Shutter Sisters

when necessity breeds resolution

By

A stove, hot enough, becomes effortless. You rake the embers and a new rush of heat floods its belly, ready to consume without coaxing.

Lately I’ve pointed my camera at negative space. I’ve exaggerated the rule of thirds and contemplated emptiness. It’s a new January of a new year. I’ve got eleven months to write a novel I’ve only started with napkin scribbles. I need emptiness. Emptiness makes every new thing possible.

Negative space lives in a hungry belly. That kind of flame eats the air—you can see it. In the vaccuum of the stove, at that degree of heat, the very lack of oxygen burns. Embers on the bottom. A log in its bed, almost superfluous. And a fire that swirls high above, licking its own cast-iron ceiling.

+++

The new years’ resolutions of others put me in a quiet frame of mind. I never make them. I read about it from a distance as though the whole concept doesn’t apply to me. Which could be a fancy way of saying I don’t like publicly aspiring to stuff I might never achieve. Which is a fancy way of saying I am a noncommital chickenshit. Fair enough. For whatever reason, the new year has always meant more to me as the the beginning of winter’s downhill slide towards spring than as the some new era of betterment.

This year feels different.

I’ve got a lot to do. I’ve got to shuffle my life around in order to do it. Issues of logistics and time and motivation aside, I’m in a state of waiting for the smiles and shoulder-taps of ghosts. That’s how it feels, anyway. Muse-like whispers that crop up as soon as you get out of your own way. A story that begins to feed on its own without coaxing.

I’d grimace if you made me call it a resolution, but it’s something to do with the word discipline. Which doesn’t play well with words like stuck or paralyzed or doughy or twitter. It’s the discipline of prepping my creative belly. To get it as hot and as empty as I possibly can.

+++

If your creativity during the upcoming year could take shape—or if the space that accommodates it could take shape—what would it look like? Show us.


the (kinda dreaded, to be totally honest with you) annual holiday family portrait

By

Okay so never mind calling it our Annual Holiday Family Portrait. I’m thinking maybe the Annual New Years’ Family Portrait. Or the Annual Valentine’s Family Portrait. Or perhaps the Annual Anything Other Than Christmas Family Portrait. A strange thing, it is, to desperately bargain with ones’ stubborn self. I think that’s called sado-masochism. Except this breed of it is marginally less fun.

It’s too cold. We give him a hat. He wants chocolate. He gets chocolate. His hands get chocolatey. He wants his Lego, but not near his grabby brother. He’s hungry. He’s full. He needs a swedish massage, a week of sleep, and a brain transplant.

Like I said, I’m stubborn, compelled to rebel against the firing-squad-in-front-of-the-christmas-tree setup. I wanted something different. Something wintery, but not cliche. Something unique, but relatively easy. Something thoughtful, but quick. A mere 18 frames into it and I’m already JUST PROP THEM UP IN FRONT OF THE EFFING TREE AND LET’S BE DONE WITH IT ALREADY. I’m kidding. But I’m totally not.

Help, sisters. Share with me your holiday portraits. The ones you compromised on. The ones you felt indifferent about, but obligated to produce. The ones that were a surprise. The ones you laboured on. The ones that overcame the expected. The ones that thrilled you. I want it all.

the silver lining of emptiness

By

Here’s something I need more of in life.

Space.

Just space.

Look what leaps out of space. Stretching, possibility, deep breath. Unbidden shape.

I don’t mean space as das spielzimmer space. Or even the metaphorical space granted by Friday night toddlers-only pizza parties at grammy and grampa’s house. I’m talking about the kind of contentedness of spirit that causes the head to empty so that new things—ideas, muses, inspirations—simply go SPROING! as they should: like a projection. A thing that gives you a poke. Or that drips languorously, catching the light, catching attention.

Space is what allows a SPROING! to turn from drop to glistening pool. Sometimes it’s simply time. Sometimes it’s a fleeting moment of true self-love. Self-confidence. Faith in oneself. Or perhaps a newfound moxie, one that finally has you shake off those harrumphing, cynical voices that hiss that’s silly or that’s not worth your time or that’ll never go anywhere, so why bother?

Is negative space a positive for you, too? Does yours crop up like a surprise, or is it intentional? How does emptiness amplify the sliver of what you frame in portraiture, nature, landscape, still? How’s it make you feel to tilt your camera—and your notion of what’s possible—that much further than convention prescribes? Show us.

photography, bound and printed: a unique collaboration

By

She looked at the print—a heap of apples fallen in the grasses of an orchard—and said this is good, you know and for the first time, a calling sort of energy radiated from my 20-year-old Pentax K-1000.

