For precise exposures that best capture a scene’s dynamic range, ignore what the image preview looks like and rely on the histogram.
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As photographers, we rely so much on our eyes that it’s almost second nature to decide whether a picture is too bright, too dark or just right simply by the way the LCD preview image looks. But from leading photo workshops for more than a dozen years, I’ve learned that the single biggest cause of exposure mistakes is making decisions based on the way the picture looks on the camera’s LCD.
The image preview your camera displays is great for checking composition, but the brightness of the image varies both with the LCD’s brightness setting and with the always-changing ambient light. Compounding the problem, the picture you see is a JPEG that doesn’t display the full range of tones captured. A much more reliable way to determine exposure is to use the histogram your camera creates with every click.
Histograms Explained
A histogram is a graph of the tones in an image. Its simplest form, the monochrome version virtually all digital cameras display, is the luminance (or luminosity) histogram. Understanding the luminance histogram will improve your photography and make reading the (slightly) more complex RGB (red, green, blue) histogram much easier.
For some, any graph has the potential to evoke flashbacks to the trauma of high school science class. But a histogram is quite simple—simple enough to be interpreted in the blink of an eye.
When an image is captured by a digital sensor, your camera’s processor creates a JPEG preview image for display on the camera’s LCD. As it creates the preview, the camera samples the brightness of each photosite and assigns it a tone (brightness) value ranging from 0 (absolute black) to 255 (absolute white). Every tone value from 1 through 254 contains detail—the higher the number, the brighter the tone.
Armed with the tone values for each photosite, the camera builds the image’s histogram. The horizontal (X) axis of the histogram has 256 discrete columns (0-255), one for each possible brightness value, with the 0/black column on the far left and the 255/white column on the far right. (They don’t display as discrete columns because they’re crammed so close together.)
Your camera builds a new histogram for each image, adding each photosite’s brightness value to its corresponding column on the histogram, like stacking poker chips. The more photosites of a particular brightness value, the higher its corresponding column will spike.
Reading A Histogram
Not only does the range of tones visible in the LCD preview vary with ambient light and screen brightness, even in ideal conditions, more information is captured by the sensor than the LCD preview can show. And though the camera uses the same preview JPEG to build its histogram, the histogram provides a more consistent, precise source of exposure information that can be relied on regardless of external factors.
There’s no such thing as a “perfect” histogram shape. The histogram’s shape is determined by the distribution of light in the scene, while the histogram’s left/right position is a function of the amount of exposure given the image. The histogram’s height is irrelevant—information that appears cut off at the top of the histogram just means the display isn’t tall enough to fit all the photosites possessing that tone.
The amount of exposure you give an image is a creative choice, but as a general rule photographers try to avoid clipping (cutting off) the histogram’s graph on the left and right. A histogram clipped on the left means some of the scene’s detail is pure black; a histogram clipped on the right means some of the scene’s highlight detail is pure white.
Managing A Histogram
In a perfect world, when you see your histogram clipped on the left, you simply increase the exposure to shift the histogram right (brighter) until no shadow data is clipped. And if you see your histogram is clipped on the right, you decrease the exposure to shift the histogram left (darker) until no highlight detail is clipped. Problem solved.
Many scenes contain too broad a range of light, from the darkest shadows to the brightest highlights, for the camera’s sensor to record. In these scenes, you can blend multiple exposures that cover the entire range of tones or apply a graduated neutral density filter to darken the brightest areas of the scene.
When blending exposures or using GND filters isn’t practical or available, I usually underexpose to sacrifice (clip) the shadows and save the highlights. Not only are clipped shadows easier to recover in processing (albeit with some noise) than clipped highlights, but also the human eye is generally drawn to the brightest things in an image, so lost highlight detail is much more damaging to an image.
When metering high-dynamic-range scenes, remember that the histogram is built from the preview JPEG, so a RAW image actually contains more image data than the histogram shows. Because the amount of recoverable RAW detail varies with the camera, it’s important to know how much you can clip your camera’s shadows and highlights and recover them later. On the other hand, JPEG shooters have a much smaller margin of error and need to be more conservative with their clipped shadows and highlights.
While the general goal is to ensure that none of the tone data is cut off on the left or right side of the histogram, the exposure you choose for a scene is ultimately a creative choice. Though I often expose my scenes to match the amount of light my eyes see, sometimes I decide to make the scene darker or brighter than what I see.
Experienced photographers who are comfortable reading and managing a histogram will often expose their images so the histogram is as far as possible to the right without clipping, then reduce the brightness later in Lightroom or Photoshop. This “expose to the right” technique is a valid approach that yields more image data and less noise, but it must be done with care because the margin of error is much smaller on the highlights side of the histogram—even a small misjudgment can result in unrecoverable highlights and a ruined image.
The RGB Histogram
While the luminance histogram tells you about the detail you captured, the RGB (red, green, blue) histogram shows the color you captured.
To capture color, each photosite on a digital sensor measures the intensity of the light in one of three colors: red, green and blue. The camera uses this color information, and the color information from adjacent photosites, to interpolate the actual color for that location on the sensor. It also uses the color brightness to assemble individual red, green and blue histograms. Combined, they form the RGB histogram, displayed as three separate graphs or all three colors overlaid on a single graph.
If you’ve ever wondered why a sunset or blue sky appears washed out when the luminance histogram looked fine, the answer is probably in the RGB histogram. Even when one or two color channels are clipped, the luminance histogram can still look fine, creating a false sense of security. Photographers who use the “expose to the right” technique and rely on the luminance histogram without checking the RGB histogram are especially at risk of clipping colors.
Most scenes have a fairly even color distribution (all three channels have a similar histogram), but if you’re photographing a scene with one vivid color, such as a sunset or a backlit flower, you may find one color channel skewed far to the right. Even if just one channel is clipped, the only solution is to adjust the exposure for the entire scene.
A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words
The two Horseshoe Bend sunstar images here are from the same file. The first is the way the image looked on my camera’s LCD, along with its histogram; the second image is the same picture after just a few minutes of adjusting highlights, shadows and curves in Lightroom and Photoshop—no plugins, blending or other elaborate processing.
If I had given the exposure enough light for the shadows to look good (closer to how my eyes saw them) on my LCD, the highlights would have been hopelessly overexposed. Similarly, if I had darkened my highlights enough to look good on my LCD, the shadows would have darkened to an unrecoverable and/or noisy black. I knew my best chance for capturing this high-dynamic-range scene with a single click was to ignore my LCD preview and trust the histogram.
Despite an image that didn’t look good at all on my LCD, the histogram on my Sony a7R II showed me that I’d captured virtually all of the scene’s shadows and highlights. And because I captured this image in RAW mode, careful positioning of the histogram kept both shadow and highlight clipping minimal and in the recoverable range. Ignoring my preview and trusting my histogram allowed me to achieve the final image you see here with very little processing.
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]]>Three perspectives on seeing what is familiar—versus seeing what is new—in landscape photography.
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You are standing atop a ridge looking down as the world spreads out below you. Late afternoon sunlight dapples a forest of pine trees that stretches for miles along either side of a winding river. In the distance, rugged mountains rise from the earth, their jagged peaks scraping the clouds above. Where do you point your camera?
Approaching a landscape can be among the most daunting parts of landscape photography. It is also the most important. Everything begins with seeing. But how we see is situational and is influenced by our experiences and familiarity with a location and subject. Photographers Marc Muench, Sivani Babu and Andy Williams discuss previsualization, discovery and how they each approach the landscape.
Marc Muench
For the first half of my life, almost every landscape was new. The West was filled with unexplored regions—lakes, rivers, canyons, forests and glacially capped mountains that I wanted to climb. I was exposed to many of these places at an early age while traveling with my parents on landscape photography excursions. Each visit to a new and wild place opened the door to more intrigue. But we visited many locations more than once and, over the years, they became familiar.
When I began my professional career as a photographer, some of the first places I resourced for commercial and editorial assignments were those I had been to before—some locations I visited more than a dozen times in just a few years. Familiarity meant efficiency, and many of the photographs I made in those places were previsualized.
As my career grew, the destinations diversified. The world was shrinking, and I found myself flying to the corners of the United States and then to Mexico, Canada and the Caribbean. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the way I saw and created imagery was evolving.
I was regularly visiting locations that were totally unfamiliar to me. With no internet at that time, there was little documentation of existing work, and I was forced to innovate on the fly, to create images using compositional skills that were not influenced by other photographers or artists. This was a period of what I call “discovery” landscape photography.
Both landscape photography approaches offer advantages and disadvantages. Both are important. And both have provided me with rewarding experiences and memorable images.
The Previsualized Approach
The white granite is young by geological standards. In fact, so is the entire Sierra Nevada mountain range, which is still growing. Small glaciers cling to some of the high summits—on the northern slopes, where there is less direct sun, and above 12,000 feet, where it is cooler. Waterfalls plummet down the canyons through a maze of steep cliffs and deep alpine lakes, and only take a respite while meandering through the occasional meadow. The scent of the granite mixes with foxtail pine sap, ozone and wild onion. The Sierra Nevada mountains are familiar to me. I’ve been sleeping under the stars, high up in their steeps, for more than 40 years.
My first memory of the Sierras was a rather long backpacking trip with my parents when I was only 8 years old. At 9,000 feet elevation, at the entrance to the Golden Trout Wilderness, we began the hike on our way to climb Langley Peak, the southern-most mountain in the Sierra that is taller than 14,000 feet. I had no camera. The only images I made were memories: I remember my father composing with his large format camera and carrying it over his shoulder in a leather case the entire way. I remember the trail being hot and dusty, and the nights being cold and dark. I remember the thunderstorms racing across the sky while we summited and the stinging pellets of hail that forced us to seek shelter beneath overhanging slabs of granite. For an 8-year-old, it was all very exciting.
Forty years later, my most recent hike into the Sierras was with a group of friends, all fathers with children from my hometown of Santa Barbara, California. We have been making these six-day trips for about 10 years. Each time, we visit a new location in the Sierras, places like Graveyard Lakes, The Tablelands and others. We spend the days hiking unnamed peaks and high alpine cirques with no trails and the nights telling tales around the campfire. The only schedules we keep are determined by the sun and our stomachs.
Unusually for me, on these trips, I am under no pressure to photograph. Instead, I become more of a sponge, absorbing locations, scenes and good times with good friends. I never intended these trips to become a great creative outlet, but they have. They allow me the opportunity to practice landscape photography as I believe it should be, with the right mix of familiarity, uncertainty and atmospherics that bring out the best in me. My understanding and familiarity with the sights, sounds and smells of the Sierras are born of great nostalgia and give me a lot to work with. Even new locations feel familiar, and returning there feels like hanging out with an old friend.
