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Bruce Barnbaum

The Art of Photography

2nd Edition

A Personal Approach to Artistic Expression



The Art of Photography, 2nd Edition

A Personal Approach to Artistic Expression

Bruce Barnbaum
www.barnbaum.com

Editor: Gerhard Rossbach

Project editor: Joan Dixon
Project manager: Lisa Brazieal
Marketing manager: Jessica Tiernan
Layout and Type: Petra Strauch, just-in-print@gmx.de
Cover design: Helmut Kraus, www.exclam.de
Cover photo: Bruce Barnbaum

ISBN 978-1-68198-210-6

2nd Edition (1st Printing, February 2017)

© 2017 by Bruce Barnbaum
All photographs © Bruce Barnbaum (unless otherwise noted)

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To the wonderful memories of my mother and father.

For as long as I can remember
they both encouraged me to teach.


Bruce Barnbaum
PO Box 1791
Granite Falls, Washington 98252
USA
Phone or Fax: (360) 691-4105
barnbaum@aol.com
www.barnbaum.com
 Table of Contents
Acknowledgements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi Step 4: Suggested Procedures for Those Having
Trouble Envisioning a Final Image. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
1 Communication Through Photography. . . . . 1 Step 5: Planning a Strategy for a Final Image . . . . . . . 71
Enthusiasm. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 How Your Eye Differs from Your Camera. . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Judging Your Own Personal Response . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Alternative Approaches. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74

2 What Is Composition? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 5 Light. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77

How the Human Eye Sees. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Looking at Light. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Unified Thought. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Exercises in Learning to See Light More Accurately. 82
Simplicity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Light Determines Form. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
Expressing Your Own Point of View. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Types of Lighting/Quality of Light. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Simplicity vs. Complexity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Light as Seen by the Eye and by Film or Sensors,
and the Inverse Square Law. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
3 Elements of Composition. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Contrast and Tone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 6 Color . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Line. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 The Color Wheel and Color Sphere. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Form. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Color Composition. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
Line, Form, Contrast, and Emotion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Color Families, Color Contrast, and Their
Pattern. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Emotional Effects. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Balance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Subjectivity and Mood of Color. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
Movement. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Working with Color Digitally. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
Positive/ Negative Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Working with Color Traditionally. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
Texture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 In Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
Camera Position . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Focal Length of Lens and Cropping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 7 Filters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
Depth of Field. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Black-and-White Filters for Film . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
Shutter Speed. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Examples with a Hypothetical Landscape . . . . . . . . . . 123
Relationships . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Contrast Control with Filters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
Involvement with the Scene . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Infrared Film and Filters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
Rules, Formulas, and Other Problems and Pitfalls . . 61 Color Correction Filters for Traditional Film
Imagery. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
4 Visualization. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Neutral Density and Polarizing Filters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130
Step 1: Photographic Looking and Seeing. . . . . . . . . . . 66 Problems Associated with Polarizers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
Step 2: Composing an Image. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Digital Polarizing Filter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
Step 3: Envisioning the Final Image. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Digital Black-and-White Filtration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
Digital Color Filtration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S • vii
 8 The Zone System of Exposure for
Black-and-White Film. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
A Brief Overview. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
Film’s Response to Light: Building the Zone System. 138
Translating Negative Densities to Print Tonalities. . 139
The Light Meter—How It Works. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
Review of Negative Exposure Procedure. . . . . . . . . . . . 144
Using the Zone System to Depart from Reality . . . . . 145
The Zone System for Color Negatives. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
The Zone System and the Inverse Square Law. . . . . . . 147
In Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
9 Contrast Control and the Extended Zone
System for Black-and-White Negatives. . . . . . 149
Chapter 9 Overview. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
The Negative During Development. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
The Bellows Analogy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
Putting Higher Zones to Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
Reciprocity Failure. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
Examples of Decreasing and Increasing Contrast. . . 157
The Exposure/Density Curve and Zone 4 Shadow
Placement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
Differences Between Photography and
Sensitometry: Texture vs. Tone and Zone 4
Shadow Placement. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
Developing the Exposed Negative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
Explanation of Compensating Development. . . . . . . 166
Two-Solution Compensating Development for
Negatives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
Development Procedures for Sheet Film and
Roll Film . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170
The Zone System and Roll Film . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173
Negative Materials and Developers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175
10 The Print. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179
Black-and-White Enlarging Papers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
Variable Contrast vs. Graded Papers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
viii • TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S
Fiber Base Papers vs. Resin Coated (RC) Papers. . . . . . 182
Black-and-White Paper Developers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
Making Contact Proof Prints. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
Preliminary Work Toward a Final Print . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184
Make Test Prints, Not Test Strips. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
Dodging and Burning. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
Integrating the Entire Process: Visualization,
Exposure, Development, and Printing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191
Burning with Variable Contrast Papers . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
Advanced Darkroom Techniques . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
Inspection, Evaluation, and the Myth of
“Dry-Down”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203
Potassium Ferricyanide Reducing (Bleaching) . . . . . . 206
Final Fixing of the Image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210
Local vs. Overall Contrast Control. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212
Scale. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
Selenium Toning Prints. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
Other Toners. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215
Chemical Coloration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216
Full Archival Processing of Prints. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217
Toning, Intensifying, and Reducing Negatives. . . . . . 218
Cold, Neutral, and Warm Tone Papers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
Review of Contrast Controls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219
Infinite Contrast Control for Black-and-White after
Negative Development . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220
Color Printing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221
The Final Product Is What Matters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222
Scanning from Film. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
11 The Digital Zone System. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231
Basics of Digital Exposure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232
The Sensor’s Useful Brightness Range . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234
Translating Theory to Excellent Digital Exposures. . 235
The Histogram—The Heart of the Digital Zone
System. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236
The RAW Converter—Processing the RAW Exposure. 242
 High Dynamic Range Images—The Extended Zone
System for Digital Photography. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254
Converting Digital Color Exposures to Black-and-
White. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259
Panoramas and Other Image Combinations. . . . . . . . 259
12 Image Adjustments—Using the Digital
Tools. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
The ACR Tool Chest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265
ACR Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277
The Photoshop Tool Chest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278
Returning to ACR from Photoshop. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
Closing Thoughts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
13 Traditional, Digital, Art and Technique. . . . 293
Art, Technique, and Their Importance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
Choosing Digital or Traditional. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
Some Closing Thoughts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298
14 Exploding Photographic Myths . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301
Myth #1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 302
Myth #2.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305
Myth #3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309
Myth #4.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 312
Myth #5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 316
Myth #6.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318
Myth #7.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321
Myth #8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324
Myth #9.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 324
Myth #10. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 326
15 Presentation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 329
Dry Mounting Prints. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 331
Making Positioning Guides for Print Placement. . . . 332
Spotting, Etching, and Correction of Defects. . . . . . . . 333
Print Finishing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 335
16 Photographic Realism, Abstraction,
and Art. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 337
Photography as Fine Art. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 340
Photography and Painting—Their Mutual
Influence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 340
Some Personal Examples. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 342
The Strength of Abstraction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346
Inwardly and Outwardly Directed Questions . . . . . . . 347
The Power of Photography. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349
17 Approaching Creativity Intuitively . . . . . . . . . 353
Intuition in Science. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 354
Avoiding Intuition. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355
Understanding and Misunderstanding Intuition. . . 356
Examples of the Intuitive Approach. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 357
Applying Intuition to Your Photography. . . . . . . . . . . . 359
Conclusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361
18 Toward a Personal Philosophy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363
Flexibility. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 363
Visual Arts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364
Nonvisual Arts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365
Expanding and Defining Your Interests. . . . . . . . . . . . . 367
Limitations of Photography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 375
Developing a Personal Style. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 378
Self-Critique, Interaction, and Study. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
APPENDIX 1
Testing Materials and Equipment for
Traditional Photography. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383
APPENDIX 2
Enlarger Light Sources. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387
Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 389
TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S • ix
This page intentionally left blank
 Acknowledgements
λ
Few books are the work of one person in complete isolation
from the rest of humanity. This book is no exception, and I
would like to thank the many individuals and organizations
that have been helpful in putting it together.
First, I wish to thank the workshop participants who
read my early papers and manuscripts, gave me encourage-
ment to expand my writing concepts, and suggested addi-
tional topics to be considered. Other workshop participants
pointed out errors, suggested improvements, and identified
segments that were unclear upon initial reading. Altogether,
the quality of the book rests upon these hundreds or even
thousands of “co-editors” who helped me improve my writ-
ing over the past 35 years.
Second, I must commend a number of people who have
helped me in my entry to digital photography. Bennett
Silverman deserves special thanks for his tremendous help
and his writing of the digital chapter for the first edition
of this book. In addition to Ben, I thank Rajmohan Murali,
Ron Reeder, Don Rommes, and Franz Messenbaeck for their
needed and wonderful help getting me on board.
A number of individuals have been a great help by sup-
plying me with ideas over the years. These ideas have subse-
quently been incorporated into my photographic thinking,
and therefore into this book. Prime among them are:
Jay Dusard, who introduced me to potassium ferri­
cyanide bleaching of prints, and who has been a great friend,
a fabulous workshop collaborator, and my best honest critic;
Ray McSavaney, who helped me start our first private
workshop program, the Owens Valley Photography Work-
shops, and gave me the idea of extremely dilute negative
developer solutions (the “compensating” development tech-
nique) to greatly control negative contrast. He also inspired
me with his artistic approach to life. I’ll always miss Ray as a
friend and consummate artist;
Don Kirby, who has not only taught numerous work-
shops with me, hiked and photographed with me, rappelled
into Lower Antelope Canyon with me long before it became
grossly commercialized, and camped with me throughout
much of the unsurpassed Utah Canyon Country, but who
also has given me great insight into the value of negative
masking and helped me expand my creative and instruc-
tional abilities;
Heike Maskos, a workshop student who has worked
closely with me on previous editions of this book, making it
read better and look better, and who has been of greater help
than she will ever recognize or admit;
Alexander Ehhalt, who introduced my self-published
book to Gerhard Rossbach, founder and publisher of Rocky
Nook, who worked with me on this and other books, and has
become a trusted friend and workshop co-instructor;
Reed Thomas, a wonderful friend and sometimes work-
shop co-instructor, who has opened up my eyes and thoughts
to alternative ways of seeing any scene;
Morten Krogvold, who has inspired me with his powerful
imagery and his ability to motivate photographers to higher
achievements, and to touch them to the core of their souls;
And, above all others, my wife, Sonia Karen, who has
made the good things throughout my photographic career
possible by thoroughly supporting me and helping me in
all phases of my endeavors. She is the quiet, lovely gem of
my life!
To each of them, and to everyone else who has given me
ideas, techniques, and tips of all sorts, I wish to say thank you
for your contributions to this book.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS • xi
xii •  : 
 CHAPTER 1

