albeit somewhat limited. I for one, were lucky enough to make it to Iceland before the numbers exploded there. (And yes, I am aware that opening up for travellers have been one of the reasons for the present increase of covid-19 on Iceland).

The main reason for me to go to Iceland was finally to be able to meet up with my love one. We live on different continents, and before Iceland, we didn’t see each other since the beginning of February—last year. I don’t think it’s hard to imagine how it was to be able touch, talk, spend time together and just be with each other again, after the prolonged separation.

Thus, I didn’t go to Iceland primarily to photograph or to experience the country. It was simply the one country that would accept both us coming for a visit. Of course once being there, we did experience as much as possible of what Iceland has to offer, and me being a photographer, of course had to capture images from our travel to this island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

These are some of the photos I captured. This post also represents a return to my blogging, and now I look forward getting in touch with you all again.

A Bit of Normalcy

Last week I had a touch of what some normalcy tastes like. I did my first travel since the world locked down one and a half years ago. Of course, it wasn’t totally back to the good old days. Still, on airports and when flying one has to wear a mask – and when arriving to a country there were covid-19 controls.

Nevertheless, I could travel! Which almost felt a little strange but most of all joyous. Just sitting back and feel the airplane taking off for a new destination was exhilarating, despite the pestilence of having to wear a mask. And then arriving. Touching down in a new place!

Nevertheless, for me the absolute best was finally being able to meet my love one after one and a half years of forced separation. In fact, that’s why Iceland became our first travel destination since the lockdown. It’s one of the only countries that would accept us both, without quarantine as long as you are vaccinated.

I have been to Iceland before, but it was back in the 1980’s, so it’s been a few years. Of course, generally the landscape doesn’t changed much over a few decades, although Iceland is one of few countries in which landscape changes do happen every so often, whenever a volcano erupts. In fact, this year saw a new eruption just south of the capital Reykjavik. Fagradalsfjall volcano erupted in March. After the first eruption, it’s been more of a low flowing river of lava, covering the valley of Fagradal and slowly moving towards the sea.

On the photo, I am overlooking Fagradalsfjall with the crater to the right. Not every day is it possible to see glowing lava, but it’s steadily creating new land. Nevertheless, it was a impressive experience to view.

I will get back with more photos from my trip to Iceland. However, I first need to edit and process the photos I captured. For now, though, I will take the rest of July off from blogging, but I’ll be back in August. Enjoy the summer (or winter if you are in the southern hemisphere). See you again in August.

A Devilish Ride

I continue my ride down memory lane. This time literally. You may have noticed that the last couple of blog posts, I have been writing and showing images from past experiences. Two reasons for this: First of all, I have been re-organizing my analogue photo archive, and then we have this travel ban imposed on all of us, so if nothing else, I can at least travel back in time.

This time, I will take you to Bolivia and a mindboggling bike ride I did quite a few years ago. The ride took me down what used to be the main road between the capital La Paz and Las Yungas, the lowlands north in the country, the spring of the Amazon. Today a new road has replaced it, but back then the Inter-American Development Bank designated the old trade route to be the world’s most dangerous. Every year, around 100 people lost their lives on this important but life-threatening trade route.

The bike ride was organized by a local tour agency and the group was brought to La Cumbra pass at 4700 metres or just under 15500 feet. Ahead of us was a 65 kilometres (40 miles) winding road down 3600 metres (11800 feet) of altitude difference.

The first part went along the new road already under construction, paved and just pure fun. The biggest danger was dogs chasing the bikes—not something you want to hit at a speed of, at the most, 90 kilometres per hour (56 miles per hour).

About halfway down, we enter the old road, caved out along a steep mountainside. Many places the dirt road cut straight into the vertical rock wall. Several hundred meters of free fall to one side made it a trembling experience. In some places, the dirt road is actually narrower than some of the trucks, which used to use it. Most accidents along the death road happened due to truck drivers who had to hurry to earn enough for a living.

