The relationship and similarities between poetry and photography have often been advocated. However, a fundamental difference between these two forms of artistic expression is due, not to their nature, but to the way the world perceives them. Poetry is treated with excessive respect, while photography with excessive condescension. This attitude causes negative consequences in both cases. It acts as a hindrance to creation: Why write poems if it is so difficult, and why take photographs if it is so easy?
This now legendary "ease" of photography has to do firstly with the unquestionable ease of mastering its technical aspects, secondly with the public's ignorance about significant photographic works of the past, and thirdly with its short history. It is clear that the last two reasons do not apply to poetry, and it is also obvious that the narrowly technical aspect of poetry is so non-existent that when we now talk about poetic technique, we identify it with the essence of poetic expression. This not only is not a mistake, but perhaps should guide us also for photography. To argue that photographic technique constitutes a critical and primary element of photographic creation is like saying that knowledge of grammar and syntax, as well as the rules of "exposition of ideas," lays the foundation for a poetic creation.
In other art forms, daily practice is imperative for the creator to dominate over the technical means of expression, to learn their possibilities in depth, to seek new sources of inspiration through them, and, perhaps most importantly, to remain in touch with them even in periods of creative sterility. Continuous study of the human body, research on the possibilities of colors, preparation of substrates, and study of materials have been daily and necessary occupations for painters and sculptors.
For the photographer, however, photographic technical problems arise only after he chooses the photographic direction that interests him, and then again, in a minimal time span, he resolves them through simple application of the basic principles of material and machine behavior, which he already knows almost from the moment he started his photographic attempts. Spending hours and days on these would not only teach him nothing more, but would also distract him from what should be his goal.
Because the essence of a photographer's tool is not his camera, just as the essence of a poet's tool is not his pen. The tool for the photographer is his eye. He is not called to represent the world, to distort it, to birth it, or to abolish it. He is simply called to "see" it in his own way. Thus, what needs to be practiced is not how with the camera he will learn to capture something, or how the camera will see something, but how his eye will transform the world through the camera. The only possible exercise for this goal is the "photographic" viewing of the world.
Of course, we do not view the world photographically without the camera. We do not look at life through a 24X36 millimeter eye. However, the moment we hold the camera, the world begins to generate photographic challenges. Exercise is learning to see them.
The two most crucial questions a photographer faces are "what" and "how". Generally, they relate to "subject" and "composition" respectively. The content, which is both the starting point and the endpoint of the image, relates to these parameters, but also to many other aspects of the creator's psyche, which he can barely control. However, the answer to "what" and "how" cannot be given through fully controlled processes because then it would not contribute to the revelation of the content, which must genuinely emanate from the photographer's personality.
Therefore, if the creative exercise of an aspiring artist photographer is considered, for example, the repeated photographing of the same or similar objects, then the answer to "what" is given in the most extrinsic and superficial way, and the answer to "how" ends up in a dry exploration of the possibilities of photographing these objects. With this method, reminiscent of educational exercises from our school education at all three levels, copyists are easily produced, but almost never creators.
Moreover, the critique of photographs thus produced (and I emphasize the kinship of the word with "production") will necessarily be done with external elements irrelevant to the photographer's psyche. We are then faced with something akin to musical scale exercises. Unbearably boring, but necessary, for a "performer," absolutely superfluous for a creator.
This last observation inevitably leads us to a substantial difference between the photographer of so-called applied or commercial photography, and that of artistic photography. The former must set aside his psyche and serve with quality, but also with obedience, a predefined goal. In the best case, he interprets, in the worst, he maltreats, usually he just executes. But the creator gives birth. Which means he will either succeed or fail. There are no exercises here aiming at taming the psyche. Here the only exercise is the birthing process itself.
The coincidences between poetry and photography reappear: Both poets and photographers have set as a creative exercise for themselves daily engagement with their art for a certain period. A roll of film every day regardless of subject, inspiration, or desire. This almost ritualistic repetition, this daily prayer, leads the photographer to a deeper knowledge of his psyche. To the point where the photograph, the good photograph, his photograph, will impose itself on him. At some point, he will feel that the photograph was taken without him. The "what" and the "how," the subject and the form, will be drawn from this disciplined submission, will emanate from the most genuine need of the creator, and will lead to a personal creation, whose content will constitute the deeper world of the artist, which even he himself will be surprised to see.
