The Tetons and the Snake River by Ansel Adams. Image in the public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Ansel Adams, born on 20 Feb 1902, would have been 111 years old today. His approach to photography, requiring a precise technique, coupled with a sensitive heart, and a perceptive mind, is as fresh today as it was in his heyday, in the early part of the 20th century. Even a cursory search for his name on the websites popular with the more involved photographers, APUG, Large Format Photography Forum, or photo.net, yields 20,000 unique posts and comments about him, many of which are recent.

Why is Ansel Adams so relevant today? In short: Adams continues to inspire photographers. He has been inspiring me for a long time, so let me share my perspective with you, as my small way of saying a thank you to this amazing man.

I think there are three aspects to what makes Adams unique in the canon of the most important photographers of all time: his artistic style, his precise teachings, and a happy life. It is the intertwined nature of those three that makes the man so special—and so inspirational.

Adams’s bold, yet sensitive, somewhat romanticised style in his photographic art of landscape, shown in a vision of a perfection that may have not even existed at the time he took his most famous pictures, like Monolith, the Face of Half Dome, or The Tetons and the Snake River, is striking for its purity and balance. He was not afraid to break new grounds, for example by visualising, and then printing, his skies dark, or even deep black—if you have only seen his prints in a book, or on a computer screen, you must try to see one at an exhibition. Nothing will prepare you for the visual and emotional impact of those skies when you see them in his real, silver-gelatin prints! Sometimes, he felt he had to erase the impurity of what he considered to be human-made scars on nature, like the letters LP still barely showing in Winter Sunrise, taken from the town of Lone Pine in California, which I see as an expression of his political leaning towards conservationism. No matter what the subject might have been, he printed his photographs to a level of expressive and technical perfection that traditional, wet-darkroom photographers have always been striving for. Even as a master, he is known for having enjoyed the pleasure of accomplishment, when he had finally arrived at a print he was working on, just like a child would. We all know that great feeling of satisfaction one gets when we create something that has reached the peak of our present abilities. However, his constant pursuit of mastery is as an important part of his style, as any more easily definable characteristic would be.

Learning through practice, which he has always emphasised, is key to any craft, especially such a manual one as traditional, film-based photography. However, one has to start somewhere, and this is where the second aspect of what is so unique about Adams comes to mind: his teachings. Adams wrote a lot, but nothing in photography books quite compares to his trilogy that summarises all of his technique—far, far more than just the Zone System, and all of it in the shortest possible amount of space: The Camera, The Negative, and The Print. These are consistently the most often recommended three pieces of reading that any aspiring analogue photographer would hear about. It is not easy to think through everything that a person knows about a subject, and it is even harder to put it in a small amount of space. It is much easier to write bigger, thicker books that are popular nowadays, than to edit our thoughts down to just the bare essentials, all validated through own experience, logic, and science. There is no padding there, every page is as useful today, as it has been in the past, even if some product names may have changed. However, it was not just the books. Adams was constantly running workshops, in which he taught his technique, throughout his life. When I was going through my pains of wanting to improve the quality of my photography in 1999, it was those three books of his that have helped me learn how to work with large format film, and how to strive for an expressive print. Sometimes I wish I had lived in his days to have attended one of his workshops. I am very fortunate, however, that I still have a chance to learn from his best students, whom he chose to be his assistants: John Sexton, and Alan Ross.

As he points out in his wonderfully honest, funny, and a moving book, An Autobiography, he has not really been financially successful until well into his 60s. Many may not know that he has never earned the astronomical sums his prints commanded—those prices were earned by art dealers and those who had the wisdom to buy from him earlier in his life. Even in his very last years, he would only charge $800 for his finest prints—his personal record—knowing they could immediately be resold for ten times, or more, than that amount. He was acutely aware of this—he once gifted print of his to a friend of mine reminding him: Don’t sell it now, keep it, it will help you buy a house one day. Nonetheless, he has managed to make ends meet, living without excess, but living in what his autobiography oozes with: happiness. Was there a secret to his life?

What makes Ansel Adams so inspiring in the 21st century is precisely that he was able to live a full life that many people would envy now: doing mostly what he loved, and earning just enough to happily get by—certainly not living in poverty, but clearly without the grave entrapments of wealth. It must have taken a lot of wisdom to pare down his needs and to focus on what was essential, in itself a mark of character. Though I have never met him, based on all that I read, saw, and heard about him, I realised that his life was focused on his artistic expression, which had sparked the happiness, and was further fuelled by the wonderful response he was getting when he was teaching others, at his workshops and through his writings. I see that Adams had created a wonderful balance in his life, where each element was in unison with one another, helping him feel content even in the toughest of times.