Communication
Through Photography
λ
Photography is a form of nonverbal communication. At its best, a pho-
tograph conveys a thought from one person, the photographer, to another, the
viewer. In this respect, photography is similar to other forms of artistic, nonverbal
communication such as painting, sculpture, and music. A Beethoven symphony
says something to its listeners; a Rembrandt painting speaks to its viewers; a
Michel­angelo statue communicates with its admirers. Beethoven, Rembrandt,
and Michel­angelo are no longer available to explain the meaning behind their
works, but their presence is unnecessary. Communication is achieved without
them.
Photography can be equally communicative. To me, the word photograph has --Photography is a form of
a far deeper meaning than it has in everyday usage. A true photograph possesses nonverbal communication.
a universal quality that transcends immediate involvement with the subject or
events of the photograph. I can look at portraits by Arnold Newman or Diane
Arbus and feel as if I know the people photographed, even though I never met
them. I can see landscapes by Ansel Adams, Edward Weston, or Paul Caponigro
and feel the awesomeness of the mountain wall, the delicacy of the tiny flowers,
or the mystery of the foggy forest, though I never stood where the tripods were
placed. I can see a street photograph by Henri Cartier-Bresson and feel the elation
of his “decisive moment,” captured forever, though I was not beside him when it
occurred. I can even see a tree by Jerry Uelsmann floating in space and feel the
surrealistic tingle that surrounds the image. I can do this because the artist has
successfully conveyed a message to me. The photograph says it all. Nothing else
is needed.

◀◀ Figure 1-1: What Was … What Is

An ancient Western Red Cedar tree, thirteen feet in diameter, in the rainforest of Washington’s North Cascade Mountains, cut
down a century ago, has been replaced by dozens of tall, skinny trees, which together contain less wood (board feet) than the
single cedar contained. None of the new trees are Western Red Cedars. There are no ferns, shrubs, or mosses on the ground,
so the replaced forest can support no wildlife. Timber companies say, “there are more trees in America than ever before,” and
they’re right; yet it is an utterly deceptive claim. It’s a dead forest; a tree farm. The photograph, near my home, was designed
to show the damage of industrial clearcutting, euphemistically called “harvesting.” No other art form can make such a state-
ment as powerfully as photography.   • 1
 A meaningful photograph—a successful photograph—
does one of several things. It allows, or forces, the viewer to
see something that he has looked at many times without re-
ally seeing; it shows him something he has never previously
encountered; or, it raises questions—perhaps ambiguous or
unanswerable—that create mysteries, doubts, or uncertain-
ties. In other words, it expands our vision and our thoughts.
It extends our horizons. It evokes awe, wonder, amusement,
compassion, horror, or any of a thousand responses. It sheds
new light on our world, raises questions about our world, or
creates its own world.
Beyond that, the inherent “realism” of a photograph—the
very aspect that attracts millions of people to taking “selfies”
and other everyday digital snapshooting, or much of 35mm
traditional film shooting—bestows a pertinence to photog-
raphy that makes it stand apart from all other art forms. Let’s
briefly review a few examples. At the turn of the 20th century,
Lewis Hine bridged the gap between social justice and artistic
photography with his studies of children in factories, and the
work led directly to the enactment of humane child labor laws.
In the 1930s and 1940s, Ansel Adams, Edward Weston, and a
host of others raised public consciousness of the environment
through their landscape photographs. Into the mid- and late
20th century a number of national parks, state parks, and
designated wilderness areas were created based largely on
the power of the photography. During the Depression years,
Margaret Bourke-White, Walker Evans, Dorothea Lange, and
others used their artistry to bring the Dust Bowl conditions
home to the American public. Today, photographs comparing
the size of shrinking glaciers with photographs of the same lo-
cation a century or more ago have alerted those who can com-
prehend facts about the reality of global warming and its deep
problems. (Unfortunately there is too much pushback against
obvious facts for much progress to be made.) But the bottom
line is this: used well, photography can be the most pertinent
of all art forms (figure 1-1). For the intent and purpose of this
2 • C H A P T E R 1: C O M M U N I C AT I O N T H R O U G H P H O T O G R A P H Y
book, let us concern ourselves with photography as a powerful
art form and documentary form, not for its fun-filled every-
day uses as personal remembrances.
To create a meaningful statement—a pertinent photo-
graph—the photographer must gain an insight into the world
(real or created) that goes far beyond the casual “once-over”
given to items or events of lesser personal importance. The
photographer must grow to deeply understand the world,
its broad overall sweep and its subtle nuances. This intimate
knowledge produces the insight required to photograph a
subject at the most effective moment and in the most dis-
cerning manner, conveying the essence of its strength or the
depth of its innermost meaning. This applies to all fields of
photography.
How does a photographer proceed to create this meaning-
ful statement and communicate emotion to others through
photography? This is a complex question that has no clear
answers, yet it is the critical question that every photographer
of serious intent must ask and attempt to answer at each stage
of his or her career.
I believe the answer to that question revolves around both
personal and practical considerations. On the personal, inter-
nal side are two questions:
1. What are your interests?
2. How do you respond to your interests?
The first question asks what is important to you. It’s unlikely,
maybe impossible, to do good photography with subject mat-
ter that don’t interest you. The second question points you in
the direction of how you want to express yourself, and even
how you want others to respond to your imagery. Or, stated
differently, how do you want your photograph to look, so that
others will get the message you want to convey? To create the
photograph you want to make, you’ll have to consider such
issues as design and composition, exposure, lighting, camera
equipment, darkroom or digital techniques, presentation of
the final photograph, and other related considerations that
turn the concept into a reality.
Let’s start with the first of the two personal, internal ques-
tions: What are your interests? Only you can answer that ques-
tion. But it is critically important to do so, for if you are to en-
gage in meaningful photography you must concentrate your
serious efforts on those areas of greatest interest to you. Not
only that, but you must also concentrate on areas where you
have strong personal opinions.
Allow me to explain my meaning by analogy. Did you ever
try to say something worthwhile (in ordinary conversation)
about any subject you found uninteresting, or about which
you had no opinions? It’s impossible! You have nothing to say
because you have little interest in it. In general, that doesn’t
stop most people from talking. Just as people talk about things
of no real interest to them, they also take pictures of things
that have no real interest to them, and the results are uni-
formly boring.
But let’s go further with this analogy. Take any great
orator—say, Winston Churchill or Martin Luther King, Jr.—and
ask them to give an impassioned speech on quilting, for ex-
ample. They couldn’t do it! They’d have nothing to say. It isn’t
their topic, their passion. They need to be on their topic to dis-
play their greatest oratorical and persuasive skills. The great
photographers know what interests them and what bores
them. They also recognize their strengths and their weak-
nesses. They stick to their interests and their strengths. They
may experiment regularly in other areas to enlarge their in-
terest range and improve their weaknesses—and you should,
too—but they do not confuse experimentation with incisive
expression.
Weston did not photograph transient, split-second events;
Newman did not photograph landscapes. Uelsmann does not
photograph unfortunate members of our society; Arbus did
not print multiple images for surrealistic effect. Each one
concentrated on his or her areas of greatest interest and abil-
ity. It is possible that any one of them could do some fine work
in another field, but it would probably not be as consistent or
as powerful. They, and the other great photographers, have
wisely worked within the limits of their greatest strengths.
Enthusiasm
The first thing to look for in determining your interests is
enthusiasm. I cannot overemphasize the importance of
enthusiasm. I once heard that three human ingredients,
when combined, will produce success in any field of endeavor:
talent, hard work, and enthusiasm, and that a person can be
successful with only two of those attributes as long as one
of the two is enthusiasm. I agree. Photographically, for me,
enthusiasm manifests itself as an immediate emotional re-
sponse to a scene. Essentially, if the scene excites me visually,
I will photograph it (or at least, I will take a hard second look
to see if it is worth photographing). It is purely subjective. This
positive emotional response is extremely important to me.
Without it, I have no spontaneity and my photographs are
labored efforts. With it, photography becomes pure joy.
Enthusiasm also manifests itself as a desire to continue
working even when you’re tired. Your enthusiasm, your excite-
ment, often overcomes your fatigue, allowing you to continue
on effectively as fatigue melts away. On backpacking trips, I’ve
often continued to photograph long after the others settled
down at the end of the day simply because I was so stimulated
by my surroundings. Once in 1976 on a Sierra Club trip, we fi-
nally arrived at our campsite after a long, difficult hike. Every-
one was exhausted. But while dinner was cooking, I climbed a
nearby ridge to see Mt. Clarence King (elevation 12,950 feet) in
the late evening light. It was like a fugue of granite (figure 1-2). I
called to the group below to come see this stunning mountain,
ENTHUSIASM • 3
▲ Figure 1-2:
Mt. Clarence King
This grand crescendo of
granite rises lyrically as
evening light brings out
each ridge, each buttress.
I used a red filter to cut
through any haze (though
no haze was apparent)
and to enhance the clouds
by darkening the blue sky.
but even without backpacks or camera equipment, none did. I
was the only one to see that sight!
Likewise, I’ve worked in the darkroom until 3, 4, or 5 a.m. on
new imagery because the next negative looked like it had great
possibilities and I wanted to see if I could get a great print.
More recently, I’ve spent equally long hours at the computer
working to transform RAW digital images to final TIFF files,
effectively oblivious to the fact that I was at the keyboard and
monitor for hours after the midnight gong. In essence, I just
couldn’t wait until tomorrow to work on new images. These
are not things you do for money, but for love.
In the field, if I don’t feel an immediate response to a scene,
I look for something else. I never force myself to shoot just for
the sake of shooting or to break an impasse. Some photog-
raphers advocate shooting something, anything, just to get
you moving under those circumstances. That’s pure nonsense.
Why waste time on useless junk when you know in advance
that it’s useless junk? Snapping the shutter or pressing the