With that offhand encouragement, Angela Lang, a friend and photographer, lit my spark. I had no idea why it was a good shot, or what I’d done to capture it—but now, I wanted to know. Since that visit more than a decade ago, Angela has become a sought-after wedding and family photographer in the San Fransisco Bay area.

Here, Angela shares with us her experience of working with an author on a creative project—her first book, Vintage Knits for Modern Babies by Hadley Fierlinger, which she photographed—and gives us tips for cultivating both a unique eye and unconventional photographic opportunities.

Tell us how it felt to unpack your camera bag on day one of your book shoot.

On day one of the photo shoot I felt ready! I had prepared for this project for months and was organized. I had white-boarded which knitted outfits went on which model and set up a complete timeline. One lesson I’ve learned from wedding photography is that the more organized you are beforehand with checklists, the more smoothly the actual day will run.

When you started out as a professional photographer, what were your goals? Was book collaboration ever on your creative radar, or was this an unexpected opportunity?

I started out with portraits of children, then weddings and maternity. I had always thought of doing a book, but it wasn’t until Hadley Fierlinger approached me about it that the right opportunity presented itself. I first photographed Hadley’s family 10 years ago, and then after she moved to New Zealand and started her knitting business, she asked me to photograph the knits for her website and blog. Hadley was really happy with how the images turned out, and when she got her book deal, she contacted me to be the photographer. I was thrilled of course, and jumped at the chance to work with her again. And who wouldn’t love photographing children wearing beautiful vintage knits?

What would you say are the top three things a photographer can do to cultivate opportunities like this, or to get the attention of publishers/authors?

1)  Have a distinctive style of photography. I’ve always thought that a photographer who specializes in a few types of photography has a better chance of getting noticed than a jack-of-all-trades shooter.

2)  Be a connector. The more people you know, and the more you maintain those friendships, the better your chances for being the one people think of when projects come up.

3)  Play to your strengths.  If you have a great voice, get on the phone and call people.  If you have a great knowledge of the technical part of cameras, get online and start sharing some of that expertise. Do what you love and the work will come.

Photography is such an important element in helping an author to bring a vision to life. Tell us about the experience of collaborating on such a visual, artistic project. How did you and the author work together? 

Hadley and I did most of the planning via email because she lives in another country. There were specific concepts she had envisioned for the book, and they were a great starting point. For example, it was her idea to have a white ball of yarn to mimic a snowball for the mitten-wearing model. She suggested that it be shot as a close-up along with the mittens, and I added a fine-arty spin by shooting it with a shallow depth of field and having the model hold it out and cover her face with it. 

Please share with us the details of this project from an assignment point of view. How many images were needed, and how many days of shooting did it require? Was it studio work, or in natural light? How was it all organized, and how much of the aesthetics and shooting conditions were up to you? How is a contract such as this structured and negotiated?

I photographed for seven days straight. The editors let me choose whether to shoot consecutively or to spread it out. I chose a consecutive approach to keep the creative juices flowing, and because I wanted to keep my studio set up. I also was eight months pregnant at the time and knew that the sooner we did the photo shoots, the better! I have a natural light studio and an outdoor shooting area as well, and those spaces are where all of the shooting took place. I think natural light looks so much better on children than studio light.

On any given day, there were 1 or 2 editors at the shoot which was a great help and made everything move along smoothly. The editors arranged the knits and props, made sure the models were wearing the right outfits, kept track of the checklist, and switched out the heavy backdrops. I had full creative license with the photography. I was shooting with a tethered system, meaning that my camera was hooked up to the computer by a cord. After each frame, the image just taken could be viewed by the editors, which allowed them to continuously see the direction I was taking the shoot.

Ten Speed Press had a standard contract for this project. The fee I was paid covered the photography and all the pre-shoot planning, including conducting a model search, and corresponding with Hadley, Ten Speed Press, and the parents of the models. The contract also covered expenses, such as a vintage baby carriage, and buying extra reflectors and sandbags to hold the backdrops in place. I organized my models by age and size and then made my recommendations to Hadley, who helped to choose which models would fit the look she needed. One child was so perfect for the project that Hadley knitted a special outfit for her just so she could be in the book!

What’s your photographic dream? This can be a retreat, an adventure, a class, a mentor, a piece of gear… anything.

I love sharing information and inspiring people, so I would also like to teach photography some day. I also love to travel, so my goal is to shoot destination weddings, and my dream is to eventually retire to Provence and shoot travel photography.