Perhaps that is a recipe for a happy life. It intertwines otherwise separate elements: artistic creativity, persistently disciplined thinking, and an obligation to relentlessly pass useful skills to others in the society. When I dream, I like to think of myself as still being able to teach others when I am in my 70s and beyond. I hope to be relevant because of my skills, and because of my work—maybe less because of IT, which will change and which will be forgotten, but hopefully more because of my photography, through which I wish to share a way of seeing the world as a complex, abstract, yet a happily continuing place.

Happy Birthday, Ansel! Thank you for inspiring me.

Rafal

A framed, matted, and dry-mounted print. It is missing my signature in the lower-right corner of the opening, because this is a work-in-progress print (the blacks are too deep for my liking).

Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but I think a physical print, something tangible, that you can put on a wall, gift to someone, handle, or just share with friends, is a more powerful form of visual art than an ephemeral digital file, or a slide show. There is absolutely nothing wrong, inferior, or superior about digital photography, and I enjoy it very much. With traditional, analogue photography, the primary way to share a photograph has always been a print. I admire digital even more, when it has been printed and presented well. However, I feel that the art of simple, understated print presentation is getting lost in the sea of gigantic prints, affixed to oddest surfaces, rarely adding to the expressive power of an image. I prefer the important detail of a print to be in front of me, rather than stretched onto the sides, or even the backs, of a frame…

Not all traditional prints were equal. For hundred thousands of those made by 1-hour photo labs there were just a few lovely ones, often those slowly made by hand. While today’s digital photographs seem better than the 1-hour photo ones, I don’t think we have yet anything that exceeds the quality, and the sensual presence, of a hand-made, silver-gelatin, black-and-white print. I guess I am biased.

A well-made silver-gelatin print has a subtly three-dimensional feel, even though it is not a 3D creation. It it luscious, with juicy, deep blacks, that just have a hint of a tone. I like the faintest hint of a chocolate-plum, which selenium toning offers for my present choice of paper. Unless really warranted, it is not a flat graphite black, or a dull grey, or even, goodness forbid, that greenish blue that looks different in different lighting, or from different viewing angles, that many inkjets produce. I believe today’s digital inkjet (aka giclée) printing benefits the more forgiving, full, saturated colour output, than the subtler black-and-white, where precision is paramount.

A fine print has all the tones it needs, with their contrast, especially in the middle values, under the control of the printer (a person). It does not look real, but it looks the way the spirit of the object, or of the place, that it portrays, seemed to the photographer. Unless heavily manipulated to look artificial, digital pictures can easily look too realistic, and perhaps that is one of the reasons why some digital prints benefit from an addition of artificial grain, texture, or the very popular vignette—side-effects, sometimes unwanted, of traditional photography.

When I walk past a fine print, it brings a smile to my face. It feels like an affordable treasure.

I feel passionate about fine prints. I am on a personal quest to reach that 0.0001% level of rare excellence in traditional printmaking, and I realise the road ahead of me is a long one. At present, to get a reasonable work print (not a fine one), it takes me about 3–4 days of work in the darkroom. I like to mount it, overmat it, and place it in a temporary frame (see pictures on the right) and I put it in my house, so that I try to live with it for a while, perhaps for a few weeks. If it still manages to impress, and it looks good, then I am ready to go back to the darkroom to improve it, based on the notes, and the feelings, that I have collected over the weeks it sat on my mantlepiece. For example, the print you see above, did not pass the tests, the deep-black window area needed lightening. A few weeks later, and some 4–5 days of darkroom work, I emerge with a couple, maybe six prints, which I hope represent the finest, at this stage of my photographic development. Unfortunately, as I keep learning, and working on my craft, a time comes when I no longer think my older prints were fine enough, and I decide to reprint them again… Indeed, this is exactly what I am currently doing with some of the (Be)Longing landscapes which I exhibited last year. I am adding more tonality to them, lessening some contrasts, and generally making them subtler—I hope.

Unframed print, with a bevel-cut overmat, mounted. This is the form in which I prefer to sell my prints, so they only need to be framed by the buyer.