4 • C H A P T E R 1: C O M M U N I C AT I O N T H R O U G H P H O T O G R A P H Y

cable release is not an athletic act, so I don’t have to warm up
doing it, and you shouldn’t either.
But once I get that spurt of adrenalin, I work hard to find
the best camera position, use the most appropriate lens,
choose filters for optimum effect, take light meter readings
or carefully check the histogram, and expose the image with
great care using the optimum aperture and shutter speed. All
of these things are important and require thought and effort.
The initial response to the scene is spontaneous, but the effort
that follows is not!
I believe this approach is valid for photographers at any
level of expertise, from beginners to the most advanced. When
you find something of importance, it will be apparent. It will
be compelling. You will feel it instantly! You won’t have to ask
yourself if it interests you, or if you are enthusiastic about
photographing it. If you don’t feel that spontaneous motiva-
tion, you will have no desire to communicate what you feel.
On the other hand, I think the prime motivation for most
snapshots is either the knowledge that someone else wants
you to take the picture, or your own desire to take it to show
◀◀ Figure 1-3: Morten Krovgold
One of the world’s truly great photographers, Morten struck me as a marvelous portrait subject
with his strong Viking-like facial characteristics. But what would be the best angle to photograph
him, and what type of lighting would convey that feeling most effectively? I finally decided it was
the strength of his near profile. That evening, under the dim light of a chandelier, he propped his
chin on his hands with his elbows on a low table for the 25-second exposure. Deep background
tones surrounding him increase the feeling of strength.
where you have been. Neither of these motivations are con- - I’ve worked in the dark-
cerned with personal interpretation or with personal expres- room until 3, 4, or 5 a.m.
These are not things you do
sion, and neither have that internally compelling aspect. Pho-
for money, but for love.
tographs like these, where you’re standing at the sign to the
entrance of Yellowstone National Park—probably just to prove
that you were really there—or nearly one-hundred percent of
selfies, are pure fun, memory-laden images, but have little or
no artistic merit.
It has long struck me that people who attempt creative -- It has long struck me
work of any type—scientific, artistic, or otherwise—without that people who attempt
creative work of any type
feeling any enthusiasm for that work have no chance at suc-
without feeling any enthu-
cess. Enthusiasm is not something you can create. Either you
siasm for that work have no
have it or you don’t! True enough, you can grow more inter- chance at success.
ested and enthusiastic about something, but you can’t really
force that to happen, either. If you have no enthusiasm for an
endeavor, drop it and try something else. If you are enthusias-
tic, pursue it! Just be honest with yourself when you evaluate
your level of enthusiasm.
Ask what you are drawn to, what intrigues you. Most likely
you will take your best photographs in the fields that inter-
est you when you have no camera in hand. If you are deeply
interested in people—to the point of wanting to know them
thoroughly, what really makes them tick—it’s likely that por-
traiture will be your best area. If you want to know more about
people than their façades, it would follow that, with camera
in hand, you will dig deeper and uncover the “real” person.
While I don’t consider myself to be a portrait photographer,
I’ve made some portraits of people I know and like, that have
been meaningful to me (Figure 1-3).
ENTHUSIASM • 5

Are you excited by passing events, or by action-filled
events, such as sports? Are you fascinated by the corner auto
accident, the nearby fire, the dignitary passing through town
today? If so, you may be inclined to photojournalism or “street
photography.” The latter term encompasses a wide cross sec-
tion of candid photography that was elevated to an art form
by Henri Cartier-Bresson, Weegee, and others. The approach
differs greatly from formal portraits in that the subject mat-
ter is usually unrehearsed and often unexpected. This type
of photography (which is certainly a form of documentary
photography at its best) is geared to those who seek the unex-
pected and transitory.
Consider a further aspect of this pursuit: the most incisive
efforts in this realm often don’t concentrate on the event per
se, but rather on the event’s effect on the observers or par-
ticipants. In many cases, emphasis on human reaction and
interaction reveals more about human nature—and about
our world—than the occurrence itself. Straight photojournal-
ism is all too often involved with the event, and only on rare
occasions rises to the insightful commentary that transcends
mere recording to become true art.
6 • C H A P T E R 1: C O M M U N I C AT I O N T H R O U G H P H O T O G R A P H Y
◀◀ Figure 1-4:
Ghost Aspen Forest
Soft, hazy sunlight made this
photograph possible. Bright
sun would have been too harsh
for the delicate tones I sought.
The bleached branch at the
lower right maintains the lines
and movement of the diagonal
trees. The rippled reflections
were more interesting to me
than a mirror reflection would
have been because they reflect
only the vertical trees, not the
diagonals.
Are you stimulated by pure design, or by color arrange-
ments? Perhaps abstraction is suited for you. Brett Weston was
a prime example of a classically oriented photographer using
the “straight silver print” and abstraction applied to almost
any subject matter. Experimental pursuits such as multiple
exposures, photomontage, double- and multiple-printing,
solarization, non-silver methods, the nearly infinite digital
opportunities for subtle or radical manipulations, and any
other conceivable approach is fair game in this realm. The
only restraint is your lack of imagination or your unwilling-
ness to experiment.
Perhaps your interests lie elsewhere. Analyze them. If
you cannot define your interests, try your hand at a number
of these alternatives and see which appeal to you most and
which least.
I have evaluated my interests, and it may prove instructive
to see what I have found. Today I photograph a wide variety of
subjects, but I started from a more limited base. Initially na-
ture was my sole interest. Slowly my interests grew to include
architectural subjects and then branched out widely within
both of those broad subject areas, while making forays into
▶ Figure 1-5: Raccoon Tracks
The cracked mud of a drying streambed held the paw prints of a
raccoon, the first sign of life I saw in the burned landscape, bring-
ing tears to my eyes. It was a joyous indication that some of the
local residents had survived the fire.

other areas. As Frederick Sommer once said, “Subject matter

is subject that matters!” I realized that there was no reason to
limit myself unnecessarily.
My initial interest in nature was all-inclusive. I was (and
still am) drawn to trees, mountains, open fields, pounding
rivers, tiny dewdrops at sunrise, and millions of other natu-
ral phenomena. I am fascinated by weather patterns and the
violence of storms, the interaction of weather with landforms,
and the serenity of undisturbed calm. Geology excites me, and
I feel awed by the forces that create mountains and canyons.
All of these phenomena appear in my photographs along
with my interpretations, my awe, my excitement. Without a
camera I would still exult in them. With a camera I can con-
vey my thoughts about them. Then others can respond to my
thoughts, my interpretations, my excitement.
In 1976, near Yosemite National Park, I came across a grove
of aspen trees killed by flooding from a beaver dam. The pat-
tern of dead trees was remarkable, but the bright sunlight was
too harsh to allow a photograph. However, my familiarity with
weather patterns in the Sierra Nevada, and my observations
of cloud patterns that day indicated a storm could be coming
within a day or two, and that if I were to return the next day I four-month period for a limited edition portfolio titled “After-
might be lucky enough to obtain a photograph under hazy sun math.” The photography ended up as a major project, but it
or soft, overcast lighting. As expected, by noon the next day a began as a sideline to my interest in the natural history of the
layer of thin clouds—the immediate precursor of the storm— region under special conditions.
softened the light and I made my exposure. My interest in In 1978, I began photographing a fascinating set of nar-
weather helped me make the photograph I wanted (figure 1-4). row, winding sandstone canyons in northern Arizona and
A strange-looking landscape and my interest in natural southern Utah, the slit canyons, and my lifelong interest and
history drew me to take a series of short hikes—once or twice educational background in mathematics and physics has
a day—in late 1978 and early 1979 through an extensive area of greatly colored my interpretation of them. I view their sweep-
the Santa Monica Mountains in Southern California that had ing curves as those of galaxies and other celestial bodies in
been burned by a chaparral fire. Starting two weeks after the the process of formation. The lines and the interactions of
fire, my walks took me to unusual vistas, through the velvety forms strike me as visual representations of gravitational and
blackness of mountains and valleys, and, in time, through electromagnetic lines of force that pull the dust and gases of
the spectacle of rebirth as the region burst into life again space together to form planets, stars, and entire galaxies, or
(figure 1-5). I chose ten of the photographs made during that the subatomic forces that hold atoms and nuclei together. To

ENTHUSIASM • 7
▲ Figure 1-6: Hollows and Points, Peach Canyon
I see the gracefully sweeping lines of the slit canyons as metaphors of cosmic forces made visible, as if we could see gravitational or electro-
magnetic lines of force. If we could see those forces between heavenly bodies (stars, galaxies, planets, etc.), rather than seeing the heavenly
bodies themselves, they may well look like this. I feel that this photograph contains particularly elegant and enigmatic examples of this
effect, with sculptured lines so lyrical that it would make a Michelangelo or Henry Moore jealous with envy.

▶ Figure 1-7: Nave From North Choir Aisle, Ely Cathedral

A series of compound columns, arches, and vaults frame the distant portions of the cathedral, with still more arches and columns,
indicating even more around the bend. Indeed there are more. The unity of forms amidst the complexity of the architecture is
a vivid example of Goethe’s statement that “Architecture is frozen music.” This is also an example of positive/negative space in
8 which the nearby columns and archways form the positive space, and the distant nave the negative space.
9