Another location that became familiar to me was the Channel Islands. Each year for 15 years, I sailed to Santa Barbara Island to catch lobsters. I learned to lobster dive from a good friend, a retired underwater diver named Jack Baldelli, or “Captain Jack,” as I like to call him. One windless midnight some 20 years ago, Jack showed me how to catch lobsters in the dark while free diving. Donning thick, 5-millimeter wetsuits, flippers, gloves and masks, we slid into the water from the back of Jack’s sailboat and began snorkeling to the shallower areas where the lobsters feed on barnacles. The bioluminescence caught me by surprise. Every time I pushed my arms through the still water, the world around me lit up. The ocean came alive.
I only caught three lobsters that night, but I was inspired to capture the experience in pictures. For the next 15 years, I saved time to sail with Jack to the tiny island off the Santa Barbara coast at the beginning of lobster season not just to catch the incredibly tasty lobsters but also to create underwater images that reminded me of that first night. I tried many times to find and photograph the bioluminescence, but it never occurred again while I was there, and I had to settle for daylight images. I still carry that first impression with me, though, and to this day, I hope to capture something I experienced 20 years ago. As elusive as the scene might be, it was real, and it inspired me to create more images in a place that became familiar.
The Discovery Approach
I’d been to Iceland many times, but until last summer, I had not been to the interior. The rugged coastlines of Iceland had kept me busy for years with their waterfalls, glaciated volcanoes and aurorae. But getting to know the coastline made me curious about what was just over the horizon, inland.
During the summer of 2016, I finally got the chance to explore the highlands of Iceland with a good friend, climbing partner and photographer, Dan Evans. Dan and I wasted no time after meeting in Reykjavik, driving straight out to a remote inland area. We camped for the next eight days, with only the occasional dip in one of the Icelandic hot springs to clean up and soak. We had no single destination, but rather a list of many places friends had recommended. We were guided by our intuition, our curiosity and, of course, the weather.
Once we veered off of Highway 1, the main road, everything was new. There are few roads in the Icelandic highlands, but driving off-road threatens the amazing little mosses, plants and animals that live there, so we hiked. When we noticed an intriguing-looking canyon or waterfall, we stopped, packed our camera bags with water and snacks, and set out on foot. Even in today’s social media frenzy, there is little literature about the highlands. This made each hike more intriguing and more challenging. We were responsible for choosing where to go, how far to go, and when to go. We made all the decisions about managing our time, our resources and, most importantly, our creativity.
The first region we explored was a remote section of Vatnajökull National Park around the notorious volcano Laki. It was vast, rugged and full of surprises that we could have spent a month exploring.
I studied the horizon with binoculars and noticed what appeared to be spray from a large waterfall several miles away, but because of a hill between us, I could not see the actual fall. It was an intriguing mystery, so we decided to spend the night nearby and hike out to the location early the next morning.
When the sun rose at 3 a.m., we bounced out of the tent and began the hike. There were fissures formed by a volcanic eruption in the 1700s that created the small, moss-covered craters that became interesting foregrounds for images of the vast volcanic landscape at dawn. The pink clouds cinched the deal, and we suddenly became immersed in photographing something completely unplanned.
Although our hike was slightly delayed, we eventually made it to the waterfall — one that neither of us had ever seen in images. Without great light, we simply recorded possible compositions that we could use when we return in the future.
Later in the trip, we set our sights on climbing Hekla, an active volcano. Hekla is not a technical climb but rather a hike up through snow, ice and very rugged volcanic fields of sharp lava. On the drive up to the trailhead, a sign instructed us to download an application that would send us text messages of an imminent eruption.
A 2 a.m. departure got us up through the lava fields and over the snow-capped summit ridge just in time to photograph the sunrise as climbing tendrils of low cumulus clouds danced around the lower ridges of the surrounding mountains and volcanoes. Views of the highlands stretched for miles and wrapped around to the ocean to the south. My eyes feasted on new sights and images I could never have conceived of—images I had never seen in any publication. This was why I had come to the highlands: to experience something new and unusual and to welcome the challenge, as a landscape photographer, that came with that. I was reminded that finding new images in new places is a thrilling part of my art that I love to practice.
The “Previsualized Approach” is a test of our skills, but, more than that, it is an examination of the depth of our experiences in and knowledge of a location. To become familiar with a place is to understand its character. It is to learn to read the light and to believe that we can capture part of a location’s story. This takes time—weeks, months, even years. The more time we spend, the less we have to rely on the grace of luck.
I’ve heard from many photographers that the most amazing images they’ve ever created were at places they frequented, and that on just that one day, while passing by, they were able to catch “the moment.” But in many cases, the reality of that story is that they only knew to capture that image at that moment because of their history with that place. Familiarity with the subject and location creates a bond that is personal and that is, for me, an incredibly rewarding aspect of landscape photography.
The “Discovery Approach,” on the other hand, is about the act of seeing, and how we work with composition, light and subject. By refraining from researching the images already created in a place, we can all practice the discovery approach. And while we might come to some of the same conclusions about certain well-known locations and vistas, without a preview, we can be more fully engaged in the seeing process, viewing these places through our own eyes rather than the eyes of others. Making these images successful requires focus, energy, time and the one ingredient that we can’t manufacture: luck. In many discovery landscape shoots, luck is the gracing element of true success, but I’ve found that if we’re trying, luck usually shows up.
Sivani Babu
Familiarity is a fluid concept for me. In my work as a photographer and as a travel writer, I regularly find myself in new places, and I am resistant to conducting extensive research about a location beforehand. There are several reasons why I don’t like to know too much before I go, but the most important is this: A place will never look or feel the same as it does during those first encounters. To the greatest extent possible, I want those initial impressions to be my own and not what others have perceived before me. Add into the mix that I am also drawn to places and things that are utterly unpredictable, and previsualization in the traditional sense goes out the window. But the fundamental principle of previsualization—the idea that we must understand something on an intimate level in order to more fully tell its story—still plays a significant role in my craft.
When I fell in love with photography, I fell in love with ice, particularly big ice. Antarctica was unlike any place I’d ever been. There were animals I’d never seen and centuries of history that fascinated me, but it was the ice that captivated and inspired me. It had personality. Through its wind- and water-shaped curves and cracks, it told stories, the tales unfolding as we circled an iceberg and each majestic arch, emerald pool and crystalline icicle revealed itself. I’ve returned to Antarctica several times since that first visit, and more than any single place, it is the ice that feels like home. But Antarctica isn’t the only place with ice.
Earlier this summer, a series of fortuitous events landed me in Svalbard, Norway. It was the farthest north I’d ever been. I knew that we would be looking for polar bears and that at those northern latitudes there would definitely be ice, but beyond that, I knew very little of the character of Svalbard before I traveled north. What I found was a landscape that was as foreign as it was familiar: deep fjords cut by the movement of glaciers over millennia; striated hills and mountains; apex predators that sauntered across pancake ice in front of our ship; and icebergs, glacial blue and intricately sculpted by water and weather. The fjords were new. So were the hills, the mountains and the polar bears. But the ice—I knew the ice. And without knowing where we would be, when we would be there or what I might be looking at when we arrived, I could, in a very general sense, previsualize what facets of the ice I wanted to capture.
The images floated in my head. Abstract close-ups of the face of an iceberg with water below, a giant berg with birds in flight set against the blue ice, and monolithic icebergs that conveyed both beauty and power.
One afternoon, as the sky grew dark and the water grew black, I finally saw it—a massive, triangular iceberg floating by itself in a still fjord. Maybe this is the one, I thought.
Its architectural shape with a row of columns set askew vaguely reminded me of an ancient Greek temple crumbling to the sea, and a familiar excitement began to bubble up. Our ship set in for a closer look, and I worked the details, but it wasn’t until we moved on from the iceberg that I got what I really wanted. As we drifted away, the ice became both temple and mountain. Its peak was reflected in the water surrounded by bits of sea ice, and the sunlight, still blocked by a canvas of clouds, illuminated the patterns in the sky. And there in Svalbard, a place I’d never been, I felt the addictive thrill of photographing something I inherently understood.
This isn’t pure previsualization, but it is previsualization as I tend to practice it—a hybrid approach that is rooted in the emotion of connection but that also draws from the discovery approach to landscape photography. It combines my familiarity with a subject or experience with discovering a new place in real time. This approach challenges me to slow down and thoughtfully portray something I know, while simultaneously challenging me to adapt to something that is unfamiliar. When it all comes together, the images made are, for me, the most gratifying.
Familiarity can also be stagnating. That’s where the pure discovery approach comes in.
I grew up a long day’s drive from Northern California’s Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, but until a couple of years ago, I hadn’t spent any time in that part of my home state.
Our trip was actually to the Oregon Coast. Marc, myself and another photographer and friend of ours had spent four days exploring the area between Brookings and Bandon, but it rained heavily on our last night in Oregon, and we knew that with a little luck, we could be in for something special just south of the state border.
With rain clouds still threatening to open up and soak the earth, we woke early and headed south until we crossed back into California. Somewhat shamefully, I had no idea what to expect. I hadn’t really been in the redwoods since my childhood. I imagined that we would be walking through the forest composing images of the tallest of trees. It never occurred to me that I might wind up standing in the middle of a gently flowing river mesmerized by a rapidly changing landscape.
A dense fog hung in the air when we arrived at the turnout by the water, but we could see scattered patches of light, and that was intriguing enough for us to hang around and see what might develop. Rain developed first, heavy enough for us to seek shelter, but, still, we didn’t leave. When the rain let up, we wandered back out and waited. The fog began to lift.
We all walked out to the middle of the river and looked downstream. The reflections of the trees on the riverbanks and the stone-covered riverbed created a path that led straight to a large, glistening rock and then off into an ethereal land where layers of trees played peekaboo with the rolling fog.
And then it was gone. As quickly as it had emerged, the layers faded, the light changed, and the need to catch flights back in Oregon became imminent. It was a magical moment, and there is no doubt that luck played a pivotal role, but so too did our willingness to chase the possibility and our readiness when the image emerged.
I didn’t (and still don’t) have a deep personal connection with the redwoods or with the river in the photo. That kind of familiarity takes more time to build, but seeing and capturing that image was no less an incredible moment, and it provided a challenge that is inherently lost to familiarity.
Andy Williams
I’m the guy who doesn’t read book jackets or watch movie trailers. I don’t want to know too much about what I’m going to experience, whether that’s a story, a film or a place out in the world that I am going to photograph. Previsualizing is not in my DNA, but it is an important and valuable part of approaching landscape photography.
With the constant bombardment of great images from nearly every place on Earth, the real challenge for me with previsualizing is ensuring that I am pursuing my own vision. Every time I’m out photographing, whether it’s a place that is new to me or a place I’ve visited and photographed many times, I feel as if I have all this “previsualization” in my head—a composite of every image I’ve ever seen of a place. My job is to parse that out into something that is my own.
I like to get to a place well before the time I think the light will be best. I want to get a feel for it. I walk around, observing the big scenes and the small scenes. What am I looking for? The short answer is I don’t know, but, ultimately, the correct answer is the right blend of everything I know consciously and subconsciously about the place.