I yet have to see a better form of print presentation than the time-tested, simple approach of dry-mounting it to a 4-ply (1.5 mm) acid-free, museum-quality neutral-white mount board. Dry mounting is a bit of a craft in itself, requiring some skill, and a bit of luck. It uses heat, delivered by a press, to bind a trimmed print to the mount board, by means of a dry-mounting tissue, a stable adhesive that melts in the press. All the masters of photography used this technique decades ago, and it seems to be the most archival, with the disadvantage—to some—of being rather permanent: once mounted, the print cannot be removed from the mountboard easily. That suits me, as I feel the print with the mountboard should be an inseparable couple, designed and destined for each other, unless the buyer has made alternative presentation arrangements. The mount makes the print perfectly flat and pristine looking, while giving it a pre-measured amount of breathing space around it.

Overmat is attached to the mountboard with acid-free, gummed linen tape, keeping the package together.

My stamp, on the back of the mountboard, that shows on finished prints.

To finish a mounted print, I like to mat it with a bevel-cut (angled) opening window mat, cut from the same stock as the mount board. The window is slightly larger than the print, so it is possible to see the entire photograph, with no edges lost—some refer to this approach as floating a window with a well around the print. Striving for a perfect opening with no overcuts, I have only recently started cutting my own overmats. It can still frustrate me on occasion, but the presentation is amazing, when it comes together. The overmat is attached to the mountboard with an acid-free, archival gummed linen tape, keeping the two together, ready for me to sign the overmat, just under the print, and stamp it on the back. All that remains is to frame it, and to put it under a good glass, or acrylic, for additional protection. I prefer to leave the framing to the buyer, as it is personal, and it needs to match the location, but I am happy to recommend simple, aluminium profiles, when in doubt, such as Nielsen profile 3, in colours 10 or 154.

So what is left at the end of the process? A pleasing, joy-bringing, hand-made object, that has an expressive, luminous quality, and a very special presence, wherever its home may be. It is a happy print, lucky in a way, as it made it into the real world, born out of a film negative, and even luckier than the billions of virtual, digital ones, which might only get an occasional glimpse, but which are confined to a life of never being touched, or seen, even from the very moment they have been taken.

I wish your photographs have a chance to live a full life.

Rafal Lukawiecki and John Sexton at John Sexton Workshop 2011

After many years of thinking about it, I have taken the courage to apply to attend John Sexton’s famous The Expressive Black and White Print workshop, which he has run for 29 years, having started in the days when he was Ansel Adams assistant. I was delighted to have been accepted, and I arrived in Carmel Valley, California, on the evening of 15 November 2011, where I met seven other attendees, from all over the world: Alastair Firkin, Frank, Herb Swick, Linda Fitch, Mike Reeves, Stephanie Slaymaker, and Steve Hartsfield.

It was a very special learning experience, which I wish I had done a long time ago. As a result of it I am changing my working habits, removing a few older, and newer, crutches from my process, and so aiming to simplify it. I also have a desire to reprint some of the images from my (Be)Longing series. For that reason, I will replace those images with new interpretations later this year, at which point the ones shown on the web site will no longer be available. If you are thinking of getting one of these, please contact me soon, but on the other hand, you might prefer their newer versions.

John kept us incredibly busy, starting each day at about 8.30 AM and finishing after 10 PM. One can admire not only his beautiful prints and exquisite books, but also his sheer energy and drive. No question received anything less than a thorough answer, even if it meant John’s spending his own time running an experiment overnight, just to be sure of his answer, as happened when we discussed the matter of developer-incorporated photographic papers. I was surprised by the findings, which are contrary to some manufacturer’s statements found on the web, but that is a subject for another post.

John and his Camera at Point Lobos, CA

We spent most of the time in his amazing photographic studio and darkroom, except for one pleasant outing at Point Lobos, where we practiced some camera craft, especially the darker secrets of using a spot-meter, guided by the man whose car number plate appropriately reads “Mr Zone”.

In the Master’s Darkroom. From left: John Sexton, Alastair Firkin, Rafal Lukawiecki

Print Bleaching Demonstration

Darkroom was the place of many demonstrations of John’s technique, and the spiritual hub of the workshop. We did not practice ourselves (except at Point Lobos), which is a pity, but I realise that it would have made the workshop either impossibly long, or rather superficial, which this one certainly was neither.