While we had sun the first part of the ride, when we enter the old road, fog came in from the mountains.

After a while, I could see absolutely nothing. The fog was like wet cotton. The last remnant of sight, the torrential rain took away. I knew the abyss was there, just a metre or so to the left of where I now raced down a bumpy and muddy dirt road by bike. 300 metres straight down.

As we descended into the valley, the temperature rose. After a few hours we were met by the steaming jungle. As we came out of a narrow gorge and the valley opened up, the fog and rain eased, and soon the sun would be shining from an open sky again. The last kilometres would be pure victory ride.

The Curse of Hit Rate

The photo above was captured on my last overseas photo workshop before the world closed down. That said, I am not going to rant about the pandemic and what it has deprived us of—we all know that too well. Neither am I going to write about photo workshops I hope to get going again—if the pandemic will allow me to do so.

The reason I chose the photo has to do with the photographic process, the workflow of capturing images, if you will. As much as it isn’t depicting something I could plan, but rather capturing the unpredictability of life as such, neither is it an accidental photo.

The photo was taken in La Higuera, a tiny village in Bolivia with only a handful of dwellings. It’s where Che Guavara, back in 1967, was captured by the Bolivian army—or more precisely in a gorge right outside the village. Irma Rosada, the woman in the photo, was only a girl when the world came crashing down on her village. She clearly remembers the capturing of Che Guevare, his imprisonment in the local school and the subsequent execution the next afternoon.

Today, Rosa runs the little store in the village, and the photo shows her baking bread for her store.

Everything in the photo tells the story of Irma, or adds to the story; obviously herself, the bread and the brick kiln, but also the water melon, the dirty ground, the sunset behind trees, indicating the landscape beyond, and even the bit of laundry hanging out to dry. And more so I captured Irma as she was about to empty the kiln from a batch of rolls. Her gaze, her lifted right foot, the habitual handling of the baking tray, her facial expression—all say something explicit about Irma.

The photo tells a story about Irma Rosalind. I took the photo, and it turned out very nicely. I am happy with the result. However, as mentioned, it wasn’t accidental. First of all, I was ready. Secondly, I took a lot of photos to ensure I got it.

The latter, I am not the least embarrassed to say. I take a lot of photos that are crap, not working, looks like shit and will never make it out of my archive. The thing is, I don’t care about all the bad photos I end up with. What I care about is the few left that I can be proud of or feel good about.

Too many photographers have a thing with “hit rate” and being good enough. They think that some day they will be able to take 40 photos in a day that are all masterpieces, because that is kind of the idea you get when you look at exhibitions or a photo books and see the masters’ images. You somehow think they did them all in one take.

Reality is that every photographer who ever did any master images only did a relatively few good photos and even fewer great photographs in a lifetime.

If you look through the negatives, slides or digital files of master photographers, you will see plenty of photos out of focus, too over- or underexposed, empty streets (because the subject hasn’t entered the frame yet or has left before the photographer pressed the shutter release button). Even more importantly, when you study the best photos that define history, you will see that the photographer actually captured a lot of photos of the same scene—and only one survived.

As Elliot Erwitt once said: “It takes a lot of photographs to make one good”.

If you do an internet search on “hit rate in photography”, you will find a lot of articles and posts about how to boost or increase your amount of so-caller keepers. Why would it even matter if it’s 5 percent of 20 percent of captured images that are good? What matters is how many good ones you have in the end. All the rest, and how many, is of no interest at all.

Yes, some photographers blast away and aren’t mindful when photographing, but usually I see the opposite; that is, most photographers are not photographing enough. I see that in every workshop I teach. They may capture three or five images of a situation—and think they have photographed a lot. When in reality they have hardly started.

As you can see the screenshot beneath, I took a lot of photos of Irma Rosado, to get then one I was satisfied with. That’s why it isn’t an accidental photo. And I don’t care for a second how many captures it took to get the one. So, don’t worry about your hit rate. Just photograph.