From there, it’s on to execution. I find that if I consciously force myself to do something “different,” then I stand a better chance of making a compelling photograph. I might change perspective by getting really low to the ground, or change focal lengths, shooting a traditional, wide-angle landscape scene with a moderate telephoto lens instead and then stitching multiple shots together. I might shoot with a really shallow depth of field or reach for my infrared camera, or intentionally overexpose or underexpose to draw attention to part of the scene.
In the Khongor Sand Dunes in Mongolia’s Gobi Desert, I had a swirling vortex of imagery in my head, but the image that came up most often was of camels and their riders on a ridge with the setting sun, a perfect combination if ever there was one. But I didn’t find my best shot by looking to recreate this scene. I found my best shot by doing something different. I turned around! And there I found a perfect composition of lines, light and shadow…and those camels and riders.
When I’m photographing, there is no real distinction between the previsualized and discovery approaches to seeing the landscape. There is just one approach, and it is an amalgam of everything I know and everything I think I know about a place before I arrive, and everything I see and take in when I’m there. And only after I spend some time getting to know the place am I best prepared to execute and make a photograph.
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]]>Dewitt Jones’s TEDx talk reflects on his career and the mindset of celebration that has guided his work.
The post There’s More Than One Right Answer appeared first on Outdoor Photographer.
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Three decades later, he is still asking these kinds of questions. Relentlessly positive, Jones displays an upbeat energy that is contagious. Last fall, he gave a TEDx talk in South Lake Tahoe on a theme that has become both a motto and a mantra for him over the years: “Celebrate what’s right with the world!” The 18-minute video is below, and we highly recommend you watch it. It’s filled with insights that will challenge and inspire both your photography and your worldview.
What’s The Story?
Reader reaction to his “Basic Jones” columns encouraged him. People responded to the fresh approach. “I began to explore where my vision of ‘how to photograph’ had come from,” Jones recalls. “Obviously, it had come from the Geographic. That training had made me a really good storyteller, so that even when I was shooting landscapes, I was always asking, ‘What's the story?’ and then, ‘How can I tell that and get rid of everything else?’”
Jones believes he knows what is so special about National Geographic. Why do people keep towering stacks of back issues? “My answer to that,” he says, “is because the Geographic celebrates what’s right with the world. I always feel great when I read the Geographic. And this became my mindset toward photography—I went out and celebrated what I was looking at.”
A recurring theme in Jones’s personal philosophy and approach is a mindful choice to look for the positive. “I recognize that vision controls your perception, and your perception becomes your reality,” he explains. The work he was doing for National Geographic, finding stories that celebrated life, helped create his reality. “I shot for the Geographic; I didn't shoot for the National Enquirer, you know.”
His constant search for people and places worth celebrating presented him with creative challenges unique to this mission. “I realized that one of the great lessons of photography was that there was more than one right answer,” he says. If your approach to photography is to find the one “perfect” perspective on a subject, Jones implores you to dig deeper. “Keep going. Try something different. Don’t stop shooting. Constantly look for the next right answer. I found that there were a lot more answers than I would ever suspect and that there wasn't one right way of doing something—there were a thousand right ways of doing something.
“It is much easier,” he continues, “to look for right answers if you are in a celebratory mood than in a ‘what's wrong with life’ mood.” Jones believes that this practice, for him, leads to a more abundant outlook. “The pie can just keep getting bigger rather than, you know, there’s only so much pie, and if you don’t get it, then somebody else is going to get it.”
Jones’s philosophy of abundance doesn’t mean that he’s blind to reality but that his outlook is lifted by finding something positive on which to focus his energy. “I don't deny the very real pain and suffering on the planet, but if I look at it in the larger context, there's way more right than wrong. What we can do in photography today, how we can share it and put it out in the world is really amazing. So I'm usually buoyed up on celebration rather than griping about what's wrong.”
Using TEDx To Reach A Wider Audience
We asked Jones who, in addition to his photography, has spent a considerable portion of his professional life a speaker for corporate audiences, what drew him to the TED platform. “The reason I did TEDx is ultimately the same reason that I did the column [‘Basic Jones’ for Outdoor Photographer]. I wanted to make a statement about my philosophy in a way that would hang around for a long time on the ‘net and that folks wouldn’t have to pay money to see.
“I believe that celebrating what's right with the world is a philosophy that can bring people together,” he continues. “If I can put something out in the world that is inclusive and healing, I'd like to do that.”
Jones notes that photography is now so accessible and a part of everyone’s daily life through smartphones and social media that it’s become much more of a common language. “Everybody has an iPhone or some kind of a mobile phone—and images resonate easily with people. So, what ‘lens’ do you have on your eyes? Do you have a lens of celebration, or do you have a lens that says the world sucks?
“The feedback I get from photographers in the classes I teach is that photography fills them with joy. That's why they do it,” Jones says. “The actual act of getting out there and connecting with the natural world makes them happy. It's not just the image on the card—it's the whole act of seeing, connecting and photographing.”
The Importance Of Being Present
A key component of “seeing” is being present in the moment. “To me, the seeing, the connecting, is actually more important than the photograph,” says Jones. “Sometimes I tell people that the photograph is just the ‘residue’ of the experience. You're out there having a five-sensory, three-dimensional experience. And if you miss that because you don't know your gear that well or you're competing with the photographer next to you, then you really miss the whole deal.”
For Jones, creating incredible images and being fully present in the moment is not an either-or proposition. “I want you to have both. I want you to have a phenomenal connected experience when you're out in nature and a great image,” he says. “Personally, I’ve come to the point where my photos are simply visual prayers. They're just me saying ‘thank you’ for getting to see what I see and being able to use all my technique and technology to try to translate those experiences into a photograph.”
Finding Beauty Close At Hand
“I've been photographing an unfolding fern outside my house. I’ve shot it with every camera I have, every which way but loose, all just to say ‘thank you’ that I got to see this amazing plant.” Jones refers to images taken in this spirit as moments of gratitude captured in a photograph. “Beauty is God's way of remaining obvious,” he remarks. “I’m not talking religion—‘god’ can be translated anyway you want—but that's how I feel when I'm out shooting.”
Jones encourages the students in his photo workshops to practice active, expressive gratitude when they’re photographing in the field. “Say ‘thank you’ out loud. Sometimes we'll have a class, and the sun will be setting, and you’ll hear all the way down the beach, ‘thank you, thank you.’ Everybody has a smile on their face, you know, because they just witnessed this unbelievable celebration called a sunset.”
Your Equipment Becomes Part Of You
Jones emphasizes the mindset of his approach to photography rather than the technical aspects. Still, equipment and technique are essential considerations if the goal is to achieve images that not only celebrate beauty but that are capable of translating for the viewer the photographer’s emotional response to a scene. There may be more than one right answer, but don’t camera and lens selection play a central role in finding those answers?
“To be really good, the equipment just has to become a part of you,” he explains, “You need to get to the point where you don't have to think, ‘Where's the button I push to change the shutter speed or the f-stop?,’ where the equipment is just an extension of your eye.”
Does Your Camera Have Truth In It?
In his TEDx talk, Jones recounts the story of meeting Adam, the 5-year-old little boy with the juice camera. We won’t retell the story here, as Jones shares a delightful narrative in the video, but he wants you to know that the story really happened. About three years ago, Adam, now in his 20s, contacted Jones through Facebook, and they’ve remained in regular contact ever since.
In that first contact, Adam said to Jones, “Before we can have a relationship, you have to answer a question: What did I mean when I asked if you had juice in your camera?” Jones admits he didn’t have a good answer in that moment. “I thought, ‘I don't know, you were 5 years old…’ But I didn’t say that. I took the question seriously, and I thought about it for a while. I was walking on the beach when the answer of what Adam, now in his 20s, might have meant if he asked me that question. I wrote him back, ‘You meant, do you have truth in your camera?’ And he responded, ‘We can have a relationship.’ Guess I got it right!
“So, believe it or not, Adam and I talk every week. We’ve become really good friends,” he says. As a result of that initial exchange, Jones has incorporated the theme “do you have truth in your camera?” in classes he teaches. “Do the photos that you take really express who you are, or are you just snapping pictures?” he asks. “Every time I post a photo on Facebook, I ask myself that question and try and write the answer, ‘Why did I take it? What was the celebration? What did I learn from it?’ The combination of words and picture becomes more than just a cool image. Instead, it’s me saying, both to myself and to the world, ‘Here's an image, and here's why it moved me. Here's why it was a celebration. Here’s my truth in that moment.’”
See more of Dewitt Jones’s work at dewittjones.com and at celebratewhatsright.com.
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]]>Insights for shooting when the mercury drops below freezing.
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It’s only September, but the wind chill hits -30 degrees Celcius on the Greenland ice cap for the third day in a row. Lying in the warmth of my sleeping bag, I can see the fog of my breath illuminated by my headlamp. Suddenly, I realize I’ve forgotten my boots outside overnight, and they’re frozen solid, tough as bricks. So, the day kicks off with my footwear sandwiched between dehydrated dinner bags filled with hot water. Thirty minutes of thawing later, and I can get a move on with what I’m actually there to do: shoot a film about photography with French filmmaker Mathieu Le Lay.
The misadventures that day didn’t start with frozen boots. Every two hours throughout the night, Mat and I took turns going to our water supply—a nearby supraglacial lake—where we punched through the surface of the ice with our tripods for fear it would freeze solidly enough to shut down our hydration source for good. It was an important lesson that, at times, what threatens a photo expedition isn’t malfunctioning gear or dead batteries; it’s your own body’s batteries that make all the difference.
Sleep-deprived, with boots finally on, we venture out onto the ice cap, and the wind is howling. As a photographer, you know that it will be one of those days where you’ll be very selective about what you stop for, and when each shot has to be earned. All day, our voices are muffled by the balaclavas and the gale, and hand signals prevail. Our silence isn’t due to a lack of excitement. For hours we explore in quiet bliss, photographing crevasses of an impossible blue, sneaking between teetering seracs, and peering down every millwell we stumble upon.
The environment forces us to be intentional with our creativity, to manage our energy. That evening, we return to the tent and finally reveal the rest of our faces: smiles all around.
A Case For Cold Weather Photography
I won’t lie, I’m a high-latitude fanatic. I love the remoteness that comes with venturing to the far-flung reaches of the planet, and traveling toward the poles means venturing into cold climates. Some of my most memorable and creative photo experiences occurred amongst the bobbing icebergs and penguins of South Georgia, the endless tundra and dramatic fjords of Baffin Island, and the snaking blue-hued glaciers of Svalbard. I’m addicted to that end-of-the-world feel.
I’m also a winter enthusiast. Where I live in the heart of the Canadian Rockies, I find that, most of the time, the landscape looks better at -20 degrees Celcius than at 0 degrees. It's magical out there in mid-January, even when it’s so cold out your pants remain standing when you take them off. Under a fresh blanket of snow, everything looks pristine and, wherever there is open water, rare snow and ice features present themselves, creating exceptional conditions for photography.
