 Guy Tal Photography Newsletter
October, 2008
All text and images Copyright © Guy Tal.
Greetings! I am writing from the road, about half way through my fall color trip, and it is proving to be a spectacular season. In the last 2 weeks the maples peaked in the mountains of Northern Utah. These past few days saw the aspens and cottonwoods put on their vivid displays, and I can't wait to see what the red rock canyons still have in store later this month. I had a chance to pay a brief visit to Colorado and enjoy the amazing views of the golden groves below the ragged peaks of the Rockies. Now back in Utah, I'm enjoying similar displays on the high desert plateaus, sans the prominent peaks but with the added bonus of solitude and silence.
An Homage to William Neill
One reason I'm writing from the road is to alert you to a special offer by master photographer William (Bill) Neill, which expires in just a few days. Though I have no personal stake and nothing to gain from promoting Bill's work, he is someone I very much admire and believe his work is of great importance to landscape photographers. In particular, his recent explorations in an e-book titled "Impressions of Light" are a fascinating study in patterns and color. In an area that has become very saturated over the last few years, it is particularly refreshing and inspiring to see such new interpretations of the landscape. Bill is offering the e-book at a preferred price until 10/7.
The Decisive Experience
Photography is one of many ways to produce images, though perhaps the most versatile. The ability to capture a composition in an instance had been touted by many as its main strength. The reliance on real, tangible elements and available light perhaps its greatest challenge. On the opposite end, a painter will requires significantly more time to complete a piece, but has the advantage of infusing their own light, elements, and mood without concern for perception.
 I have read many accounts from masters of photography on the versatility of the medium: being able to react quickly when something captures their eye, and freezing a defining instance for all eternity long after it is past. Whether it is Ansel Adams' experience of rushing to capture the fleeting light and rising moon in "Moonrise, Hernandez," or Galen Rowell sprinting to capture a fading rainbow over the Potala Palace, Henri Cartier-Bresson's decisive moments, and many others.
On a recent trip I found myself hiking alone in a scenic canyon. The cool crisp autumn air, the silence, the scents of pine sap and decaying cottonwood leaves, the stillness and magnitude of the steep walls around me, all combined into a sense of awe. High on the rim, ancient cliff dwellings nestled under jutting ledges overlooked the canyon below. Morning light reflected from one side of the canyon onto the other, illuminating the old structures with a warm glow. And then the thought came to me: nothing was happening. My amazement and joy of the scene were not inspired by any singular event or rare occurrence. This exact same experience will last the rest of the morning and will repeat itself tomorrow as it had for ages. I was experiencing a profound, lasting impression where Cartier-Bresson would have died of boredom.
I proceeded to climb up to the old ruins and took my time studying and photographing them, seeking interesting angles and admiring the faint glowing light. I then sat by one of them and looked into the quiet canyon below. A soft breeze whispered through the junipers and pinyon pines and my thoughts drifted to what life may have been like for those who built these structures. Their fingerprints visible in the clay, their hand prints painted on rocks, and the remnants of their fires and cobs of maize still strewn about the place, I could almost feel their presence.
Now, days later, I am still inspired, not by any decisive moment or rare event, but by the totality of the experience. Thinking further, I have such memories from almost every meaningful image I ever made. I remember the coffee brewing in a remote camp site and the warmth of the cup in my hands. I remember drops of rain tapping on my tent. I remember aching muscles, flowers along the trail, animals, a night sky in the desert, the sun rising and the moon setting. I remember scents and flavors and sights, not just from the instant the shutter clicked but from hours or even days before and after. And I realize how versatile photography is: for some it is about freezing instances, for others it is about the culmination of multiple experiences, distilling an elaborate story into visual compositions.
In my own work images take time to form. The moment of releasing the shutter is not a instant response to a decisive event, but rather a planned and carefully composed step towards capturing an experience. To me it's not about the decisive moment, but a decisive experience.
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