Tell us three of your must-have tools/tactics for photographing children and families—not including camera gear.

1) Make the photo shoot fun for the child—have bubbles, Cheerios, and some classic children’s books on hand.

2) Keep shooting! That special moment when it all comes together is instantaneous and you’ll miss it if you blink.

3) Go with the flow. Children have short attention spans and may be happy one minute, sad the next, and then laughing again. Roll with the emotions and keep trying different things, and you’re sure to find the right approach that helps the child light up and have fun.

What have you learned from your book project? Will you do it again?

I would absolutely do another book! It was a lot of work but so much fun.

As a professional who has photographed more than 150 weddings and more than 600 families, Angela Lang began with a B.A. in Photojournalism and a career as a professional photojournalist. Her work has appeared in various newspapers, The Associated Press, Here Comes the Guide, The Knot, and the Pottery Barn Kids catalog. Her first book collaboration, Vintage Knits for Modern Babies, has just hit bookstore shelves.

the thrill of serendipity

By

Ten minutes later my beloved friend walked barefoot down that beach in cream silk, orchids in her hair. Later she saw this shot of all her friends and family waiting with the chupah and she said there were surfers? and I smiled, knowing this unexpected adornment was more fitting than all the flower garlands in the world.

This Monday, show us your unexpected adornments. Those moments where, camera in-hand and focused, you’re given a gift – a chance encounter so random and so ideal that even two or three disbelieving hits upon the shutter are enough to capture a gem.

you could get the same from steel-cut oats, but steel cut oats are not as much fun, and also not remotely frothy.

By

It feels like it’s been ages since I’ve hung out here. Jen and Stephanie have brought home a wealth of stories from Africa, and meanwhile, I overslept and the dog ate my homework. Which is utterly transparent code for I blanked last week, completely (or was it the week before?) to the point where it didn’t even occur to me until Thursday or somesuch, and adventures save the day.

I’ve been posting here at Shutter Sisters since the beginning, starting out with my point-and-shoot in hand. This circle is well-worn denim, a retreat that just fits. I love it here and yet I fear, always, that I don’t have much to add other than OMG CUTE. OMG, LIKE, LOOK. A BOOGER.

I could write about lens angst. About how I branched out from my ever-present nifty-fifty for a 10-20mm wide angle, which I’m now wishing I could trade in for a fixed 35mm, or a macro, or really, anything else. Or I could write about how the light has changed, perhaps the day after I took these photos. A pelting rain, then frost and summer is gone, instantly–and how that changes the tone of photography, winter’s scent in the air.

But it’s late and all I have for you is OMG CUTE. OMG LIKE, LOOK. Well, maybe a bit more than that.

Today, show us photos that capture one thing — not just for kids, but any prop, a piece of clothing, an accessory — that draws your camera. That thing that makes you think, whenever it crosses your frame of view: one of these days, I’ve got to capture that. Because it makes me happy.

first s’more

By

Let’s start the week off being luscious and joyful. I want to see fingers licked clean and glorious mess, a slurping of life. Hands gotten dirty and all the better for it. I want to see souls big and little lost in one of those perfect, unguarded moments — not just to do with food, but with all kinds of tasting and sensing and revelling in the world. Go.

breach

By

I don’t know what it was that led me to check my Recent Activity tonight. It’s what I used to call my ‘under the radar’ Flickr account – reserved for en masse shoots of other families, of personal gatherings. Birthday parties, family reunions. Chocolate on the faces of cousins, sandy toes at the beach, intimate moments post-christening.

These are not my children to share. Best keep these in a place that’s not attached to the blog. Best keep these in a place that’s a quiet needle in the biggest haystack anyone’s ever known.

‘Private’ is an extra step that prevents internet-averse relatives and friends from finding the photos they want to see. And so I went everything but, restricting my photos from searches, refusing to use any manner of descriptive text, tags or any other mode of sharing.

No one untoward will ever find my images in the hugeness of the internet – especially not when there are so many dolts out there tagging their kids’ photos with ‘bathtime fun’. I do nothing to promote them, and only pass on the URL to people I’ve sat next to at dinner. Simple as that, right?

I’ve written elsewhere about my contempt for people who spread fear, uncertainty and doubt about sharing photos on the internet. You know, those who shriek smugly about how we’ve all got it coming to us, damn short of fire and brimstone, for being so dumb as to share images online. As if Flickr amounts to putting our children out on the front stoop wearing sandwich boards that say FREE FOR THE TAKING.