So, the bad news is Old Man Winter and the subpolar regions mean you have to deal with the cold, and photographers know that cold is no friend to cameras. The good news? These days, there are ways to make cold-weather photography more than bearable—I’d say downright enjoyable. How? Here are some cold weather photo tips I’ve gathered over a few years of shooting the Arctic and Antarctic regions, and the long white stretch here at home.
Bundle up. With high-performance gear on the market, it's becoming much easier to be reasonably comfortable out there in the cold. Layer your clothing, buy a box of cheap heat packs and keep a box in the car. Activate the heat packs 10-15 minutes before you need them. And it doesn't matter how warm your body is, if your feet are cold, you won't last very long out there. Invest in a good pair of well-insulated boots, as well as warm socks. Don't worry about what you look like—just stay warm. Avoid sweating at all costs. Trust me, discomfort leads you to rush through your process, and it can show in your images.
Battery power. It's one of my main concerns out there. I always keep two spare batteries in an inner pocket. If you're doing time-lapses or long exposures, I’d recommend carrying tape or rubber bands so you can place hand warmers close to your battery compartment. Also, consider investing in a battery grip to keep the power going. Put the depleted battery in a different pocket than the full batteries so you don’t get confused.
Know your gear. Bone-chilling temperatures are not ideal for figuring out how to bring up your histogram, changing aperture or operating your tripod. It's all about efficiency out there, and it really helps if you're familiar with your gear and can operate it with gloves on. If you have to, practice changing settings with mitts on in the comfort and warmth of your home.
Watch for moisture. When taking a shot, take care not to exhale near the lens. Look away from the camera, or take a step back, before exhaling. Otherwise, condensation will freeze to the surface of your lens instantly. Some companies make dehumidifying lens caps, which can help with that problem. It’s not a bad idea to keep silica packs in your camera bag at all times and change them occasionally.
Bracket your images. Whenever I find myself in a situation where time is of the essence, I bracket. It's a huge help to not have to mess with auto-exposure compensation when it's really cold out. That, and often cold means there's bright snow around that's hard to expose properly anyway, so you might be very glad you have the extra frames. Try to rely on your histogram as much as possible to get a clear idea of how bright your image really is.
Insulate metal parts. Touch an aluminum tripod with bare hands in cold weather, and you’ll quickly learn you never want to do it again. If you’d like to save your fingerprints, prep the metal parts of gear that you might be handling without gloves. It's helpful, for example, to cover your tripod legs with some sort of insulation, such as hockey tape or foam.
Keep food and hot drinks handy. Eating a lot will keep you going for much longer. But if the food is hard to access, you might not bother to dig it out. I like to keep something energy-rich in an easily accessible pocket, such as nuts, dried fruit and (my favorite) chocolate. A thermos with something hot and sweet will keep you warm from the inside out and help you to avoid some serious consequences of cold, such as hypothermia.
Use two camera bodies. Changing lenses can be a real challenge in cold, wintery conditions. Handling gear in the cold is hard enough, but when you change lenses you also risk exposing your sensor to moisture. If you have a backup body, consider going out with two cameras so you can shoot at different focal lengths without having to switch lenses.
Take advantage of conditions. Some unique features come out only in cold weather—keep an eye out for them! These include methane bubbles in lakes, hoar frost, the interplay of sidelight and dramatic temperature differences (such as fog over open water), icicles, long shadows and the softening effects of an untouched blanket of snow. Sometimes this means venturing out in the coldest temperatures imaginable, but I promise you’ll go home with images you’re proud of.
Seal it. Depending on your gear, you may need to be cautious about drastic temperature differences, such as when you return to heat blasting in your car or go back indoors. Before exposing your gear to that warmth, it’s recommended that you place it in a sealed bag (such as a Ziploc) until it has reached room temperature. This will prevent condensation forming on the camera and lens. Add a silica gel pack to the bag to further cut down on moisture.
Give it time. It's easy to throw in the towel when you're facing super cold conditions. But take it as an opportunity to refine your system. Fingers got too cold? Make a mental note to bring the heat packs next time. Fiddling with your camera’s menus too much? Get more familiar with your gear. To help motivate you, make micro goals in getting out in the cold on a regular basis.
Embrace discomfort. No matter what you do, photographing in freezing temperatures will never feel like shooting a sunset on a beach in Hawaii. But often the difference between a good photographer and a great one is the willingness to go through some discomfort to get your images. Work toward spending more and more time out there, and, as you walk away with images you like, you'll be more inclined, maybe even excited, to face the cold again.
The bottom line is some of the best photo ops happen when it's brutally cold out, and some of the most magical places on Earth never get all that warm. Instead, they give us the opportunity to not only stretch our creative limits but also our personal comfort zones. Set yourself up well, and you’ll find that you—and your photo gear—are able to withstand even the coldest of temperatures. That warm blanket and hot coffee will feel that much better when you get into the editing room.
Paul Zizka is a mountain landscape and adventure photographer based in Banff, Alberta. See more of his work at zizka.ca.
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]]>Equipment, planning and exposure techniques to successfully photograph a lunar eclipse.
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In case you haven’t heard, there’s a total lunar eclipse coming up on January 31, 2018. The total eclipse will be visible in central and western North America, Australia, and much of Asia. It will also be a “blue moon,” (the second full moon of the month), and a “supermoon,” (with the moon closer to the earth than normal, so it will look slightly larger). This page at timeanddate.com shows where the eclipse will be visible, as well as the timing of the event.
In North America the eclipse will occur as the moon is setting in the west just before sunrise. The further west you go, the higher the moon will be during totality, and the longer the eclipse sequence you can see. People in the mountain states should be able to see the entire one hour and sixteen minutes of totality, while those of you in the northwest could see (with clear skies) all of totality plus all of the partial eclipse phase afterwards. Unfortunately, the total eclipse will not be visible on the east coast of the U.S. and Canada.
Since the eclipsed moon will be low in the sky to the west in North America, there should be some great opportunities to juxtapose the moon with natural or manmade features. I’m sure we’ll see photos of the eclipsed moon next to the Space Needle if there are clear skies in Seattle. And the same goes for the Golden Gate Bridge. But any spot with an interesting view to the west could work, so there are tons of possibilities.
Equipment for Photographing a Lunar Eclipse
- DSLR or mirrorless camera with full manual exposure control. Test your mirrorless camera first to make sure you can focus and compose in the dark with the electronic viewfinder (see “Focusing” below)
- At least two fully charged camera batteries
- Sturdy tripod
- Cable release, electronic release, or remote
- Interval timer or watch
- Flashlight or headlamp
Moon Position and Timing
When the partial eclipse begins the moon will become a smaller and smaller crescent as the earth’s shadow seems to take a bite out of the moon. During the total eclipse the moon will look much dimmer, and turn orange or even red-orange in color. The sky will be full of stars, as if on a moonless night. Just after the total eclipse the moon will return to a slender crescent and then get larger and larger, until the eclipse ends and the moon becomes completely full again. (You won’t be able to see this last partial phase in much of North America during the January 31st eclipse.)
With most nighttime images you want to get away from city lights and light pollution. You don’t necessarily need dark skies for a lunar eclipse, as the moon should be clearly visible even in urban areas (and even during the maximum eclipse). Having said that, the moon will stand out more clearly with darker skies away from city lights.
To calculate the moon’s position accurately — if you want to line it up with a building or mountain, for example — you’ll need an app like The Photographer’s Ephemeris, The Photographer’s Ephemeris 3D, or PhotoPills. And you’ll need to know the timing of the eclipse, so here are the important moments:
Partial eclipse begins: 11:48 UT, 3:48 PST
Total eclipse begins: 12:52 UT, 4:52 PST
Maximum eclipse: 13:30 UT, 5:30 PST
Total eclipse ends: 14:08 UT, 6:08 PST
Partial eclipse ends: 15:11 UT, 7:11 PST
Knowing the timing of the eclipse, you can use one of the aforementioned apps to figure out exactly where the moon will be from a given location at each stage of the eclipse. For example, from my house in Mariposa, California, at 5:30 a.m. (the maximum eclipse), the moon will at an azimuth (compass direction) of 277 degrees, and an altitude of 18 degrees. I won’t be able to see the end of the partial eclipse from here, as according to The Photographer’s Ephemeris the moon will be at an altitude of -0.4 degrees at 7:11 a.m. — just below the horizon. (It will also be getting pretty light by then, since sunrise will be at 7:04 a.m.)
Focusing
Since most modern lenses focus past infinity, you can’t just crank the focusing ring all the way to the end and expect to get sharp photographs. The most accurate way to focus in the dark, by far, is to use live view, magnify the image to zoom in on the moon, and focus manually. Autofocusing on the moon should also work if the moon is bright enough (like before the total eclipse begins) — but be sure to then turn autofocus off so that the camera doesn’t accidentally focus on something else when you press the shutter button.
Exposure
Light meters are useless for getting good exposures of the moon, because even a one-degree spot meter can’t read just the moon, but will also include some of the surrounding black sky. So here are some suggestions based on past experience, including making the accompanying photographs. You’ll need to use manual-exposure mode, and check your camera’s highlight alert (the blinkies) to make sure you’re not overexposing the moon:
Full moon, or moon more than half visible: 1/60 sec. at ƒ/11, 200 ISO
Half to one-quarter of the moon visible: 1/30 sec. at ƒ/11, 200 ISO
Less than one-quarter of the moon visible: 1/15 sec. at ƒ/11, 200 ISO
Just the edge of the moon lit: 1 sec. at ƒ/11, 200 ISO
Fully eclipsed at the beginning and end of totality: 8 sec. at ƒ/11, 800 ISO
Fully eclipsed, deepest totality: 8 sec. at ƒ/11, 1600 ISO
In these examples I’ve kept the aperture constant at ƒ/11, but if you need more depth of field you could use ƒ/16 and either double the ISO or the length of the exposure. But you want to keep the exposures relatively short, otherwise the moon will move and blur. You can get away with eight or maybe even fifteen seconds with a wide-angle lens, but with a telephoto lens you need to use shutter speeds of four seconds or less. To find the maximum exposure time for your lens before movement appears, divide the focal length into 400. So 400 ÷ 25mm = 16 seconds, or 400 ÷ 100mm = 4 seconds. Bracketing exposures is a good idea.
Eclipse Strategies
Trying to include a foreground makes things more complicated, so the simplest way to photograph a lunar eclipse is to take a long lens and zoom in on the moon. If you photograph the eclipse from beginning to end you can even use Photoshop to assemble your images into a montage showing the whole sequence.
A more evocative approach — but a more complicated one — is to use a wide-angle lens and capture the eclipse sequence with a foreground, as I did in the accompanying images. To do this you’ll first need to figure out the exact path the moon will take so you can compose your photograph accordingly. The apps I mentioned above, PhotoPills, The Photographer’s Ephemeris, and The Photographer’s Ephemeris 3D, are invaluable for this. And you’ll want to get to your chosen spot early enough to capture the entire eclipse sequence, from full, to partially eclipsed, to fully eclipsed, and (if possible from your location) back through the partially-eclipsed stages.