Last Week’s Instagram

Once a week—or every so often—I will display one of my photos captured and/or processed with Instagram over the last week. It’s a way for me to show photography that usually is quite different from my regular work. The pictures are displayed without any comments, hoping they will stand on their own. But I still very much appreciate any comments you may have.

Last Week’s Instagram

Once a week—or every so often—I will display one of my photos captured and/or processed with Instagram over the last week. It’s a way for me to show photography that usually is quite different from my regular work. The pictures are displayed without any comments, hoping they will stand on their own. But I still very much appreciate any comments you may have.

Transitions

I have always been fascinated by cities and the pulsating energy that emerges on the streets of those cities. That, in turn, has lead to a fascination for street photography. Last year I turned that fascination into a new project that I have called Transitions.

It started during a workshop I attended in Rome last May, taught by the devoted and passionate Swedish photographer Martin Bogren. After the workshop, I displayed some of the images from Rome here on the blog. Since then I have photographed for the project in every city I have visited—or at least tried, not always succeeding. Like last year, I had an overlay between flights in Panama City for about 14 hours, which I had planned to use to photograph for the Transitions project. However, a delayed arrival put a spoke in the wheels for that plan.

Nevertheless, I have enjoyed photographing for the project wherever I have had a chance. Well, enjoyed as well as dreaded. Because when you go out on the street with a camera, you put yourself on the line. I don’t mean literally risking anything (that is, you can of course). What I purport to is the emotional risk; you own insecurity when facing strangers and wanting to photograph them, the discomfort of imposing yourself on others, or even just stealing a moment of their lives.

One of my ideas behind the project is to capture how we human beings are formed by the culture we live in. For instance, our appearance on the street is different in Calcutta than say in Panama or New York. It’s the way we clothe, but also expressed through attitude and temperament. Of course, in our modern, globalized world these differences fades, but still, on a general level, it’s mesmerizing to notice the kaleidoscope of different forms our appearance take from one place to another.

Generally, cities act as interfaces for human beings. They are places we congregate, but not the least places of transitions. We pass through cities to get from one place to another. While transiting, we continuously encounter other fellow human beings, randomly and only for brief moments. Most of them we will never meet again. Yet, we move through cities with acute awareness about how others will conceive of us. We put up a façade; make a display of what we want our fellow human beings to think of us. Thus, cities also become vehicles for a personal transition, from private to public person.

I just read something that stroked me personally. It was words by David Campany, writer, curator and artist, in a foreword written to the book Easy West that showcases less known images by the photographer Harry Gruyaert. Campany writes: “Observational photographers are often lone figures themselves, never quite sure of their aims, hoping something will happen. Through a kind of empathy, they will photograph people in similarly existential or marginal situations. But to be drawn to this in a town so explicitly dedicated to the pursuit of enjoyment is an act, conscious or not, of distance. Wariness, even.”

Here are some of the images I from my last shoot in Seattle. They were actually captured before Christmas, but only lately have I had time to edit and process them.

Earthy Bolivia

As I have written before, the photo workshop I taught in Bolivia in the end of September and the beginning of October was a great experience for all, for the participants and the organizers alike.

Bolivia is a splendid country for a photo workshop. The people are open and hospital, the majority of which live a simple and down-to-earth life, their culture rich and colourful and not the least the nature they are surrounded by, with breathtaking mountain ranges, spectacular valleys and lush forests.

As soon as the participants had acclimatized, they captured amazing images, and better and stronger for each day of the workshop, as could be seen in my post Excellent Photography a couple of weeks ago.

Here are a handful of images I was able to capture myself. They don’t come close to what the participants were able to produce. But that’s how it should be, they were in Bolivia to learn and photography, while I was there to teach and guide. I am only happy they got home each with a strong portfolio of Bolivia photos.