me, a walk through those canyons is a walk through billions
of years of evolving space-time, and I have tried to convey that
vision through my photographs (figure 1-6).
Over time, I recognized that many of the same facets of
nature that intrigue me are also present in architecture. Archi-
tecture can be awesome and uplifting; it can supply fascinat-
ing abstractions and marvelous lines and patterns. It often can
be photographed without the need for supplementary light-
ing, and in that respect it is much like nature and landscape
photography. Turning my attention to manmade structures
was an inevitable expansion of my interests.
10 • C H A P T E R 1: C O M M U N I C AT I O N T H R O U G H P H O T O G R A P H Y
◀◀ Figure 1-8: Chicago, 1986
Seven different modern skyscrapers huddle together in downtown
Chicago, creating interesting interactions within the geometric ste-
rility of each. Somehow these giant urban file cabinets can become
visually interesting when viewed in relation to one another.
After ten years of commissions in commercial architec-
tural photography, my first major effort at architectural sub-
jects for my own interpretation came in 1980 and 1981: the
cathedrals of England. Prior to my first cathedral encounter,
I would have had an aversion to photographing religious
structures; it’s just not my bag. But upon seeing them for the
first time, I was awestruck by their grandeur. My deep love of
classical music crystallized my interpretation of their archi-
tectural forms as music—as harmonies and counterpoints,
rhythms and melodies—captured in stone. I also saw the ar-
chitecture in mathematical terms, as allegories on infinity,
where nearby columns and vaults framed distant ones, which
in turn framed still more distant ones in a seemingly endless
array. I altered my flexible itinerary to see as many cathedrals
as I could during my two-week visit, then returned in 1981 for
five more weeks of exploring, photographing, and exulting in
these magnificent monuments of civilization (figure 1-7).
As time went by, my interest in architecture—specifically,
in large commercial buildings—led to a continuing study of
downtown areas in major cities. This series, too, draws on my
mathematical background, for I am drawn to the geometrical
relationships among the buildings and the confusion of space
caused by the visual interactions of several buildings at once.
I find this aspect of my urban studies appealing (figure 1-8).
But my response to modern urban structures has another
side, too. Unlike my positive reaction to cathedral architec-
ture, I dislike the architecture of all but a very few commercial
buildings. They are cold, austere, impersonal, and basically
ugly. I feel that these giant downtown filing cabinets are built
for function with little thought given to aesthetics. To me, they
are the corporate world’s strongest statement of its disinter-
est in humanity and its outright contempt of nature. I have
attempted to convey those feelings through my compositions
of their stark geometries.
Over the years, my work has grown increasingly abstract. It
has become bolder and more subtle at the same time: bolder
in form, more subtle in technique. My subject matter will
likely expand in the future; I will look further into those sub-
jects that I looked at in the past, bringing out new insights that
I missed the first time. Such growth and change is necessary
for any artist, or stagnation and artistic senility set in.
I have come to recognize a very surprising fact: subject
matter ultimately becomes secondary to the artist’s seeing, vi-
sion, and overall philosophy of life and of photography. This is
not to imply that subject matter doesn’t matter. It surely does!
It’s the subject matter that’s important to you that lured you
into photography in the first place, but once ensnared, it turns
out that your specific vision (i.e., the way you compose your
images) will prove to be unique. There is a one-to-one equality
between the artist and his art. A photographer’s way of seeing
is a reflection of his entire life’s attitude, no matter what the
subject matter may be. Only Edward Weston could have made
Edward Weston’s photographs; only W. Eugene Smith could
have made W. Eugene Smith’s photographs; only Imogen
Cunningham could have made Imogen Cunningham’s photo-
graphs, etc. This is true because each great photographer has a
unique way of seeing that is consistent throughout the artist’s
entire body of work.
It would be of value to you as a serious photographer to
delve into the question of why your interests lie where they do,
and why they may be changing. Such evaluation is part of get-
ting to know yourself better and understanding your interests
more fully. It’s part of successful communication. Start with
your areas of highest interest and stick with them. Don’t worry
about being too narrow or about expanding. You will expand
to other areas when you are compelled internally to do so—
when something inside you forces you to make a particular
photograph that is so very different from all your others.
Judging Your Own Personal Response
The second of the two personal considerations is more dif-
ficult. How do you respond to your interests and how do you
wish to convey your thoughts photographically? This is a
more deeply personal question than “What interests you?”
It requires not only knowing what interests you, but also just
how it affects you and how you would like viewers to respond
to your photographs.
In the examples of my own work just discussed, I at-
tempted to express a bit of this second consideration. The slit
canyons overwhelmed me in a very specific way—as cosmic
analogies, or as analogies to force fields—and my imagery is
based on conveying that impression to others. Similarly, the
cathedrals struck me as grand, musical, and infinite in their
marvelous forms. Again, I tried to emphasize those qualities
in my imagery. I did not simply conclude, “These things are
interesting!” and begin to shoot, but rather I responded to the
specific ways that I found them to be interesting. I approached
them in an effort to express my strongest feelings about them
photographically.
The next time you are photographing, think about your
reaction to the subject. Are you trying to make a flattering
portrait of someone you find unattractive or downright ugly?
Unless you are taking a typical studio portrait (the “tilt your
head and smile” type) you would do well to follow your own
instincts. Does the subject strike you as cunning? If so, bring
out that aspect. Is he or she sensitive and appealing to you?
If so, try to show it in your portrait. Is the outdoor market
colorful and carnival-like or is it filthy and disgusting? Em-
phasize the aspect that strikes you most strongly. Don’t try to
bring out what others expect or want; emphasize your point
of view! You may upset a few people initially, but soon they
will begin to recognize the honesty as well as the strength and
conviction of your imagery. But in order to do that, you first
have to determine what your point of view actually is. It is not
JUDGING YOUR OWN PERSONAL RESPONSE • 11

-- As soon as I determine
what I am responding to
most strongly, and how I
am responding, I must
concentrate on emphasiz-
ing all the elements that
strengthen that response,
while eliminating those
that weaken it.
12 • C H A P T E R 1: C O M M U N I C AT I O N T H R O U G H P H O T O G R A P H Y
always easy to do so, because you may be struck by conflicting
impressions, but it is essential to recognize such conflicts and
choose the impression that is strongest.
An example may be instructive. Not long after World
War II, portraitist Arnold Newman was commissioned to
photograph Alfred Krupp, the German industrial baron and
Nazi arms supplier. Newman was Jewish. He managed to get
Krupp to pose for him on a small platform raised above the
spreading floor of his factory, with the assembly lines below
in a background. Fluorescent lights flooded the factory, and
Newman augmented them with auxiliary lighting placed be-
low Krupp’s face and almost behind him. He did not filter to
correct the fluorescent color shift. Because the two of them
were high above the factory floor, nobody else saw what was
happening, and Krupp himself had no knowledge of pho-
tographic processes. The resulting portrait shows a ghastly,
green-faced monster with ominous shadows crossing his face
diagonally from below—the devil incarnate. Newman knew
what he wanted and he understood his material. But I must
also admit that the black-and-white version of this portrait is,
to my mind, even more effective simply because the sick green
color is missing. To me, that color goes overboard and pushes
the envelope too far.
A hypothetical example may also be valuable. As I wan-
der through the canyons of the Kings River in Kings Canyon
National Park, I am awed by the towering granite cliffs and
pounding cascades. Yet I am also struck by the softness and
serenity of the grassy meadows and sun-streaked forests.
If I were to make just one photograph of the area, I would
choose the aspect I wished to accentuate: its overall awesome-
ness or its more detailed serenity. I doubt that I could suc-
cessfully convey both in one photograph. Am I more strongly
drawn to the spectacular or the serene? I would study the cliffs
and cascades to determine if they truly are as spectacular as
I first perceived them to be. And are the forests and mead-
ows as serene? Am I looking for the spectacular, let’s say, and
straining to find an example when none actually exists? In
other words, am I stretching too far for a photograph? I must
make proper assessments of these questions in order to pro-
duce a meaningful image that can communicate my feelings.
As soon as I determine what I am responding to most
strongly, and how I am responding, I must concentrate on
emphasizing all the elements that strengthen that response,
while eliminating (or minimizing) all those that weaken it.
Basically, I am responding to the mood the scene evokes in
me, and I must determine how I wish to convey that mood
through my photography. The feeling my photograph evokes
is my editorial comment on the scene. If the response is what
I intended, I have communicated my thoughts successfully.
If the response is the opposite of my intent, I may be disap-
pointed but subsequently come to feel that the interpretation
has some validity. It may even open up new insights to me.
However, if my photograph evokes nothing in others, I have
failed miserably.
In the future, I may look at the same scene and work to-
ward conveying a different thought. Why? Because of changes
in my own perception as time goes by. My interpretation
will change. My “seeing” will be different. My goals will be
different.
You, too, will doubtless change over time, as will your ap-
proach to photography. But if you are like me, you will find
that these changes will not invalidate your successful ear-
lier efforts. A fine photograph will survive the test of time.
Beethoven would not have written his first, second, or third
symphonies in the same manner after completing the final
six, but that does not invalidate the earlier scores.
Though your perceptions will change, it is of utmost im-
portance to be in touch with them at all times. Your percep-
tions and your internal reactions set the direction for your
photography, your visual commentary. Get yourself in tune
with those reactions. In other words, get to know yourself. But
one word of caution: don’t analyze yourself to death. There is
 ◀◀ Figure 1-9: Grass and
Juniper Wood
Blue grama grass, rarely
more the five inches tall,
grows on the near-desert
soils of Utah, usually with
a crescent-shaped tuft
at the top. I found this
one with a full ringlet. As
a reasonable limit to introspection. Before getting hung up on high winds shook it wildly,
it, start communicating by making some photographs. I pulled it up for later
photography. Within a
Successful communication of your message is the essence
few steps I found a small
of creative photography. Reporting the scene is shirking your piece of juniper wood with
responsibility; interpreting the scene is accepting the chal- a cleft, to serve as a ped-
lenge. Though the scene may or may not be your creation, the estal for the grass. I knew
photograph always is (figure 1-9)! So don’t just stop with the exactly what I wanted
to do with these objects.
things you saw; add your comments, feelings, and opinions.
Two days later, when the
Put them all into the photograph. Express your point of view. wind died down, I stacked
Argue for your position. Convince the viewer of the validity of two ice chests in front
your conclusions. of my truck where I was
camping, put the grass
in the wood cleft, placed
Understand what you want to say!
it atop the ice chest, and
Understand how you want to say it! focused my 4 × 5 camera. I
Then say it without compromise! then laid the black side of
Now you are thinking in terms of creative photography! my focusing cloth on the
local officials as being cast into Hell in some of his famous hood of the truck, hanging
down over the grill to serve
Of course there are those who will say that an artist is search- murals, a bold comment for which he suffered mightily. Other
as the background.
ing for the truth, and it is foolish to be so adamantly positive prominent artists, composers, and writers have been equally
about your approach. There is some validity to this objection, bold in their truthful statements.
but in general, I think the idea of “searching for the truth” is a Beyond that, there is no such thing in our complex world as
highly romanticized notion. I believe that each artist, like ev- “the truth,” but rather many, many truths, some of which con-
eryone else, has strong views about the world: what it is, what flict with others, and some of which contradict others. Thus
it should be, and how it could be improved. As such, I think the truth is elusive at best, and nonexistent at worst. Each of
that most artists are not so much searching for the truth, but the subjects I have photographed, for example, has revealed
searching for a proper method of expressing the truth as they different aspects of the world that I have found worthy of com- -- Most artists are not so
see it. It should be manifestly obvious that Lewis Hine was mentary. If my photographs have not revealed the truth, at much searching for the
truth, but searching for a
not searching for the truth, but revealing the grim truth of least they have attempted to express my point of view about
proper method of express-
conditions in factories employing child labor. Similarly, Ansel each of those subjects. I can only hope they provide interest,
ing the truth as they see it.
Adams was not searching for the truth in his nature photogra- meaning, and insight to others.
phy, but expressing the truth about the beauty and grandeur
of nature as he saw it.
The list can go on and on, but the point should be clear.
Even if we go back in time long before the start of photogra-
phy, we see similar examples of artists expressing the truth
rather than searching for it. Michelangelo depicted prominent