Once you’ve composed, make sure your tripod is solidly planted and locked tightly. If your composition includes a foreground you’ll want to focus at the hyperfocal distance, which will be somewhere between the closest object to the camera and infinity, but closer to the foreground. (If you don’t know how to find the hyperfocal distance, just focus on the foreground.) Then use a small enough aperture to get both foreground and moon in focus. (A bright flashlight and live view are helpful for focusing on the foreground.)
Then make a series of exposures to capture the eclipse sequence. In the three photographs here the interval was ten minutes between each moon capture, but you could make it fifteen or twenty minutes if you want to space the moons farther apart. Just make sure you keep the interval the same throughout the sequence. You can use an interval timer for this, or just use a watch and trip the shutter manually (using a remote or cable release, of course). You’ll need to adjust the exposure times (and possibly the aperture or ISO as well) as the moon dims and brightens.
In the accompanying photographs I used electronic flash or a flashlight to light-paint the foreground in between making exposures of the moon. Light painting is a complex subject that I won’t get into here, and if this is the first time you’ve ever tried photographing an eclipse I’d suggest you keep it simple, and don’t try light painting. Just try to capture single images of the moon itself, or perhaps a sequence with silhouetted trees or other objects in the foreground.
You might also capture a frame to use as the base (background) layer in Photoshop. For example, in the sequences from the Trona Pinnacles (first image, above) and Yosemite (second image, above), during the total eclipse I made an exposure for the stars, and used that starry sky as the background for the eclipse sequence. For the sequence with the oak tree from the Sierra foothills (below) the background is an exposure made as the sky was beginning to lighten and turn blue at dawn:
Assembling A Sequence
If you get ambitious and try a sequence, the final step is to assemble the images in Photoshop. From Lightroom you can select the images and choose Photo > Edit In > Open as Layers in Photoshop, and Photoshop will stack the images into one document as separate layers. Or you can do this by hand using the Move tool to drag one image on top of another; just make sure you hold down the shift key while dragging so that the images align properly.
Drag your background layer to the bottom of the stack in the Layers Panel. Then change the blending mode of every layer except the bottom one to Lighten. This makes light areas override dark areas, so the moon from one frame will override dark sky from another frame. As you do this you’ll see all the moons magically appear and complete your sequence. If you light-painted a tree or other object, that too will appear when you change the blending mode for that layer. And if you used a telephoto lens to capture the whole eclipse sequence, you can use the Move tool to drag each layer around and arrange the moons on your canvas.
Upcoming Lunar Eclipses
Photographing a lunar eclipse takes planning, and a willingness to lose some sleep, but it can be a tremendously rewarding experience. And if your photographs don’t turn out as well as you hoped, you might get another chance soon. There will be another total lunar eclipse on July 27th this year, visible in Europe, Africa, and much of Asia. And on January 21st of 2019 a total lunar eclipse will be visible in all of the Americas, Europe, and some of Africa.
Good luck!
Read more articles like this on Michael Frye’s blog at michaelfrye.com.
Michael Frye is a professional photographer specializing in landscapes and nature. He is the author or principal photographer of The Photographer’s Guide to Yosemite, Yosemite Meditations, Yosemite Meditations for Women, Yosemite Meditations for Adventurers, and Digital Landscape Photography: In the Footsteps of Ansel Adams and the Great Masters. He has also written three eBooks: Light & Land: Landscapes in the Digital Darkroom, Exposure for Outdoor Photography, and Landscapes in Lightroom: The Essential Step-by-Step Guide. Michael has written numerous magazine articles on the art and technique of photography, and his images have been published in over thirty countries around the world. Michael has lived either in or near Yosemite National Park since 1983, currently residing just outside the park in Mariposa, California.
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]]>Core concepts for successful black-and-white photography.
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Having been Ansel Adams’ full-time assistant for five years and the exclusive printer of his black-and-white Special Edition Prints of Yosemite for over 40 years, I have a preference for black and white in my own work, which comes as little surprise to most people in the photo world.
While I have enjoyed working in color at various points in my career — I assisted in a high-end, largely color advertising studio for three years before my time with Adams and operated my own advertising studio for a dozen years after that — I have to acknowledge a preference for my monochrome world.
By its very nature, black-and-white photography is an abstraction of reality. With color work, unless I am doing something dramatically arty, you are likely going to feel something is “wrong” if I show you a landscape with a green sky or a portrait with purple skin. There is an inherent expectation of “reality” with color.
With black-and-white images, however, I can render a rich blue sky as something light and airy with little distinction between cloud and sky, or as something deeply moody, with strong separation between cloud and sky. Neither of these variations is dependent on color, and neither would give rise to a feeling of something being “wrong.” They are just an interpretation or a more personalized way of expressing a feeling or reaction to a scene. It’s very liberating to create one’s own version of reality instead of being held to the reality of what is actually in front of the lens.
Working in black and white doesn’t have to be difficult, but it does require some thought with regard to tools and approach.
“Seeing” Black-And-White In A Color World
A major consideration is the fact that even though we may be working toward a black-and-white image, the world in front of our lens (and our eyes) is in living color.
To help me make a visual “leap” from color to black and white, I look beyond the colors in a scene and instead look at the relationships between those colors. Then I imagine how I can manipulate those relationships through the use of filters to create emphasis or focus.
When I’m working with film, I have to imagine the effect of a filter before I release the shutter. A filter in front of the lens lightens its own color, darkens its opposite and leaves neutrals unchanged. Exposure has to be increased to compensate for the density of the filter.
The color circle in Figure 1 shows the scientific relationships of primary colors. Red is the opposite of cyan, yellow is opposite of blue, and magenta is the opposite of green. Knowing these relationships helps you anticipate the effect of a filter or suggest what filter will give you the effect you want.
With a strong red filter, for example, I can render a green leafy plant in front of a reddish sandstone wall as a dark plant against a light and delicately textured wall, as green is nearly the opposite of red. Or, with a deep green filter, I can render that same plant as very light against a dark and moody wall.
When working digitally, I make the capture in RAW and then experiment with different interpretations of these relationships using controls in Lightroom or Photoshop. Each color in the capture can be manipulated independently from other colors, and since the skewing is done in post-processing, no exposure compensation is necessary.
The illustration in Figure 2 shows how Photoshop can be used to either mimic the effect of a filter in front of a lens or, in playing with different colors, can create a completely unique effect.
Post-Processing Tonal Control
Another freedom from reality in working in black and white is being able to dramatically modify tonal contrasts and densities in a way that seems natural and perfectly reasonable but would look like a big mistake in color. A case in point is with the use of considerable tonal controls to realize my objective with one of my most significant photographs, Bridalveil Fall in Storm, Yosemite 1974.
I was running the darkroom for one of Adams’ Yosemite workshops, and the entire group took a “high country” field trip on a day a fluke thunderstorm rolled through Yosemite. The wind and rain cut the trip short.
Heading back into Yosemite Valley with some fellow assistants, I encountered an amazing view of hanging clouds and Bridalveil Fall. We screeched to a halt and reached for our gear. I set up my 4x5 camera, made two exposures, changed lenses and then made two more exposures. Since my workshop job was running the darkroom, I developed the film the same day and contact proofed it. But the proofs were a bore! They had all the tones but none of my “mood.”
In making the image, I had felt a deep impression of a dark brooding storm with heavy sky and vibrant hanging clouds. When I got home and made my first print, I wound up increasing the contrast in the foreground clouds and forest, and darkened the sky to achieve the mood I had felt for the image (Figure 3). Success!
Upshot: A black-and-white image, being already an abstract of reality, can render a scene with considerable drama or delicate nuance, without looking forced or “wrong.” The photographer is in charge of his or her own reality.
Making A Black-And-White Image
Following are a few tips for getting the best shot, whether shooting digital or analog. The principles of photography are largely the same with film and digital, though the particulars of achieving a desired vision in black and white with the different platforms require some unique techniques. When I am contemplating making an exposure, I tend to think of things in the following order:
Composition. What is it that attracted me to the scene or subject in the first place? Where is the best place for my lens? My relative position to the subject(s) establishes the structure of the image. If I move a bit to the left, does a tree branch start to get in the way? If I lower my eye, does a fence post start to bump into the prime object of my image? I have made some images where the difference of an inch or two in lens position could make or break a composition.
All of this is done before I ever get my camera out, and I frequently use a framing card or my hands to “audition” my composition. Quoting Mark Twain in his essay Fenimore Cooper’s Literary Offenses: “Eschew surplussage!” If it’s not needed in the image, don’t include it. Or at least minimalize it.
Lens choice. The only thing a change in focal length really does is change the cropping of your image. Choose your spot, then choose the focal length that gives the best cropping. Choice of lens has no effect on the subject structure of an image — that is governed by the location of the lens relative to the subject(s). What is often attributed to “lens compression” is actually a result of changing lens location to suit a long focal-length lens. If the camera position is not moved, the relationship of elements in a scene remains unchanged regardless of focal length.
Filter choice. If you are working digitally, most filter effects can be done in post-processing, as explained above. The exceptions are in using neutral density (ND) filters to extend exposure time, and polarizers to darken skies or control reflections. A “1A Skylight” filter can cut through haze nicely. With black-and-white film or a Leica Monochrom, which captures in black and white only, a colored filter has to be decided on before exposure.
With digital, it is possible to see the effect of black and white right away. While I tend to capture only in RAW mode, if you set your camera to capture in both RAW and JPEG with a monochrome setting, most cameras will render the JPEG as a black-and-white image. If you want to preview the effect of a filter, you can put an actual filter in front of the lens, and the image review will show that color effect.
Exposure. With digital, the crucial approach is to not over-expose highlights. If the sensors are overloaded, there is very little, or nothing, to recover in post-processing. A washed-out white cloud is much harder to live with than empty shadows — and deep shadows can often be recovered to a surprising degree.
The histogram will also tell you immediately whether you have held your highlights. If the histogram is slammed into the right side of its window, reduce your exposure and do another capture. Hopefully your subject is still there for a second try.
With film, the opposite approach is the rule. The one thing that cannot be fixed after the fact is under exposure. It takes a scientific amount of light to rattle the silver molecules enough for there to be anything to develop. If the film does not get that minimum amount of light, there is nothing to print or scan, just clear film.
Finding Your Muse
Is black-and white photography for you? Only you can answer that. There are countless, stunning color images that would be a complete bore in black and white. If National Geographic or NASA worked only in black and white, there would be so much in and out of this world we would know nothing about. If flowers and fall colors were only shown in shades of gray, how dreary! I photograph to express my feelings about things I see. I do photograph a lot in color, but it is the black-and-whites that let me express a reality in a very personal way.
The most important thing? Have fun. Take your subject to heart before bringing your camera to eye. Photographing roses? Take a moment to smell them first.
See more of Alan Ross’ work at alanrossphotography.com.
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]]>Considerations when deciding if monochrome is the right choice for a subject.
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]]>Notice that I said “shooting for” black and white. I’m consciously aware that the image that I’m making at that moment will end up being a black-and-white image, except for “bonus black-and-whites” that I find after the fact (see my “confession” below).
