I am learning how to see. Often, the tool I have in my hand—be that the camera or the lens, or the choice of color or black and white—or the activity I have chosen to undertake affects how and what I (can) see. I try to be neutral, to simply accept what my environment presents to me, but personal bias imposes limits that restrict, or at minimum, affect my sight.
“Limits” is just a word but conceptually, the term makes people bristle, especially those who imagine they have none, but also those who feel actively restrained by any limits they sense, and who feel more alive by resisting them. I admit that perhaps I used the wrong term — that the baggage weighting the word make it easy to misinterpret. I know very well that if we don't first agree on the right word and its definition it is easy to misunderstand the whole. Sometimes this compels us to explore and examine, and sometimes to dismiss. Clearly, the former is preferable if understanding is one's objective.
In this instance I don't see (or use) the term "limits" with anything but a neutral tone or definition but I can see where "boundaries" might be more accurate, or easier to explore from. Boundaries are the left and right paint stripes that guide my trajectory and I feel they are less restrictive than they would be if I described them as limits. We accept and self-impose limits unconsciously in every aspect of life because we simply cannot adapt appropriately, organically, naturally, and technically to the world around us. We cannot avoid this.
I recently read about a photographer who decided that the lens he had available placed limits on the work he was required to do. He found it frustrating, and negative. He solved that problem by acquiring a different tool, a new lens which—without doubt—came with its own limits. To quote Klaus Kinski, "You leap over the wall of one ghetto and find yourself in another ghetto."
How we relate and respond to the boundaries we find and construct around us says much about our temperament, and how it influences the creativity we apply to life and work, and to express ourselves within those boundaries. It is important to notice the physical and metaphorical barriers between us and nature — between us and OUR nature. We put them in place ourselves, consciously sometimes but mostly not and then opine that people or tools are limiting or affecting our experience.
In the context of photography, focal length may be considered a limit. We can "solve" that issue with a zoom lens or learn to work within the boundaries delineated by the tool: close the distance we normally keep, change elevation, etc. But more creatively, we can learn to see differently as a skill or attitude separate from the tool, i.e. am I seeing through my eyes or seeing through the tool? Is how I see (and therefore relate to) the world being limited by the tool I carry to capture and represent that world? How can we be sure that the tool is not influencing how and what we see?
If all I have is a 50mm lens but I see 35mm natively I can resist or feel constrained, or I can accept this as an opportunity to change how I see and relate to the world around me. I can consider a fully manual camera with no light meter as limiting or as a teacher, something that compels me to expand my skill, and also my sensitivity. Or I could trade it for a camera with a Program or Auto mode and let the algorithms decide how I should capture an image, which means an algorithm also decided how I would see it.
The same thesis holds true regarding physical activity. Moving through the world sedentarily (by automobile) affects my relationship to the environment. It is impossible to not be influenced by the barrier created by the car itself both in terms of input and output. Should I choose a bike to navigate the same environment my sensitivity is heightened, not simply by proximity and the lack of barriers but also by the risk, the danger, which naturally expands my awareness. The limit—or boundary—then is speed; I pass through the environment so quickly on the bike that I see less, interact less, and record less than I would if I was moving at a slower rate of a pedestrian. By walking I reduce the barriers between myself and the environment further so that I may experience more with each step. While I have traded away the distance I might cover on a bike or in a car, sometimes that tradeoff is worth it.
I spent a couple of months shooting only 50mm lenses. What I see and how I see it changed during that time. I made photographs I would never have seen much less shot before I set myself a boundary. I know my way around wide: I used a 21mm on my M6 for action because shooting close and wide was my shtick for a while. The 28mm or 24mm primes were a staple in the mountains from 1990 to 2000, 35mm isn’t wide in my opinion but others think it is and I’ve shot my fair share with that focal length. Wide is standard—it’s how I see—anything tighter than 35mm feels claustrophobic but I also need to learn and grow so I made 50mm the new normal for a while and my map of the visual world expanded rather than narrowed.
Two years ago my friend Nicholas told me that if I want to really learn to shoot pictures—or maybe it was to learn a system—I should shoot one body and one lens for a year. I tried and didn’t even make it through one month. I was conflicted. I didn’t know what I wanted. Actually, I did. I wanted it all. But that was before I understood that limitations can be freedom, or at least show the way to it.
Limits, boundaries, whatever … are often the key to growth: if the tool is fixed it’s the user who must adapt, and that’s the whole point, right?
Situations have limits, and it's a good reminder that we have to adapt to make use of or improve our perspective.
Perfect timing: I’m packing my camera gear for a short trip, and your words will be useful reminders.