JUDGING YOUR OWN PERSONAL RESPONSE • 13

14 • : 
 CHAPTER 2

What Is Composition?
λ

Before moving on, it would be worthwhile to study your photographs slowly

while considering the questions posed in the first chapter, in order to better evalu-
ate your own work. I feel that such an evaluation is extremely valuable and should
be done periodically. Assuming that you have already done so, questions arise as
to the most effective methods of conveying your thoughts photographically. The
most effective technique, it turns out, varies from scene to scene and from artist
to artist. No overall rule can be made. Indeed, art is devoid of rules.
One statement can be made concerning any artistic effort: it must possess
good composition. Whether the subject is a fine portrait, a panoramic landscape,
a slum alley, a studio tabletop arrangement, or anything else, only with good com-
position will it achieve meaning and importance. (In fact, this can be extended to
all other art forms, including visual and nonvisual forms. After all, even music
requires good composition!)
But, you may ask, what is good composition? What, in fact, is composition?
The term is constantly used, seldom defined or discussed, rarely understood, yet
never questioned. Try to define composition, and you will see how difficult it is.
My dictionary defines it as “an arrangement of the parts of a work of art so
as to form a unified, harmonious whole.” This is an excellent beginning. “A uni-
fied, harmonious whole.” That is the key phrase. If photography is your means of
self-expression, then composition must be the vehicle with which you express
yourself clearly, concisely, and smoothly. Composition is the means of bringing
viewers into your photograph and holding their attention long enough to read
your commentary and define their own feelings.

◀◀ Figure 2-1: Leaves, Big 4 Mountain Trail, Washington

Trailside leaves produce a rhythmic mix of metallic forms, interspersed with deep black holes (the spaces between the leaves)
that have interesting shapes themselves, serving as negative space to the positive space of the leaves. There is no center of
interest. Rather, there is a pattern, keeping the eye moving within the image.   • 15
▶ Figure 2-2: Oak Tree,
Sapelo Island
The immense oak tree is
clearly the center of inter-
est. Background trees form
a rhythmic counterpoint.
We will delve into the dictionary definition more deeply,
but first we need a short physiological description of the
human visual process in order to apply the definition to
photography.
How the Human Eye Sees
The eye does not see whole vistas at once. It views the world in
small chunks, then puts the pieces together to form the com-
plete picture. The angle of sharp vision is extremely small, only
about three radial degrees. To see for yourself what this means,
try the following: Hold your arm straight out with your hand
bent upward and your fingers spread (as if your palm were held
16 • C H A P T E R 2 : W H AT I S C O M P O S I T I O N?
against a wall in front of you). You are looking at the back of
your hand at arm’s length. Now, look at your thumbnail. As you
do so, you will see that your little finger is out of focus! You will
have to move your eyes in order to see your little finger sharply.
Yet it is not very far from your thumb, even with your fingers
spread. In fact, all of your other fingers are out of focus as well,
indicating the limits of sharp vision.
With the eye able to see only small bits sharply at any mo-
ment, it must move about speedily to view the entire scene.
It does not do so in an organized fashion like a TV scanner.
Instead, it darts about randomly, up and down, side to side,
picking out bits and pieces here and there, and sending these
tidbits back to the brain at a furious pace. The brain processes
this random data and puts it all together, like a mosaic or a
jigsaw puzzle. While studying the scene the eye stops momen-
tarily at prominent objects and sees them with real clarity, fill-
ing in the rest in a rather fuzzy manner. Thus, the eye does not
perceive the whole scene with uniform sharpness or interest.
The term “random” is used loosely here, for when the eye
stops momentarily at objects of greater interest, that is not
purely random. However, I will use the term “random” to in-
dicate that the eye’s movements are not preprogrammed like
a TV or image scanner, but that the eye responds uniquely to
each scene, never searching through two different scenes in
precisely the same way.
We all see this way. Researchers have proven it and con-
firmed it more than once. It is a physiological fact. You can’t
fight it!
With this in mind, let’s return to the discussion of compo-
sition and define it as follows: Good composition is the artist’s
way of directing the viewer’s vision in a planned, derandomized
fashion.
When a photograph is well composed, viewers first see the
elements that the artist wants them to see most prominently
and remember longest. Next, they notice the elements of sec-
ondary importance, and finally the elements of subordinate in-
terest. With good composition, the artist leads viewers through
the photograph in a controlled manner. Sometimes it may be
bringing out interesting relationships that catch the viewer’s
eye, perhaps a relationship that exists only from one point
of view. There is nothing haphazard about a well-composed
photograph (just as there is nothing haphazard about a well-
composed musical score, a well-constructed novel, play, or
movie or any other well-composed work of art). Composition
is the artist’s way of bringing order into a nonordered world. In
essence, this is what the dictionary definition calls for.
This definition helps explain why a magnificent scene of-
ten fails to translate into a fine photograph. The scene may
be quite complex. The eye accepts this, darting about and se-
lecting the most important bits of information, then filling
in the rest. But a photograph or any other work of visual art
must organize that information. If it fails to do so, the viewer’s
eye roams about aimlessly, unable to find the artist’s state-
ment because there is none. The scene has not been composed,
but merely selected. The photograph is not a work of art, but
merely a recording of the scene with one critical defect: it lacks
the presence of the real scene.
There is a very real difference between “seeing” and “pho-
tographic seeing.” An individual may recognize and appre-
ciate an interesting scene, but may not be able to organize
it into an effective photograph. Only those individuals who
can bring out an unusual, easily overlooked, worthwhile set
of relationships from within a scene can be said to “see pho-
tographically.” Understanding composition and applying it
separates the artists from the snapshooters. A single, inter-
esting object of exceptional visual power may sometimes be
enough to produce a wonderful image, but rarely. Usually it is
the relationships of lines, forms, colors, etc. that create the ex-
ceptional compositions and the most insightful photographs. -- With good composition
The savvy photographer looks at all parts of the intended im- the artist leads the viewer
through the photograph in
age to uncover hidden relationships that produces the ex-
a controlled manner.
traordinary image; she rarely confines her seeing to a single
object of interest.
There are two aspects of good composition that are of
prime importance. The concept of a unified thought is one;
simplicity is the other. The two are strongly interrelated.
Unified Thought
The term “unified thought” comes from the dictionary defini-
tion of composition referred to earlier as “a unified, harmoni-
ous whole.” It means that all the elements of the photograph
work together. In other words, a central concept underlies
the photograph (figure 2-1). This concept often translates
to the somewhat narrower concept of a center of interest.
UNIFIED THOUGHT • 17