This means that in the time I’ve used to prep and set up for the image, my brain has already run through several important pre-calculations, some of which are used for any image — both color and black and white — and some which are especially important for black-and-white images:
Considerations For Shooting In Either Color Or Black & White
- Is this a compelling image and subject?
- Do I have light?
- Is the quality of light good?
- How will I compose this image?
- What focal length will I be using?
- What is the best depth of field for this image?
- Do I need any filters to bring out the best in this image (polarizer, neutral density)?
Important When Shooting For Black And White
- What is the contrast of the subject relative to the scene?
- Where is the tonality contrast?
- Where are the differences in luminosity (brightness)?
- Are there “micro-scenes” within the composition that might act as supporting players?
- Will the sky and clouds look better in black and white?
- How can I maximize the contrast of the entire image as a whole?
- Does my background need to be sharp and in focus, or is it better to be soft?
- Have I composed in such a way that my subject is supported by the background, not diminished by it?
Let’s take my image of the Aldeyjarfoss waterfall in North Iceland (above) as an example. This waterfall is situated in such a way that late afternoon light floods the canyon. We usually shoot it from a few hours before sunset, and sometimes the sky will light up with crazy colors at the magic hour. It’s a compelling image and subject, there’s good light—I now have to choose how I’m going to compose. There are a few limitations, few spots to shoot from, since climbing down to water level requires some skill and can be treacherous. Depth of field? Everything that is “rock” needs to be sharp. Filter? I’m a sucker for long exposures to show the movement of the water, so I used a six-stop neutral density filter to get myself to a 1.3-second exposure in very bright light. So far, so good, and the result is a successful color image. But that isn’t what I was aiming for at all.
Compare the color version to the black-and-white, and look at the major and minor contrast differences: the creamy white flowing water against the stark sharpness of the basalt columns and rocks; the clouds become so much punchier in black and white, adding another “micro-scene” of dramatic contrast; finally, black and white shows the luminosity contrast of the rock formations in a stronger fashion, in particular the bold lines of the basalt columns that ring the pool below the waterfall. From the moment I first arrived on the scene, my “computer” was thinking all of this stuff through.
Another example is my image of the seacoast taken at the town of Å (that’s not a typo), which is on the southern tip of the Lofoten Islands of Norway. I didn’t have all of the ingredients that I listed above but most of them. The light, in fact was dismal. Still, the scene spoke to me, and I thought I could pull it off, and this photo shows what you can accomplish even in not-so-perfect light with careful exposure. I exposed way to the right, making sure I got everything as well exposed as possible without blowing the whites out. Right from the start, I was shooting for black and white, as that is nearly how the scene looked to my eyes during this dismal weather. The water in the sea was whipping around fairly well, and I pictured smooth water in my mind contrasting with the sharpness of the volcanic mountains that reach the water. So, a long exposure was in order. A 10-stop neutral density filter let me get to the 15-second exposure that I judged to be the right amount to give smoothness to the water. So at shoot, many of my objectives were met, namely the macro contrast, the scene-to-scene contrast (smooth water versus rough mountains), and the drama contrast (the sky). A little careful developing in Lightroom—nothing fancy here—and the image was done.
Basic Black-And-White Processing
Let’s talk about what happened in Lightroom. As much as I “think” and “see” in black and white, there’s no doubt that a lot of what goes into a successful black-and white-landscape happens in post-processing. This is no different today with digital than it was back in the days when we shot film and spent hours dodging and burning our favorite prints.
In Lightroom, for this image, it was pretty simple: A quick touch of the tone-curve to extend my tonal range all the way left and right, maximizing the blacks and the whites, and then an adjustment brush on the clouds with a mix of Contrast, Blacks down, Whites up and adding some Clarity. Sometimes a (very) little Dehaze filter can do the job as well. It varies from image to image; what I’m after is to accentuate what is there, and make it as punchy, contrasty and dramatic as possible.
Next, a different brush for the mountain and snow, further pushing the Blacks, Whites and Highlights in that area of the image to the limit. Mixing in a bit of Clarity helps out here. It really works well in those midtones. The idea is to have one of those areas of “micro contrasty scenes” within the photo.
When I’m “seeing” in black and white, I’m looking for patterns and textures as well. These are very important ingredients to a successful image. When I came upon a stand of trees in Italy’s Dolomites, I immediately thought “black and white.” Why? There was virtually no color in the scene to begin with, the outer trees were bathed in soft box-like, high overcast light, showing their white bark, and the rest of the forest stand was in shadow. I immediately fell in love with the pattern of the strong vertical lines of the trees, and the texture of the fine leafless branches reaching out from one tree to the next, each contrasting mightily with the much thicker white trunk of the tree.
Tonality, Luminosity And “Micro-Contrast” Scenes Within The Photo
Most times that I have photographed the giant crater at Mývatn, in North Iceland, it is either fully covered in pure white snow or it is completely devoid of snow, and in either of those conditions, while still an impressive and beautiful scene, it is hard to see anything but just the general shape of the caldera. When arriving in the area after a long drive, I made the immediate decision that we had to photograph the crater now, soon, before things changed. Why? There was a low cloud bank and good sunshine above the clouds, so we had that soft box-like lighting effect happening—great quality of light. I could see with my eyes that there was just the right amount of snow on the crater that I would be able to really emphasize the contrast, texture, repeating lines and shape in a very good way.
The scene in color was already very “blendy,” meaning that the color tones shifted so gradually as to not provide much change in color contrast at all. The sky was very neutral blue-gray, with not much detail to the naked eye. Finally, the foreground was mostly low birch bushes and trees with no leaves, and while it is important to have an “anchor” to the photo, it would be a supporting player. Still, I noticed that there would be areas of micro-contrast in the foreground and that there was “texture” contrast (sharp tree branches, then the smoother crater), so I knew that black and white was going to be my result.
You have to get it right at capture. I set up for a panorama—this is 10 shots, portrait-oriented, shot left-to-right and stitched together in Lightroom. I made sure that my exposure was as perfect as could be, protecting the shadows and the highlight, but pushing it as much as possible to the right of the histogram.
Once the images were stitched in Lightroom, I had an overall very easy time post-processing this image. Believe it or not, I just hit the “V” key in Lightroom to toggle the image into a quick black-and-white on screen, then I added Clarity, pushed the Whites and Highlights as far as I could to the right, added a gradient filter for the sky, reducing the Blacks, upping the Whites and Highlights even more, and then added a touch of Dehaze. Finally, Sharpening was applied to give the absolute separation of the crater edges and the rivulets of snow and the white trees trunks from the black tree trunks—and done.
Confession: The Accidental Black And White
I admit, there are times when I’m reviewing my images and I will touch that “V” key in Lightroom to toggle the image into black and white. Sometimes, I get that instant “wow” for an image that I was never planning to be a black-and-white. What is it that makes me do the change?
My image of a mother elephant and calf is a good example of this. When I converted to black and white, the distracting brown earth patches became almost invisible, thus reinforcing my main message here in the photo, that of the protective mother elephant and her calf. The second reason this image works better in black and white is because of the color of the subjects themselves—they are monochromatic to begin with. Black and white also exaggerates the contrasting folds and shadows in their skin, providing more drama throughout the image.
For the most part, the successful black-and-white photo doesn’t "just happen.” Pay attention to the tonality, luminosity, micro- and macro-contrast and the quality of the light. Look for patterns, repetition and contrasting textures. All of this, when taken together, properly exposed at capture and carefully processed in post, will bring you a great result.
Andy Williams is a professional photographer and photo workshop leader at muenchworkshops.com. See more of his work at andywillia.ms.
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]]>Studying the work of celebrated painters can lead you to new ways of seeing photographically.
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Before I began shooting color photography (I’d done black-and-white since I was 6 years old), I studied the work of painters and viewed hundreds of paintings. I learned how painters create both what they see in front of them and what they want to see, so that you can feel how the work comes from their hearts.
The study of paintings has impacted my photography greatly. I spend a great deal of time watching the interaction of light with objects as it plays about in various scenes in nature. That has made me slow down and see nature on a much more intimate level. For this project, I literally focus on the light as it passes over and across the lily pads. I stalk a composition. I may be wading deep into the water, all the time calling on past experience to predict the passage of the light, waiting patiently for it to hit the perfect spot to create exactly the image that I’m imagining.
I was inspired to do this project primarily because I love Monet. My goal was to create work that shows the beauty of ponds: the magic of their quiet serenity. So many people never see it, because they don’t spend the time required to see it. I shot my very first lily image back in early 1986, and this project is still ongoing; it truly feels like it will never be finished because nature is always creating and making new images for me to discover.
I’ve been following the ponds and waterways of this country for more than 30 years, looking and scouting for new shots. Yet so far, in all that time, I have found only seven ponds that have just the right combination of spring waters, lily pads and trees to make great imagery. That’s partly because the lily pads on these ponds turn colors, because their cold spring water keeps temperatures down so they don't turn brown. They’ll stay around longer and keep turning colors, plus their surfaces reflect the colors of their surroundings.
All images were shot in the light of early morning. I’ve learned that the composition and scene you want to create dictates what gear you need to use. That’s why I shoot with medium format or large format, and why I carry a massive amount of photo gear with me. Typically, I’m carrying two bodies and backs and 10 lenses in a backpack, with two tripods, a ladder and a 500mm lens, which adds up to about 75 to 100 pounds, depending on which tripod I’m using.
Having used both color film and digital, I’ve learned that color film has no special advantage over digital except that it teaches you to shoot less and have more purpose when you click the shutter. As it has evolved, I find that digital gives more colors, more accurate colors, more dynamic range and greater resolution.
People often say that these images have the feeling of something unreal or otherworldly, but for me, they make me think of Monet and what he must have felt when he was creating his amazing paintings. Each has its own unique beauty, and each image successfully captures what I intended. In some ways, I like “Quiet Symphony” more than the other two images featured here due to its rarity of being captured as a panorama with a great background of trees.
For photographers who are interested in shooting scenes like these, I’d suggest that you spend time simply watching, looking and seeking out what you want to see as your final image. I like to use framing cards to create the composition and watch how the light plays on the lilies. I find that the best light for these images is low light.
Inspiration is supremely impossible to quantify or break down into a process. Never question what makes your heart race. Always go with your creative senses. Never second-guess what stops you in your tracks. Then, once you’ve found that great composition, take the time to watch it in all kinds of different lights. See what happens. Don’t be satisfied until you know it’s right.
See more of Timothy Wolcott’s work, including additional images from this series, at timothywolcott.com. You can also follow him on Facebook at facebook.com/TimothyWolcottPhotography and Instagram @timothywolcottphotography.