The "creative" exercises of the photographer aim to explore and investigate his interests, along with cultivating the flexibility with which he addresses the photographic possibilities offered to him. John Szarkowski says: "Photography is a system of visual montage. It ends up enclosing in a frame a part of our visual cone, while we are at the right moment in the right place. Like chess or writing, it consists of choosing among existing possibilities, but in the case of photography, the number of possibilities is not fixed, but unlimited." The choice among these possibilities is directly related to the photographer's psyche and the elements that compose his personality and cultivation.
However, in this journey, he will never be independent. He will be subject to continuous external influences. And notably, purely photographic influences. The photographic exercises will thus become a study of the influence of these factors. The exercises will serve for the analysis of influences, as they will necessarily be judged based on photographic influences.
It's strange, but while our entire life is shaped by influences, we often refuse to accept it as an unquestionable fact and prefer to consider our choices and decisions as products of an exclusively free opinion. The danger is that in our era all kinds of indirect influences have hidden under the lie of information and freedom, making their imposition easier and more constant, as they do not admit their origin and goals. Here they are equivalent to brainwashing.
Should the authenticity of an artistic work and the umbilical cord that connects it to its creator be afraid of influences? Do the latter negate the former two?
I believe that many young people in the field of creation, or (and) young in age, in the fanatic enthusiasm of their beginning, dizzy with the joy and disappointment of creative effort, full of questions about the art world that surrounds them, unable to provide answers, unprepared to accept the non-existence of answers, often embrace the seemingly easier solution, namely their fortification and overestimation of their work. They believe that this way the unquestionable "independence" of their work, for them, is sufficient to compensate - both for themselves and others - for all its imperfections and weaknesses. But they forget that we are all a collection of influences and the only significant thing we can do is make choices. Choices of those influences. What adds quality, uniqueness, personality, and above all freedom to our lives is the ability to make choices, not our staying in a secluded space away from influences. Otherwise, it would be as if we were denying both our knowledge and our feelings.
Influences can be indirect and direct, involuntary or deliberate. The former, indirect and involuntary, are the strongest, the most fruitful, but also the most dangerous. Cultivating our inner world is what will contribute to distinguishing between them, allowing the fruitful ones to settle and neutralizing the more negative ones through various mechanisms of resistance. The latter, however, direct and deliberate, are both easy to confront and useful to exploit. I want to focus a bit more on these, as they are directly related to the creative exercises I mentioned earlier. These influences have three sources: the artistic works we admire (or detest), the artists (friends or teachers) who judge our work, and finally the people we respect and love and who advise us.
I cannot today conceive of the existence of an artist, a creator, who does not start his work through admiration for the works of others. His contact with the art he practices is born and fueled through works that inspire him. Often along with these are works that repel him. Walker Evans's statement is known: "I photograph against Alfred Stieglitz." And this of course does not mean condemning Stieglitz, but that the latter's position creates the contrast for Evans. And thus, Stieglitz's work becomes a creative influence for Evans. Enthusiasm for the work of another creator will almost inevitably lead to a new work that will claim kinship ties with the previous one. Perhaps again the kinship will be sought, then we have the not at all rare element of imitation in art, which naturally cannot be related to copying, as the latter lacks the spirit of the artist. Both new and old. And this imitation can also be a tribute, a practical recognition of artistic debt and a declaration of a choice.
I also cannot envy an artist who lives in a space isolated from people. He needs people, especially those who, either because of common goals or because of emotional bonds with him, accept as significant the creative problems that torment him. Doubt always accompanies the artist. In his creation, he invests the most significant elements of his existence. It is impossible for him to have a definitive answer and opinion about them. The emotional complications that his work generates are intensified by the hypersensitivity of a personality that practically realizes something that happens to every person, namely the necessity and simultaneous inability of expression. Therefore, throughout his life, the artist will seek the opinion of others. And this will happen even when he believes that either he does not need them or they do not affect him. In the end, every creator has his own small audience, which, even if it consists of only one person, is the most important for him. What was important to realize is that the choice of people who influence us is significant. And that once we have accepted, as is right, the possibility of influence that those we have chosen have on us, then we must seek and exploit this influence. The latter exactly means that the freedom of choice is never negated. And that the artist will exploit the influences without succumbing.
Will the creator ever be free from these influences? Will he ever consider himself and his work solely against the universe? Perhaps. If he is very significant. When he approaches death.
Plato Rivellis