▲ Figure 2-3: Wings and
Bubbles, Death Valley
Dunes
There is no center of
interest in this pattern of
sand, with echoes of the
same forms repeating
themselves from the bot-
tom of the image upward,
and an array of nearly
circular shadows in the
background above them. It
is the pattern that creates
a unifying thought for
this image, though the eye
does not go to any singu-
lar point within the image
as a center of interest.
18 • C H A P T E R 2 : W H AT I S C O M P O S I T I O N?
Let’s differentiate between a center of interest and a unified
thought through the use of two examples.
The first photograph shows a huge oak tree with an array
of more distant trees beyond (figure 2-2). An effective pho-
tograph of an old giant like this could have been made by
isolating it against the sky rather than against a background
of other trees. Even against a background of trees, it is so domi-
nant as to clearly draw your attention, with the background
trees obviously subordinate. Such isolation or obvious domi-
nance focuses the viewer’s attention on the tree. It is clear that
the tree is the subject under consideration and the thing to be
studied. It is the center of interest.
Suppose, however, the subject is sand. How do you photo-
graph something as potentially dull as sand, and how do you
create a mood? One answer is to find an interesting pattern of
sand, such as on the beach as a high tide is receding or on sand
dunes, particularly after wind has molded them into compel-
ling forms (figure 2-3). You wouldn’t find this in a children’s
sand box or on a heavily trodden, popular sandy beach on a
warm summer day.
If you concentrate on a unifying thought, your photo-
graphs will be cohesive. It is the visual equivalent of speak-
ing on a topic without rambling aimlessly toward peripheral
issues. Just beware of allowing the definition of a “unified
thought” to become too broad. It’s easy to say, “The coun-
tryside is the unifying thought” as justification for shooting
everything in sight!
Simplicity
For the beginner, simplicity is a necessity. The simpler the
composition, the more likely he or she is to maintain control
and direct the viewer’s attention to the important elements
(figure 2-4). It is equally true for the intermediate or advanced
photographer, though with increased experience and sophis-
tication he is able to simplify and control progressively more
complex situations. This is true of painters and sculptors as
well as photographers—and of all other visual artists. It is even
true of composers, with the modification that the concept ap-
plies to listeners rather than viewers.
The importance of simplicity cannot be stressed too
strongly. Over the years, I have observed that most unsuccess-
ful photographs fail because they are too complicated rather
than too simple (assuming they are technically competent, of
course). The photographer is unable to elucidate his thoughts
clearly and concisely, and the resulting photograph illustrates
his uncertainty and lack of direction. In some cases, this may
produce exactly the desired effect, but in most cases it will not.
Look at your own prints and ask yourself what your goal
was in each one. Can you distill the answer down to a clear
Another random document with
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days,” and to washing and getting up a pair of cuffs with her own
hands.
“You look quite smart, Maddie,” said Laurence, as she completed
her toilet, and came and showed herself to him.
“Yes; I don’t look so very, very poor, do I?”
“No-o,” rather dubiously. Then he added, with a smile, “No one
who looks at your face will think of your clothes; and, indeed,
Maddie, it is not fit that such a pretty girl as you are should be
travelling alone, and third class, such a long journey.”
“Rubbish! rubbish! rubbish!” she answered emphatically. “I’ll wear
a veil, if that will please you; and, indeed, no one will notice me. If
they do, they will think I am some poor girl going to a situation. You
think every one must admire what you thought pretty, you stupid
Laurence; but I heard Mrs. Kane saying the other day that I’d grown
‘awfully plain.’ And it’s not my face Mrs. Harper will notice—you may
be certain of that!”
Ten minutes later she had kissed the sleeping baby, taken leave of
Laurence, given many whispered directions to Mrs. Kane’s niece,
and a whole half-sovereign from her little fund; and then, with a
beating heart, started on foot for a distant terminus. No, she would
not take even a twopenny fare in a ’bus; she must save every penny,
and she would have plenty of rest in the train. And so she had, of a
sort, on the hard, upright seat of a crowded third-class carriage for
eight mortal hours. There is not much repose in such a situation, nor
much sleep to be obtained; and the train roared along through the
inky black night, and tore through small stations with a shriek of
contempt that shook them to their foundations, and nearly shook the
teeth of the unhappy third-class passengers out of their heads. After
a whole night’s travelling of this uneasy description, Madeline arrived
at her destination—Riverside—and quickly alighted on the platform.
One trouble was spared her—luggage.
She went and washed her face and hands, arranged her hair,
shook off some of the dust in the waiting-room, invested fourpence in
a bun and cup of coffee, and felt herself sufficiently fortified to
encounter Mrs. Harper—but not Miss Selina. Another journey by rail,
a short walk, and she found herself once more on the familiar
doorstep of Harperton House, and rang timidly.
A strange maid (who knew not the delinquencies of Miss West)
opened the door, and was evidently surprised to behold such an
early visitor.
She informed her that Mrs. Harper was not down yet, nor Miss
Harper, and showed her into the drawing-room, which was in
process of being dusted. Here she waited for some time, whilst a
sound of hasty footsteps and voices was very audible above her
head. She looked around the room, and felt as if she had only
quitted it yesterday. And oh! what a gap there was in her life between
the last time she stood there, listening to Miss Selina’s spiteful
remonstrances, and now! But the room was precisely the same.
There was the best piano, on which she had had many a music-
lesson. There was Alice Burns’ big coloured-chalk drawing, Amy
Watson’s two water-colours; Florence Blewitt’s brass work, and
Isabella Jones’s photograph screen—all votive offerings to the
Harper family, and advertisements to pupils’ relatives who came to
make inquiries about the school.
Presently the door opened, and Miss Harper—if we may dare to
say so—burst into the room.
“Oh, Madeline!” she exclaimed, “so it’s you. She only said a young
lady. How more than thankful I am to see you!” shaking hands as
she spoke, and looking into her face with eager scrutiny. “You are
thin—very thin; but thin or fat, you are welcome back. Come up at
once to my mother’s room; she is dressing. She does not come
down early now, and she wants to see you” (here was an honour).
“Come, the girls are all in the schoolroom. The breakfast-bell will be
rung in ten minutes,” turning to lead the way. Then she paused for a
moment, with the handle in her hand. “You have heard about
Selina?” she asked, with a red spot on either cheek, and a spark in
either eye. “What! Have you not heard?” she added hurriedly.
Miss Selina! It was not of Miss Selina Madeline had come to hear;
and she shook her head and answered, “No; is she dead?”
 “Dead! She’s married. She married nearly a year ago,” returned
her sister, impressively, “Mr. Murphy, the red-haired curate. She—
she behaved atrociously. Don’t mention her to my mother, nor ask
about her, on any account. We don’t speak,” flinging the door wide
as she gasped out the last sentence.
All the reply Madeline made was “Indeed!” But nevertheless she
felt a very lively satisfaction to hear that her old enemy was no
longer an inmate of Harperton, and had gone away, like herself, in
disgrace.
“You will find my mother rather changed,” whispered Miss Harper,
as she rapidly preceded her upstairs. “She’s had a slight stroke. All
the troubles and annoyance about Selina were enough to kill her,
and she is not what she was. She never comes down till the
afternoon; but take no notice.”
“Madeline!” cried the old lady, as Madeline entered her room and
beheld her propped up in bed, in her best day cap. “This is too good
to be true! I scarcely expected it, though I have advertised every day
in the Times. Come here, my dear, and kiss me”—tendering a
withered cheek. The old lady’s mind was certainly affected, thought
her late pupil. That she who had been so ignominiously cast out
should be thus welcomed back, and with kisses, was scarcely
credible, unless viewed from the idea that Mrs. Harper had become
imbecile in the meanwhile. But no, the reason of this astonishing
change from the frost of neglect to the sun of welcome—affectionate
welcome—was a very potent one indeed. It was nothing less than
the prospect of a large sum of money.
Since Madeline had been banished, nothing had gone well. Her
place had been taken by a governess who had actually required a
salary, as well as civility, and had been a great encumbrance and
expense. Then came Selina’s wicked tampering with her sister’s
sweet-heart, a heart-burning scandal, family linen sent to the public
wash, and a serious falling off in the school. Things were going
badly. Every step was down hill—one girl leaving after another, and
there were many vacant places at the long dinner-table.
 At last came a letter—from Mr. West of all people! enclosing a
large draft on his bankers, and announcing his return a wealthy and
successful man. The draft was to pay for two years’ schooling, with
interest up to date; but for a whole year Miss West had been
elsewhere! How could they honestly claim these badly-wanted
pounds? They had banished the man’s daughter, and the money
must be restored.
Viewed now—in a softer light, through a golden atmosphere—
Madeline’s deeds were excusable. The poor girl had been Selina’s
victim, and therefore more to be pitied than blamed. Madeline must
be sought and, if possible, discovered and reinstated as if there had
been no hiatus, as if nothing disagreeable had occurred. And we
have seen the “state of life” in which Madeline had been found.
“Letitia, do you go down now, and presently send up a nice
breakfast for two—two fresh eggs—whilst I have a talk with dear
Madeline.” Thus the old lady, who still held the reins of authority,
although she had lost the use of her right hand; and Letitia, having
previously rehearsed the whole “talk” with her mother, and fearing
that “too many cooks might spoil the broth,” departed with meek
obedience.
“Take off your hat and jacket, my love, and make yourself at home.
I am sure you will not be surprised to hear—yes, put them on the
ottoman—that your father is alive and well, and returning an
immensely”—dwelling lovingly on the word—“rich man.”
Madeline’s heart bounded into her mouth, her face became like
flame. So her presentiment had come true!
“Ah! I see you are surprised, darling: so were we when we got his
letter, a week ago. Here, bring me that case, the green one on the
little table, and I’ll read it to you at once—or you may read it yourself
if you like, Madeline.”
Madeline did as requested, picked out a foreign letter in a well-
known hand, and sat down to peruse it beside Mrs. Harper’s bed.
That lady, having assumed her spectacles for the nonce, scanned
her late pupil’s face with keen intentness.
This is what the letter said:—
“Royal Kangaroo Club,
“Collins Street, Melbourne.
“My dear Mrs. Harper,
“After such a long silence, you will be surprised to see my
writing, but here I am. I am afraid Madeline has been rather
uneasy about me—and, indeed, no wonder. I met with some
terrible losses in bank shares two years ago: nearly the whole
of my life’s earnings were engulphed in an unparalleled
financial catastrophe. The anxiety and trouble all but killed me
—threw me into a fever, from the effects of which I was laid
up for months—many months, and when I again put my
shoulder to the wheel I was determined not to write home until
I was as rich a man as ever. I knew that you, who had had the
care of Madeline since she was seven, would trust me, and
everything would go on as usual. I had always been such
punctual pay, you would give me time for once. I am now, I
am glad to say, a wealthy man. Some lots of land I bought
years ago have turned up trumps—in short, gold. I am not
going to speculate again, but am returning home a millionaire,
and Maddie shall keep house in London, and hold up her
head among the best. Stray bits of news have drifted to my
ears. I heard a foolish story about some beggarly barrister or
curate and her. A schoolgirl wrote it to her brother; but I am
certain it was only girls’ tittle-tattle. Surely you would never
allow my heiress to play the fool! If she did, she knows very
well that I would disown her. I am a fond father in my way, and
a good father, as you can testify, but I’ll have no pauper
fortune-hunters, or puling love affairs. A hint from you to
Madeline, that at the least nonsense of that sort I marry again,
and let her please herself, will be, at any rate, a stitch in time.
She has had a good education. She can earn her bread; but I
know it is not necessary to continue this subject. You are a
sensible woman; Madeline is a sensible girl, if she is my
daughter. And I have great views for her, very great views. I
shall follow this letter in about six weeks’ time, and will write
 again before I leave. I shall come by the Ophir, Orient Line,
and you and Maddie can meet me in Plymouth. I enclose a
draft on my agents for six hundred pounds, five hundred for
Maddie’s schooling and outfit for two years, and the balance
for pocket-money and a few new frocks, so that she may be
smart when her old daddie comes home.”
Madeline paused, and shook the letter. No, no draft fluttered out.
“I have banked it,” put in Mrs. Harper, precipitately, who had been
scrutinizing every change in the girl’s face. “It is quite safe.”
“And now I must wind up, hoping soon to see Madeline,
and with love to her and compliments to yourself and
daughters, especially the lively Miss Selina.
“Yours faithfully,
“Robert West.”
“Well, Madeline, tell me what you think of that?” demanded Mrs.
Harper, wiping her glasses.
“I—I—am very glad of course,” she returned, her brain and ideas
in a whirl; but now fully comprehending the cause of Mrs. Harper’s
blandishments and welcome.
“We are so sorry, love, that we were so hasty about Mr. Wynne. It
was entirely Selina’s doing, I do assure you. I am most thankful to
see—especially after your father’s letter—that you did not marry him
after all!”
“Not marry him,” echoed the girl, colouring vividly. “What do you
mean?”
“I see you are not married by your hand,” pointing a long finger at
Madeline’s ringless member. “Is not that sufficient proof?” she asked
sharply.
Madeline was suddenly aware that she was at a crisis—a great
moral crisis—in her life, when she must take action at once, an
action that meant much. Her father’s letter, Mrs. Harper’s conclusion,
her own dire want, all prompted the quick decision made on the
instant. She would for the present temporise—at least till she had
met her father, told him her story in her own way, and accomplished
a full pardon. To declare now that she was a wife would be ruin—ruin
to her, death to Laurence, for of course her father would cut her off
with a shilling. She was aware that he had very strong prejudices, a
grotesque adoration for rank and success, and a corresponding
abhorrence of those who were poor, needy, and obscure; also that
he was a man of his word. This she had gleaned out in Australia
when but seven years of age. They had lived in a splendid mansion
in Toorak, the most fashionable suburb of Melbourne, and an elderly
reduced Englishwoman had been her governess. But because she
had permitted her to play with some children whose father was in
difficulties, who was socially ostracised, she had been discharged at
a week’s notice, and Madeline had been despatched to England. Her
father was peculiar—yes. In a second her mind was resolved, and,
with hands that shook as she folded up the crackling foreign
notepaper, she reassumed the character of Miss West!
 CHAPTER IX.
BARGAINING.