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]]>The foundation of a truly successful photograph is rooted in vision — equipment is almost incidental
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Have you seen the movie “Glengarry Glen Ross?” It’s a great movie about salesmen and sales culture, and there’s a very memorable line from it. Actor Alec Baldwin makes a cameo to address a room full of burned-out real estate salesmen and set up the plot for the rest of the movie. Baldwin yells at a salesman played by the late Jack Lemmon, who is pouring coffee as Baldwin is trying to make a serious speech. Baldwin scolds him, barking, “Put the coffee down. Coffee is for closers!” Lemmon’s attention, along with that of the rest of the room, is swiftly grabbed, and Baldwin continues by announcing the rules for a new office contest. “First prize is a Cadillac Eldorado … Second prize's a set of steak knives. Third prize is you're fired.”
Rewards of coffee or anything else were reserved for the closers, salesmen who could hold their own and took their jobs seriously. A “closer” is a sales term. It refers to the kind of salesman who is skilled in closing the deal, or getting the customer to sign on the dotted line, so to speak. And this brings me to point of this article: Put the tripod down. Tripods are for closers!
Sorry to be so harsh, but it’s necessary, and I do believe such language is for your own good. I’m not just preaching here. This is a demand I put on myself time and time again. The fact is, there are many shoots where I’ve begun by planting my tripod firmly on the ground and played with composition and settings to dial in my exposure. I’d bet you’ve done it, too.
Typically, what follows for me is a realization that composition and settings need to be tweaked, and then tweaked again, and then again. Settings are ultimately changed, tripods are moved, and the saga continues. Plant the tripod slightly to the left or slightly to the right, raise the legs, then lower the legs, and try and try to figure it out as I go. Sometimes figuring it out comes quickly, and sometimes it takes time, but with all the gear it is certainly more cumbersome than it needs to be — that’s a given.
Whatever the case, it’s easy to get caught up in our gear and in our technique, to get lost in settings and dials. We’ve invested in all this stuff, so why not use it, right? I believe gear and technique are crucially important for a photographer; a craftsman must have command of his or her tools. But at the same time, they are tools and aren’t what matters in creating a successful image. Therefore, I’m suggesting we start with what matters when I say, “Put the tripod down.”
The gear and techniques we rely on are rarely, if ever, the foundation for compelling, thought-provoking work. Photographs that stick with an audience have something to say beyond a “That’s a pretty sunset!” response. Assuming that creating meaningful and thoughtful work beyond the snapshot is the goal, I believe the foundation of a truly successful photograph is rooted in a vision, an idea or a voice — equipment is almost incidental.
If I can gain clarity of thought and meaning for an image I want to make, and if I can wield gear and technique in such a way that best expresses that, a rare and magical thing actually happens. The famous French photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson once famously said, “It is an illusion that photos are made with the camera … they are made with the eye, heart and head.”
But how does one practice this shift in priority from gear and technique to heart and head? Well, underneath my tongue-in-cheek suggestion to put that tripod down, may I further suggest a workflow where we all look at, study and sketch our scenes before we ever attempt find our spots with a tripod to take an image.
The Art Of Looking And Studying
Starting with experience instead of gear is what matters. One of the key reasons I decided to take up nature photography was so I can stay working outdoors. In fact, when I first got the idea, I didn’t know anything about cameras and had no idea what an aperture was, let alone how to set one. Nature photography provides me with the opportunity to experience nature a deeper way.
With the aid of a camera, we have the opportunity to see more than the average person. While a typical outdoor hiker may stop for a few minutes to gaze at something interesting, like a sunset, I’ll often spend hours on a scene studying the topography, hoping to find its most appealing characteristics and hidden features. I’ll analyze where the light is, where shadows are being cast, and where the clouds are, and try and predict where they are headed as time moves on. I’ll assess high and low angles, which animals are scurrying about, the plant life that is present, and ultimately see and involve myself in a landscape in a way most people never get to do. I try to truly get into the rhythms and pulses of nature. It also makes sense that having a deeper understanding of a thing offers increased potential for interpreting it, for photographing it.
I try my best to begin a shoot by first just looking. My goal is to slowly study what’s around me and get a feel for the scene before I decide how to respond to it. As I study a scene, I ask myself questions. Why have I stopped here, and what’s caught my attention now? I need to know if what grabbed me is a color, a texture, a pattern, a shape, a movement or a stillness; is it the light or the shadows, or is it a mixture? What am I interpreting? I need to know, because without answers I’m literally playing with technique I’ve been taught, read about or copied — nothing personal about that. But once I know the answers, I can determine how I to use my camera to decipher that thing that grabbed me to begin with.
If I know my interest is the color of a beautiful sunset at a beach, I’m not going to take an image that's all sand and little to no sky. I would know to compose my frame where the color was dominating, and any use of sandy beach, or other available elements that a given landscape might provide, would be used to anchor a scene or give it context, if used at all. In the case of Figure 3, the first image shown is focused in a horizon line with nothing particularly interesting in terms of subject matter or meaning. There are nice colors in the image, but attention is drawn to what’s in focus. But I knew, after more looking, studying, asking questions and self-reflection, that it was the color, and nothing but the color, that compelled me to lift my camera. Where the eye of someone viewing my image landed in the frame was incidental to what I wanted to say. So, in creating the final image, I started playing with slow shutter speeds and panning across the horizon line. The blurred motion removed everything from my frame, leaving only the color and the lines separating the different tones.
As we shift our priority from gear and technique to heart and head, how and why we use our gear and technique also shifts. Composition becomes a way of either incorporating elements to support our idea or eliminating them if they don’t. Wide or small apertures become compositional choices to control how we either separate foreground from background or bring them together through narrowing or broadening depth-of-field. Shutter speed becomes not just a way to keep things sharp, but also a tool to emphasize movement when using a slow shutter or to accentuate detail when the shutter is set fast (see Figure 4). Telephoto lenses allow me to constrict spatial relationships, while wide-angle lenses amplify them.
My goal is to use gear, camera and settings not so much as a way for creating a good histogram or correct exposure as much as I use them to support a narrative. As we need an architect and a blueprint before using tools build a house, we photographers need clearer ideas before using our tools.
So before picking up your tripod or, better yet, before looking through your viewfinder, look first with your eyes, head and heart. Try asking yourself what it is you’re shooting and why is that you’re shooting it. Determine what your image’s subject and meaning are. Develop your vision for your image first, and then you’ll intuitively know if a tripod is even necessary and what your settings should be.
Sketching
A sketch is a quick and informal rendering of your scene, and will help you determine if what you’re shooting is aligned with what you’re thinking or feeling. It’s a way to proof your idea through your camera. And, truth be told, gaining clarity of subject and narrative doesn’t always magically come to me when I ask myself a series of questions. Sometimes the answers are mysterious and hidden away and need to be coaxed out. Sketching is a great way to find what you’re looking for. But there are some rules to follow while sketching.
First of all, I suggest sketching a scene with little to no regard for the efficiency of your settings, and whether or not you’re creating good exposure or perfect compositions. It doesn’t matter. In fact, I often use my iPhone or a pocket camera, if I remember to bring it. Just know that this is a time that you’re free of your tripod, so you can move around, look through one lens from one angle or perspective, and then look through another lens. Stand up, sit down, lie down, get closer and then move away. Get a feel for the basic elements of your composition to see if there is something there to work with. Your goal is to align what is in your frame to what you’re thinking and feeling. Then and only then are you ready for your tripod and to dial in your camera. Most importantly, if the elements of your frame aren’t coming together, be prepared to adapt by changing your perspective, or even your idea, until they do.
Figure 5, for example, shows a bit of a sketching workflow. My eye was initially captured by a pattern of threading that wove its way in between the fronds of a yucca plant. I first used my Nikon 24-70mm lens and put it inside the plant. The results fell far short of isolating the pattern that caught my eye. So I switched to my 105mm macro lens and opened my aperture to ƒ/2.8 to minimize my depth-of-field, so I could blur out the background, and was much happier with the result.
Here’s a thought for practicing the sketch. Although I’m mostly self-taught as a photographer, I did take in a couple of semesters at Santa Monica City College once upon a time. One assignment that sticks with me to this day was given to me by my instructor, Mr. Fier, in an Intro to Photography course. We were each told to go into the field with one roll of film with 36 frames. Each frame we took on that roll was to be of the same subject, and each frame was to be taken from a different angle. At first this assignment seemed like a cinch, and for the first 10 to 15 frames it was. But after I got through that set of “easy” frames, it quickly became clear that I would have to start using creative parts of my brain to get through the second half of the roll of film. So I began to study my scene and think about all sorts of different ways to see and render what I was shooting. And I tried everything in terms of different perspectives, lenses and techniques, until I started seeing the subject in new and exciting ways. It was a great assignment, as it taught me that if I ever want to make imagery beyond the standard, the easy, the snapshot — if I ever want to make images that are compelling or thought-provoking — I had to stay with something and get to know it intimately. And since virtually all of us shoot digital these days, we don’t have to worry about wasting film as we go. Sketching is a no-brainer.
So, the next time you stroll up to a scene, and before you plant your tripod firmly in front of you, first get familiar with what’s around you. Put that tripod down and study all of the possibilities, see what your scene has to offer you, and seek clarity on what your image’s subject and meaning are through sketching out your ideas. Your gear and your technique almost set themselves when you do — I would gladly bet a set of steak knives on that.
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]]>Our guide to safely and successfully photographing this rare celestial phenomenon.
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It is being billed as “The Great American Eclipse.” On August 21, 2017, a total solar eclipse can be witnessed from one end of the U.S. to the other. The eclipse will be starting in Oregon at 10:16 PDT and ending in South Carolina at 2:48 EDT. The path of totality is approximately 70 miles wide and if you really want to experience the awe-inspiring phenomena of a solar eclipse you need to be in the path of totality. It is only within this 70-mile area that you will be able to see the sun totally obscured by the moon, allowing you to witness the darkness that will make stars appear in the daylight, the dancing of Baily’s Beads around the sun at the beginning and end of totality and the amazing light show of the sun’s corona.
I remember just after my high school graduation in 1972, my best friend Gary Levine and I drove to the Gaspé Peninsula in Canada to meet our science teachers to view a total eclipse of the sun. We had a great location on the edge of the St. Lawrence River with wide-open views. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had other plans for us and it was cloudy for miles in every direction. We only caught glimpses of the sun as the moon was obscuring it. We did get to experience the shadow of night moving quickly across the river towards us, engulfing us in darkness in the middle of the day, the eerie feeling of something “unnatural” happening and just a faint glimpse of the strange glow in the sky. I remember running inside and watching totality on the television and wishing for another chance at an eclipse.
I got my second chance in 1991. This time, Gary and a few others joined me in Baja, Mexico. That year the eclipse was known as “The Big One,” with totality lasting over 6 minutes. Again I was perched on the edge of water, this time the Pacific Ocean stretched out before us as we looked west for the shadow to appear. It is astonishing how fast the shadow moves, barreling towards you like a freight train. As the shadow engulfs you and you first notice the amazing light, as if sunset is happening on the horizon 360 degrees around you, the temperature drops, the air becomes still, and everything seems unusually quiet. Watching through your “eclipse glasses” you see the moon first kiss the sun and watch in amazement as more and more of the sun’s disc is covered. Just as the moon covers the sun you hope to have a fleeting glimpse of Baily’s Beads, the bright glow of lights on edge of the moon, caused by the sun peeking around mountain peaks on the moon. And then it happens!