To say that sharing photos on the internet is a wholly bad thing is akin to saying that kissing is nothing more than a gateway for disease. It’s a tragic overstatement that would have us all stifle joy and creativity and community.

And then tonight. Two recently-added Contacts, both of whom belong to several red-flag-raising groups – one of which was had a discussion topic called “We R Not Monsters!!!” which justified the stealing of child photography for avatars on sites such as Orkut.

How the hell did they find me? How is that possible?

Needless to say, I’ve now gone private on this account. Flickr allows you to share a ‘guest pass’ on private photos to people who are not Flickr members – a URL which, when emailed directly, allows access but not random browsing. This is news to me, and I’m grateful for it.

I do not believe in internet-birthed bogeymen. My squeamishness is simply because I want to share on my own terms. But how realistic it is to promise those terms when there are people out there who have no respect for image ownership nor any regard for the justified protectiveness of parents?

So tell me this, and forgive me for bringing up a potentially unsolvable conundrum. If this post generates a bunch of oh god that’s it I’m done the sky is falling comments I will pelt you with rubber chickens. I want to hear measured thought and actions. I want to know how you feel, how you tackle this.

How do you share responsibly on the internet – especially photos of people and children who are not your own? How do you balance the need for self-promotion (for those of you who are professional) and creative sharing with the need to protect the moments you’ve captured?

a city’s embrace

By

On Sunday bloggers scattered — some to the airport, others to shop. Many ended up at the Art Institute of Chicago. I stood in front of Picasso’s Nude Under a Pine Tree as a couple approached.

I love this one, said the woman. Their eyes travelled over the canvas. She continued, speaking softly as though in a church. He didn’t see a nose or legs or breasts. He saw bodies and faces as shapes, as triangles and squares. And so that’s how he painted them.

In Chicago I couldn’t get enough of line and shape. Containers of electricity all standing poised, perhaps slightly forward, into the wind. We were all overwhelmed. There were tears, and there was delight and mischief. But most of all there was recognition.

I know you! I see you. Come over here. You are shaped like me.

Empty spaces smile, waiting to be filled.

+++

Today, think like Picasso. Show me photographs that crackle with line and shape — and not just explicitly. Blur your eyes from simple subjects and see blocks of colour, balance, interplay. And share!

Pictured above, clockwise l-r: Chicago reflected in the mirrorball; serenity at the Art Institute; downtown seen through an Institute window; the lovely Jenny the Bloggess.

when stories come alive

By

 

I went out there with my camera feeling like a ghost hunter. And I was, in a way. Looking to find evidence of spirits that exist in this very place, or in some other parallel version of it.

Plenty of things make you a medium. Words, a camera, a paintbrush, an instrument. Voices whisper and nudge, wanting to be passed on, and so we do. And hope to god we don’t get a tick in the doing of it (IN THE EAR NO LESS).

What you see above is the land where it all happens — this is where a story was born which became a book, and where Eric, the pirate hunter, lives in that other dimension. That’s his farmhouse, which smells like fresh cut wood. His parents bake bread in a kitchen wood oven, a glowing iron hearth that is the pulse of their home. They keep peacocks and they milk goats and yes, Virginia, there are ticks.

Eric and Missy, and Joe, and all the others — they talk to me, whispering in a way I’d never hear if I didn’t know to listen. They tell me how they need things to be. One day the pirate hunter said to me You’re going to have to show them. You‘ve got to convince people it’s real, just like I had to.

I know,  I replied. But I don’t know how.

Didn’t I tell you?  he replied. I’ve got my dad’s old polaroid. That’s how I record the evidence that’s too big to fit into the sailmaker’s chest.

And so on his behalf I became a twelve-year-old boy on a mission. I became my character. I skulked through the woods watching for clues, and I felt watched. What I ended up with was a peek inside Eric’s journal, complete with observations, speculation and context.

Photography helps stories to crackle and spark, don’t you think?

+++

Today, show us how you’ve applied photography to storytelling, or applied it in other mediums. Show us scrapbooks and collages, canvas prints and websites. Or, show us processing that lends a vintage or artistic feel. What about that treatment made your photo feel ‘done’ — and what role does photography and processing play in your storytelling life?

Thanks to all of you for bearing me as I pull the trigger, to share this enormous day. It’s my birthday, and the day of the book site reveal (in preparation for the release in October). The photographic aspect has been the cherry of the creative process. Pure maraschino joy. Shutter Sisters is my home, and when I’m at home and happy I dance around naked like a fool. And so here you have it.