“You see, my love,” proceeded Mrs. Harper, in a smooth,

insinuating tone, “it is not every one who would take you back under
the circumstances;” and she paused, and peered at the girl over her
spectacles with a significant air. (The circumstances of five hundred
pounds, thought her listener bitterly.) “Will you give me your word of
honour that you have not been doing anything—unbecoming—
anything that—that—would reflect on your reputation? My dear, you
need not look so red and indignant. I’m only an old woman. I mean
no offence.”
“I have done nothing to be ashamed of, or which I shall ever blush
for or regret,” rejoined Madeline, impressively; “and to that I can give
my word of honour. But, Mrs. Harper, you ask strange questions—
and I am no longer at school.”
“Well, well, my dear—well, well; we did hear that you were in the
mantle department at Marshall and Snelgrove’s. I believe there are
ladies in these establishments;” and then she added craftily, “You
have such a nice, tall, slight figure—for trying on things. You were
always so graceful, and had such taking manners!”
“I was not there, Mrs. Harper,” returned Madeline; “and I cannot
tell you where I was, beyond that I lived with a friend, and that I was
very poor.”
“A friend, at Solferino Place?” quickly.
“Yes”—with visible reluctance—“at Solferino Place. And now what
do you want with me, Mrs. Harper?” she asked, with unexpected
boldness.
“Well, I wish”—clearing her throat—“and so does Letitia, to let
bygones be bygones; to allow your father to find you here, as if you
had never been away; to hush up your escapade—for though, of
course, I believe you—it might sound a little curious to him. No one
knows why you left, excepting Selina—Mrs. Murphy. It happened in
the holidays. These girls are a new set, and have never heard of
you; and, even if they had, they would not meet Mr. West, as he
arrives during the Easter term. Do you agree to this?”
“Yes,” replied Madeline, with sudden pallor, but a steady voice, “I
agree; it will be best.”
“That is arranged, then,” said the old diplomatist, briskly. “And,
now, what about the money?—what about that? Shall we keep the
five hundred pounds, and give you the balance?”
In former days Madeline would have assented to this proposition
at once; but now her heart beat tumultuously as she thought of
Laurence and the baby. She must secure all she could for their
sakes, and, feeling desperately nervous, she replied—
“No, I can’t quite see that, Mrs. Harper. To one year’s payment and
interest you are, of course, entitled; but the second year I worked for
my living—worked very hard indeed. You can scarcely expect to take
two hundred pounds, as well as my services—gratis.”
But Mrs. Harper had expected it confidently, and this unlooked-for
opposition was a blow. Madeline was not as nice as she used to be,
and she must really put some searching questions to her respecting
her absence, if she was going to be so horribly grasping about
money; and Madeline, blushing for very shame as she bargained
with this old female Shylock, reluctantly yielded one hundred pounds
for the year she had been pupil-teacher. It was money versus
character—and a character is expensive.
Mrs. Harper, on her part, undertook to arrange Madeline’s past
very completely, and Madeline felt that it must be veiled from her
father for the present—at any rate, until Laurence was better, and
able to resume work and a foothold on existence.
She had assured him yesterday that she would steal for him if
necessary. Was not this as bad, she asked herself, bargaining and
chaffering thus over her father’s money, and dividing it with the
greedy old creature at her side? However, she was to have one
hundred and eighty pounds for her share. Oh, riches! Oh, what could
she not do with that sum?
She was to return to her friends at Solferino Place for three weeks
—(she had struggled and battled fiercely for this concession, and
carried the day)—was then to return to Harperton, and be
subsequently escorted to Plymouth by Miss Harper, who would
personally restore her to her father’s arms.
After the morning’s exciting business, Madeline was wearied,
flushed, and had a splitting headache. She was not sorry to share
Mrs. Harper’s excellent tea, and to be allowed to take off her dress
and go and lie down in a spare room upstairs—a room once full, but
now empty—and there she had a long think; and, being completely
worn out, a long, long sleep.
After dinner—early dinner—she went out with Miss Harper, and
the money—her share—was paid to her without delay. She had
stipulated for this. Could it be possible that it was she, Madeline
Wynne, who stood opposite to the cashier’s desk cramming notes
and sovereigns into her sixpenny purse? As they pursued their walk,
Madeline recognized a few old faces, and many old places. She
purchased a new hat, which she put on in the shop; and she heard,
to her relief, that the Wolfertons had left, and gone to live abroad.
Some former schoolfellows, now grown up—no young plant grows
quicker than a schoolgirl—recognized and accosted her. These had
been day-boarders. They mentally remarked that she had turned out
very different to what they expected, and that she looked much older
than her age. “She was staying at Mrs. Harper’s, was she?”
Before they had time to ask the hundred and one questions with
which they were charged, Miss Harper prudently hurried her pupil
away, saying, as she did so—
“Least said, soonest mended, my dear. It’s well you had on your
new hat! Now you had better get some gloves.”
She was not quite as keen about the money as her mother, and
was inclined—nay, anxious—to be amiable. Madeline West, the
great Australian heiress, had possibilities in her power. She was
resolved to be friendly with her, and to reinstate her at once as the
favourite pupil of former days, burying in oblivion the teacher
interlude.
The girls Madeline had met walked on disappointed, saying to one
another—
“Fancy that being Maddie West! How awful she looks! So seedy,
and so thin and careworn; and she is barely my age—in fact, she is
a week younger!”
“And so frightfully shabby,” put in another.
“Did you see her dress—all creases?”
“And her gloves!” (The gloves were apparently beyond
description.)
“All the same, Miss Harper was making a great fuss—a great deal
of her. It was ‘dear’ this, and ‘love’ that. She is never affectionate for
nothing. I know the old boa-constrictor so well. Perhaps Maddie has
been left a fortune?” hazarded the sharpest of the party.
“Her dress and jacket looked extremely like it,” sneered number
one. “As to her hat, I saw it in at Mason’s this morning—I noticed it
particularly, marked eleven and ninepence. That looks like being an
heiress! Oh, very much so, indeed!”
The price of the hat settled the question!
 CHAPTER X.
MRS. KANE BECOMES AFFECTIONATE.

Mrs. Harper would not hear of Madeline returning to London by

night. No, it was a most shocking idea, and not to be entertained.
She must remain until the next day at least, “and travel properly,”
which meant that Miss Harper herself conducted the heiress to
Riverside, and saw her off by the morning express, first class. It was
in vain that Madeline protested that such precautions were quite
unnecessary. She was anxious to save her fare, and return third; for,
even with such wealth as one hundred and eighty pounds, every
shilling would be required. But her voice was silenced. Miss Harper
carried the day, took her late pupil to the station, gave her into the
charge of the guard, and even went so far as to present her with a
two-shilling novel, to wile away the journey (an attention that she
hoped would bear fruit by-and-by). But Madeline did not need it; her
own thoughts were sufficient to absorb her whole attention as she
travelled rapidly homeward. She was sensible of some disquieting
pangs when she thought of Laurence. Would he be angry when he
heard that his wife had once more assumed her maiden name, and
pretended that she was still Madeline West?
No, no; he must forgive her, when there was so much at stake.
Her hand closed involuntarily on her purse, that precious purse
which contained the first payment for the fraud, she had been
compelled to practise. About five o’clock that evening Madeline’s
quick foot was once more heard ascending the stairs, and with hasty
fingers she opened the sitting-room door, and rushed into her
husband’s presence. He was up and dressed—(at all but the worst
of times he would insist on dragging himself out of bed and dressing)
—seated at her table, laboriously doing some copying, with slow and
shaky fingers.
 It should here be stated, in justice to Mrs. Harper, that she had
passed Madeline under the harrow of searching inquiries, and
elicited the intelligence that she made her livelihood by law copying,
and she was satisfied that it was a respectable employment.
“Ah!” exclaimed the astute dame, “I suppose Mr. Wynne put that
bit of work in your way, did he?” Fortunately for her new rôle,
Madeline could truthfully reply “No,” for it was not Laurence who had
been the means of procuring this employment, such as it was, but
Mr. Jessop.
“You will give me your permanent address, Madeline,” said Mrs.
Harper, austerely. “That must be thoroughly understood.”
“But you have it already, Mrs. Harper.”
“Have you lodged there long?” she asked, feeling confident that no
well-known counsel at the bar could outdo her in crafty questions.
“Fourteen months,” said her pupil, rather shortly.
“Then you must have been pretty comfortable?”
To which Madeline evasively replied that she had been quite
happy. (No thanks to Mrs. Kane.)
And Mrs. Harper was satisfied. She had found out all she wished
to know. Madeline’s past was as clear as daylight now! Was it?
And now behold Madeline at home once more, flushed with
excitement, exhilarated by the change, by the money in her purse,
and with her bright eyes, bright colour, and new hat, making quite a
cheerful and brilliant appearance before the amazed and languid
invalid.
He was looking very ill to-day. These close stifling rooms and
sleepless nights were gradually sapping his scanty stock of vitality.
“Baby is asleep,” she said, glancing eagerly into the cradle. “And
now I am going to tell you all about it,” taking off her hat and gloves,
and pushing aside her husband’s writing materials, filling him up a
glass of port, fetching a biscuit, and taking a seat opposite to him, all
within the space of three minutes.
 “You have good news, Maddie, I see,” he remarked as he looked
at her, and noticed her condition of suppressed excitement, and her
sparkling eyes.
“Good?—news, yes; and money!” pulling out her purse and
displaying thick rolls of Bank of England notes, and some shining
sovereigns. “Oh, Laurence dear, I feel so happy, all but in one little
corner of my conscience, and I’m afraid you’ll be angry with me—
about something—that is the one drawback! I don’t know how to
begin to tell you—best begin with the worst. I’ve gone back to being
Madeline West once more; they don’t know that I am married.”
“Madeline!” he ejaculated sternly. “You are not in earnest.”
“Now, dear, don’t; don’t speak till you hear all. You know how I left,
how I travelled with the price of my rings. I arrived, was shown up
into Mrs. Harper’s own room—where, in old times, girls were sent for
to have bad news broken to them. She has had a stroke. Miss Selina
is married, and Mr. Murphy is gone. The school is going down. So
when Mrs. Harper had a letter from my father, enclosing five hundred
pounds for two years’ expenses, and one hundred for me for pocket-
money, it was a most welcome surprise, and they were anxious to
find me, of course”—pausing for a second to take breath. “Don’t
interrupt me, yet,” she pleaded, with outstretched hands. “Mrs.
Harper gave me papa’s letter to read. He had lost money, he had
been ill for a long time, he had no wish to write until he was again a
rich man. Now he is a millionaire, and is coming home immediately,
expecting to find me still at the Harpers’, and still Miss West. I am to
be a great heiress. I am to keep his house; and, Laurence dear, he
had heard a hint of you. I know it was that detestable gossip, Maggie
Wilkinson. She had a cousin in an office in Melbourne, and used to
write him volumes. And, oh, he says dreadful things—I mean my
father—if I marry a poor man, as he has such—such—views. That
was the word; and if I disappoint him, I am to be turned from his door
penniless, to earn my own bread!”
“As you are doing now,” observed her listener bitterly.
“Yes!” with a gesture of despair; “but what is it—for you and me
and baby—what are nine shillings a week? Then Mrs. Harper
exclaimed, with great relief, ‘I see you are not married!’ pointing to
my hand; and it all came into my mind like a flash. I did not say I was
not married, I uttered no actual untruth; but I allowed her to think so.
The temptation was too great; there was the wealth for the taking—
money that would bring you health. I said I would steal for you,
Laurence; but it was not stealing, it was, in a sense, my own money,
intended for my use. Are you very angry with me for what I have
done, dear?” she wound up rather timidly.
“No, Madeline. I see you could not help yourself, poor child, with
starvation staring you in the face, and a sick husband and infant to
support! Your father has views for you, has he? I wonder how this
view”—indicating himself and the cradle—“would strike him. As far
as I am concerned, it won’t be for long, and your father will forgive
you; but the child Maddie—on his account your marriage——”
“Laurence!” she almost screamed, “don’t! Do you think the child
would make up for you? Am I not doing all this for you—acting a
part, clothing myself in deceit, for you—only for you? Do not tell me
that it is all to go for nothing! If I thought that, I would give it up at
once. My sole object is to gain time, and money, until you are
yourself once more, and able to earn our living at your profession.
Then, having done all to smooth the way, I shall confess my
marriage to my father. If he renounces me, I shall still have you, and
you will have me. But, without this money to go on with, to get the
best advice, plenty of nourishment, and change of air, I don’t know
what I should do?” And she surveyed him with a pair of truly tragic
eyes. “It has come to me like a reprieve to a condemned criminal.
Say, Laurence, that I have done right. Oh, please, say it!” putting out
her hands, with a pretty begging gesture.
“No, dearest Maddie, I cannot say that; but I will say that, under
the circumstances, it was a great, an almost irresistible temptation.”
“Then, at least, say you are not angry with me.”
“I can say no to that from the bottom of my heart. How can I be
angry, when I myself am the cause—when it has all been done for
me? The only thing is, that there maybe difficulties later on,” looking
into the future with his practical lawyer’s eye. “There may be
difficulties and a desperate entanglement in store for you, my pretty,
reckless Maddie. You know the lines—

“‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

When once we practise to deceive.’”

“At any rate, I shall make the best of my web,” said his wife,
springing up. “I am going to take Mr. Jessop into my confidence.”
“Are you? Well, I suppose it will be best.”
“Yes, of course it will; I am going to write to him now. The very first
doctor in London is to come and see you; and, as soon as you can
be moved, you go into the country—that I insist upon.”
“I go into the country, do I?” with a grim smile. He was saying to
himself, as he looked at her eager anxious face, that the only country
he would ever go into now would be down to the old burying-place of
the Wynne family. At least his relations could not refuse him
admission there, or close that door—the door of the family vault—in
his face.
And when he was at rest, under the walls of the old grey church,
Madeline, as a widow, would be as much her father’s heiress and
housekeeper as if she had never been a wife. In fact, her days of
misfortune would enhance her domestic worth, at least she had
learnt the value of money! As for himself, he was reduced to such a
low ebb, mentally and physically, that death would be a release. To
return to life—with a capital L—and to take up his heavy load, and
plod on and on like an omnibus horse, was not an alluring prospect.
Madeline’s future was safe, and he would rather be under the green
sod, with all the dead and gone Wynnes—when, after life’s fitful
fever, they slept well.
It will be seen from this that Mr. Wynne was in a bad way—too
weak, too hopeless, even to care to struggle back to health. But
Madeline had now sufficient energy for two. Hope pervaded her
young veins, decision and prompt action were its outcome, and
money was power.
In the first place, she scribbled a hasty note to Mr. Jessop, and
begged him to call on them that evening without fail. This she
despatched by a little boy, paying a precious sixpence to save time.
Then she descended like a whirlwind upon Mrs. Kane, and begged
to see her for a moment alone. She had made a bold resolve—there
was no alternative. She was about to take Mrs. Kane—the insolent,
the red-faced, the incredulous—into her confidence. She had
Hobson’s choice, and, in fact, was at her wits’ end. Supposing
inquiries were made, supposing Mrs. Harper wrote and asked
awkward questions, and who so ready to answer them—unless
previously prepared, previously bribed, previously flattered, by being
let into the secret—as Mrs. Kane?
“Mrs. Kane,” said Madeline, knocking at that lady’s door, the door
of her own sanctum, “I have something to say to you in private.”
“Bless me, Mrs. Wynne, how white your face is!” exclaimed the
other tartly, having been just about to sit down to her supper—tripe
and bottled stout. “Whatever is the matter now? Not the bailiffs—that
I do hope.”
“No, no, no; quite the contrary.” Then, struck by a happy thought,
“How much do we owe you, Mrs. Kane?”
“Ah, owe me!” rather staggered. “Let’s see, thirteen weeks, at ten
shillings, is six pounds ten; then the coal——Here,” making a raid on
a rickety writing-table, “I have it all down,” searching among some
papers. “Yes, here it is. Coal, one pound one, kindling wood,
matches, postage on a parcel—total, eight pounds, thirteen and
sevenpence-halfpenny. Are you going to settle it?” she asked briskly.
“Yes, I am,” replied Madeline, now drawing out her full, her
overflowing purse. What courage, what confidence were conferred
by the very feel of its contents! Mrs. Kane gazed at it with eyes as
distended as those of a bull frog, and with her mouth half-open. “A
ten-pound note, Mrs. Kane.” And Mrs. Wynne tendered one as she
spoke.
 “So I see,” in a milder key. “I’ll get you change, and, though I says
it as shouldn’t, it’s not everybody, you know yourself, who would
have——”
“Yes, quite true, I know all that already, thank you, Mrs. Kane.
Never mind the change just now, it can go towards the milk bill. What
I wanted to speak to you about is to tell you a family secret—which
concerns me.”
“A family secret! Laws, Mrs. Wynne!” suddenly seating herself with
a plunge, and looking at her lodger with a countenance of gratified
anticipation, “whatever can it be?”
“Promise, on your solemn word of honour, not to tell any one.”
“Oh, I’m as safe as a church; no one will get anything out of me”—
mentally resolving to tell her niece and husband without any churlish
delay—“unless it’s something not on the square.”
“It is quite on the square; you need not fear. Once I was a Miss
West.”
“So you told me,” nodding her head.
“I was at school near Riverside for a good many years. My father
is an Australian merchant—very rich.”
“Oh, indeed!” in a comfortable tone.
“But for two years he had not been heard of, we thought that he
was dead, and I became a teacher at school. Mr. Wynne saw me
there, and paid me attention, which displeased Mrs. Harper very
much. I was sent away, and we were married. We have been here
ever since.”
“So you have,” agreed Mrs. Kane, as much as to say, “And it’s
highly to your credit!”
“Well, now my father has written at last; he is coming home,
immensely rich. He has not heard of my marriage.”
“Laws, you don’t say so!” in a tone of admiration and
astonishment.
 “No one has heard of it, you see. I had no friends. And if my father
knew that I had married a poor man, he would be dreadfully angry—
at least at first. I went down to Mrs. Harper’s; she showed me his
letter. She thinks I am not married, for,” holding up her bare left hand,
“I pawned my rings to pay my railway fare.”
“Oh, my goodness! Did you really, now?”
“And she took it for granted that I was still Miss West. I confessed
nothing. I told her I had lived here for fourteen months, that I worked
at law stationery, and was very poor, and she was apparently
satisfied; but, all the same, I firmly believe she will write and ask you
all about me. Neither she nor my father must know of my marriage—
yet. And now, are you quite prepared? I am Miss West, you know,
who has lived with you since last January year. You understand, Mrs.
Kane?”
“Oh yes!” with an expressive wink. “A nice, quiet, respectable
young lady—never going nowhere, keeping no company, and I only
wishes I had a dozen like her. I’ll give it her all pat, you be quite
certain,” said her landlady, rubbing her bare fat arms with the liveliest
delight at her own rôle in the piece. “But how about Mr. Wynne and
the baby?” she asked slyly.
“You need not mention them. It will be all right later on, when I see
my father and prepare him, you know. But now I am obliged to keep
him in the dark. Mrs. Harper would not have given me my money,
had she known. It’s only for a short time that I am forced to resume
my old name, and I assure you, Mrs. Kane, that it’s not very
pleasant.”
“Ay, well now, I think it’s rather a joke—something like a play at the
Adelphi, where in the end the father comes in and blesses the young
couple, and they all live together, happy as sand-boys, ever after.
That will be your case, you’ll see!” emphatically.
“I hope so, but I doubt it,” returned her lodger. “I will be content if
my husband recovers his health. Money is nothing in comparison to
health.”
 “Ay, may be so; but money is a great comfort all the same,” said
Mrs. Kane, squeezing the note affectionately in her hand, and
wondering how many more of the same quality were in Mrs. Wynne’s
purse—“a great comfort!”
“Well then, now you know all, Mrs. Kane,” said the other, rising, “I
can depend on you? You will be our friend in this matter, and, believe
me, you will be no loser.”
“Certainly you can’t say fairer nor that, can you, ma’am?—though,
as far as I’m concerned, I’m always delighted to oblige a lady for
nothing, and I always fancied you from the first time I saw you in the
hall, and you knocked over that pot of musk, and so Maria will tell
you. As for the secret, wild horses would not tear it from me; and I’m
that interested in you, as I couldn’t express to you, and allus was—
you ask Maria—just as if you was my own daughter. I can’t say fairer
nor that, can I?”
And opening the door with a wide flourish, she waved Madeline
through, who, rather staggered by this unexpected compliment,
passed quickly into the lobby, and with a farewell nod, hurried back
to her family in the upper regions, and set about preparing tea. She
also made preparations for the expected visit of their chief
counsellor, Mr. Henry Jessop.