Totality. The moment you have been waiting for, when the moon obscures the sun and darkness descends. Only now is it safe to remove the eclipse glasses and look at the sun. The corona glows and dances around the black sun, stars are out and you find you are forgetting to breathe much less press the shutter. Unfortunately, totality does not last long; the six plus minutes in 1991 were special. 2017's totality will be between just under 2 minutes to about 2.5 minutes, depending on your location.
Anywhere but in the path of totality will give you a view of a partial eclipse which will you leave you totally disappointed. To witness the whole show and experience the reason people travel the world to see eclipses (my friend Gary has seen 8 eclipses in 8 different countries around the world) you must make an effort to be in the totality zone.
Now that you are excited about witnessing and photographing an eclipse, let’s talk about preparations. You need to prepare for a variety of variables: location, position of the sun, safety considerations, photographic equipment, exposure settings and the experience itself.
Location: Where To Witness The Solar Eclipse
As I mentioned earlier, to really experience a total eclipse of the sun you must be in the path of totality. The path will cross through parts of the following states: Oregon, Idaho, Montana (although only less than 8 square miles of an uninhabited area), Wyoming, Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa (again like Montana only a very tiny section of the state), Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, North Carolina and South Carolina. The amazing part is the shadow will cover all those states from west to east in about 1.5 hours! The shadow band is relatively narrow, about 70-miles wide, so 35 miles south of the centerline and 35 miles north. The longest duration of totality will be found on the centerline. Lodging in most of these areas has been sold out for up to a year. I made my reservations in Jackson, Wyoming, in April of 2015 and got one of the last rooms at the location I wanted! Those planning late will need to drive the morning of the eclipse to get into position. There is a great map and information available for all the states at eclipse2017.org/2017/path_through_the_US.htm
Position Of The Sun
The sun will be fairly high in the sky throughout most of the country during the eclipse, so unless you are right up next to a mountain range or a tall building this will not be a major concern. One drawback as far as photography is concerned it may be difficult to include any landscape in your images without using a wide-angle lens, which in turn will make the sun so small you will not be able to see the effect of the eclipse. You may consider finding some trees or tall rocks nearby so you can position yourself to have a foreground element to go along with your eclipse images. On the positive side, it will be very easy to use telephoto lenses and fill your frame with the sun and moon without having to worry about having distractions in the frame. Using a photo-planning app such as PhotoPills (photopills.com) or The Photographer’s Ephemeris (photoephemeris.com) can help you pick the best spot in an area or help you visualize what you will experience.
Safety Considerations
Viewing an eclipse is a wonderful experience, but also a risky experience if you don’t take some safety precautions. Anytime you look directly into the sun — even just for a few seconds — you risk eye damage. And if you think about taking pictures, you risk damaging your camera equipment as well. I will talk about camera equipment safety in a moment, but first let’s concentrate on our eyes.
Assuming you are not going to want to use a pinhole device and project an image of the sun on the ground, the only safe way to view the eclipse is with safety glasses. Inexpensive “eclipse glasses” can be ordered from many places online. Make sure yours are coming from a reputable source. These glasses are made of frames of lightweight cardboard or plastic with viewable Mylar as lenses. This Mylar is a very dark (black) film that blocks all the harmful rays of the sun and act as a very powerful neutral density filter, allowing only the brightest light of the sun to shine through. These glasses are roughly equivalent to 16 stops of neutral density!
Wear these before the eclipse starts as you aim your cameras to the sky and throughout the eclipse, only removing them during totality. Never look through the optical viewfinder of your camera when it is pointing towards the sun without these glasses! It is best to use Live View on your camera. Only when the moon covers the entire disc of the sun is it safe to view without the glasses.
Photographic Equipment For A Solar Eclipse
You will want to use a camera with interchangeable lenses to photograph the eclipse. The longer the lens the better!
Lenses. For full-frame cameras you will want to ideally use lenses from 400mm to 1000mm. At 400mm the sun is only 3.7mm in size in your frame (a full-frame sensor is 36x24 mm). At 1000mm, the sun is 9.2mm in size. During totality, the sun’s corona, which is normally invisible, will extend more than the size of the sun in all directions from center, therefore a lens in the range of 500mm to about 800mm will fill your frame with the sun and the corona. Since most of us don’t have lenses longer than 500mm or 600mm, I would recommend using a “crop sensor” (APS or Micro Four Thirds) camera for your eclipse photography, if you have one available. With a crop sensor camera, a lens such as a 100-400mm will give you the equivalent of 160-560mm (assuming 1.6x magnification) and a lens such as a 150-600mm will give you a 240-960mm equivalent, which would be ideal.
You also may want to have a second camera with a wider lens set up to record the environment and the eclipse within the landscape. I plan to have a second camera with a wider-angle lens set on a tripod with the intervalometer timer set to take a picture every 15 seconds during the event. I just have to keep it close enough to remove my filter during totality while working my primary camera with the longer lens. (As you can see, having 3 or 4 arms would really help during an eclipse!)
Filters. To protect all this expensive camera gear you need some special filters. There are a variety of solar filters available for you lenses. Some of these filters are made of optical-quality film and some are made from glass. Most of these solar filters are equivalent to 16- to 20-stop neutral density filters. The filters range in price from about $100 to $200, depending on filter size. A cheaper alternative is to use optical Mylar film. The most common of these films is Baader AstroSolar Film and Thousand Oaks Optical Black Polymer Filter Sheets. You can make your own filter by cutting a very precise circle of this film and fitting inside the filter ring of a skylight or UV filter. Just make sure the film covers all the glass of the filter and has no light leaks. It is even easier to use a square filter holder such as those made by LEE Filters, buy a glass or resin filter that fits the holder and cut a rectangle that covers the whole filter. It is easier to cut a rectangle to cover the filter than a precise circle. You can use masking tape to seal the filter on all four sides and then just insert it in the holder over your lens. This way you can make a very good filter without spending hundreds of dollars for something you may only use once. I photographed the Baja eclipse using this method.
For the 2017 eclipse, I bought a solar filter for my telephoto lens and will use the Mylar/polymer and square filter method for the wider lens. The film tends to give you a white sun, while the filter I purchased will render a yellow sun.
If you purchase a solar filter, it is still a very good practice to use Live View and not look through the optical viewfinder. Some of these filters will even have a warning on the box, “Not for optical viewing, use Live View or an electronic viewfinder.”
Some people mention using strong neutral density filters to view the eclipse but remember real solar filters are at least 16.5 stops in density and the strongest “normal” neutral density filter is 15 stops, which lets in twice as much light as a 16-stop filter. NASA, the National Science Foundation, Sky & Telescope magazine and all the other scientific agencies all recommend using certified solar filters to block not only the visible light but the UV and IR light as well. You don’t want to gamble with your eyesight or your equipment when it comes to an eclipse.
Live View & rangefinders. With these filters over your lenses, it can be difficult to actually find the sun with your telephoto lens when you first set up your shot. There are several methods for making this easier. The first is to use Live View when aiming the camera. Live View is extremely sensitive on most cameras and will be able to see through the filters, even though you cannot. And as mentioned, using Live View, there is no chance that you will damage your eyes looking into the sun.
The second method is to build a rangefinder. This you would want to do in the days preceding the eclipse. The rangefinder can be something as simple as taping a piece of cardboard to the top of the prism on your camera that you can use to line up with the sun. The angle and height of the cardboard will be dependent on the focal length of your lens, but with some trial and error you should be able to create a pointing device that will allow you to locate the sun. Just make sure you use your solar glasses when trying to align the camera this way.
Camera support. Another piece of equipment to consider is your tripod. As the earth rotates, the sun will be moving in the frame of your camera. Since it is going to be rising it will be moving upward and to the right of its original position. You need a tripod head that will make it easy for you to track and move with the sun. A video head, gimbal head or ball head will work best for this kind of work. Conversely, a three-axis tripod head will be clumsy and difficult to use.
Using an electronic or remote shutter release will prevent you from shaking the camera and also jostling the camera position during the eclipse.
Exposure Settings To Photograph A Solar Eclipse
For the majority of the time, the light during an eclipse is fairly uniform. But when the light does change as the moon begins to cover more and more of the sun, it happens quickly. Since the sun is so bright, we really do not see these changes until the eclipse is approaching totality. During the partial phases the exposure will be fairly constant.
To prepare, in the days or weeks leading up to the eclipse, go out with the camera equipment you plan to use and practice finding and photographing the sun with your solar filter on. Practice focusing with the filter on your lens using Live View on your camera. Bracket your exposures and find the one that does not blow out the sun, and can even show detail on the sun (you may even see sunspots). This will be the exposure you will use for the majority of the eclipse.
Once you establish this base setting, I would use that ISO (best if you use the lowest native ISO of your camera), shutter speed and aperture combination with your camera in manual mode when shooting the eclipse.
The exposure will start to change when the sun is about 90-percent covered and then you will need to bracket your exposures. There is as much as a 12-stop difference between the brightness of the inner and outer corona. There is no way to capture this difference in one exposure. You need to bracket your exposures to capture all the nuances of the corona.
If you are in manual mode on your camera and set the automatic bracketing feature, this will bracket your shutter speed, which is what you want to do during an eclipse. Have your camera set to bracket as many shots and stops possible. If you have a camera that only can bracket 3 exposures, then be prepared to use the exposure compensation feature along with the bracketing feature. If you are set to bracket 3 exposures at 2 stops apart and move the exposure compensation down to -5, then your exposures will be -7; -5; -3. Next move your exposure compensation back to 0 and then you will be exposures will be -2; 0; +2. Then move your exposure compensation to +5 and your exposures will be +3; +5; +7 (see illustration below). This combination will give 14 stops of dynamic range. I would then repeat the sequence in reverse order and keep doing this as many times as you can during totality.
If you are fortunate enough to have a camera that can bracket up to 7 exposures, just set the camera to bracket 2 stops apart.
As soon as the moon begins to leave the sun, you need to put your solar glasses back on and your solar filters!
If you are using two camera bodies, pause and take some time to use a wider lens and capture some to the surrounding scenery during totality. Work quickly, since this eclipse will have a relatively short duration of totality.
The Solar Eclipse Experience
Since this total eclipse is likely the only one you will witness in your lifetime, make it count. Don’t get so wrapped up in the photography that you forget to experience it. Make sure you look around, check out the glow of the light as the sun diminishes, listen to the sounds (I remember even the birds stopped singing) and appreciate what is happening.
If things start to go wrong with your picture taking, give it up. There will be plenty of excellent images on the Internet you can look at. If you are experiencing this with friends or family that may not be involved in photography, have them video it on their phones. Make it an experience you will remember for a lifetime. Maybe it will inspire you to be an eclipse follower like my friend Gary and you’ll travel the world chasing eclipses. I am just glad I am going to get to experience one more with him. Enjoy your total eclipse!
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