Watching master at work is very educational, and as I expected, I have learned as much by watching his hands in action, as by listening to his words. His dodging and burning technique is superb, and I wish I could replicate some of the finest moves he demonstrated, while running through a graceful sequence of 10–20 of them, all from his memory. Everything he showed us bordered on an obsession with perfection, setting a very high standard to follow. Thankfully, such a serious atmosphere was broken often by John’s humour and wit, as everyone enjoyed his stories about the greatest in American photography, and about his own, sometimes, irreverent past. John explained, how as a young photo retoucher, he was tasked with removal of one of a duplicate set of catchlights, from the eyes of a sitter’s portrait, which would usually show when two light sources have been used—but, with a slightly unorthodox approach: to remove the non-matching reflections, giving the eyes a slightly less-than intelligent appearance…

I feel the most useful part of the workshop was an in-depth portfolio assessment. He spent nearly an hour on everyone’s ten prints, and then again, even more time on our pre-selected three negatives. I was terrified when my turn came, but John knows how to deliver his observations in a way that makes sense without hurting an artistic ego. I learned a lot by having my prints dissected by John, and also plenty by looking at other participants’ work, and hearing comments about it. I hope to have another chance to experience this, perhaps when I have new work to show and share.

Anne Larsen Prepares a Print for Dry Mounting

Anne Discusses Print Spotting Techniques

To save John from nearing total exhaustion, Anne Larsen, his lovely wife who is also a photographer, demonstrated the almost-secret aspects of print finishing, including ways to dry-mount, overmat, and spot them to perfection. Because the craft of traditional, silver-gelatin printing is not as widely practiced as some 20 years ago, it is almost impossible to learn those techniques from anyone, and books do not cover the more obscure yet very important aspects. I have much to thank Anne for her patience in explaining how to avoid “edge-long dimples” when dry-mounting certain papers—a problem I was fighting, with the help of APUG, for more than a year, and hey-presto, she comes with a simple answer, which probably only took a dozen years of her experience to figure out. Anne was a delight to talk to, as she shared her quieter, reserved, and a pragmatic perspective onto our art. And to top it off, Anne showed off her Danish-origin cooking skills by preparing a few meals for us, taking a break only when we were dining, or lunching out on some of the days. Anne and John really made us feel like guests in their own home, not like students on a course, which in itself was humbling.

A whole week of being surrounded by John’s and Anne’s beautiful prints, and many gems by other greats, including Adams and Weston, had quite an impact on me. It awoke a few ideas to try things different, but it also commanded me to the need to execute my prints with little scope for doubt, and a need to deliver the maximum I can muster, and to never stop improving. How did they all stick to their mission so faithfully for so long?

Selenium Negative Intensification

In addition to going over the fundamentals that no one normally bothers with—like how do you thoroughly clean a large format film holder? Tap it hard, and get an engineers vacuum, or what is the best pen to use for writing notes on the edges of negatives—John covered a few rarer, but very useful techniques, of which I was impressed the most by selenium negative intensification, which even seemed to work selectively on portions of negatives. Needless to say, looking around his darkroom everyone must have picked up new ideas, as the entire place oozed with decades of thought and practice. I have already re-plumbed my tempered water taps, a new sink is on its way, and a paper light-safe drawer is in the plans.

Importance of Carrying a Viewing Frame on Oneself

Still, it is not about the toys and the gadgets, or a better lens (though a viewing frame helps). The one thing that got reinforced the most, is that it is all about hard work, not giving up, and doing it over, and over, and over again, until it is right. Even if it takes another 29 years.

Canyon X, Abstract 2

I have just completed my third trip to the slot canyons of the American Southwest, and a second one to Canyon X—and my 41st to the Southwest. It is a breathtaking place, somewhat challenging technically, extremely rewarding, and a sort of a spiritual experience—all at the same time. While I wait to print my new photographs, I would like to share a few thoughts about that place, about my photographic technique, and about the feeling of being there.

As far as I know, the most famous slot canyon is the Antelope Canyon, near Page, Arizona. It is beautiful, but it is very difficult to experience it the way its equally famous photographs portray it. In the popular months, unfortunately, it is very busy and you will be tripping on other photographers’ tripods while queues of 15–20 people rush past you in a tight space. Sadly, it did not feel good to me, but I understand that steps will be taken in the future to reduce its present overcrowding.

Canyon X, also near Page, but a bit further, some 30 minutes or so, is still an oasis of calm and peace. To get there you need to book a trip through Overland Canyon Tours, and if you are lucky, a helpful, polite, and a kindest guide, Charly, will look after you and just a handful of others. When I went there in September 2010, there were just two of us, and there were only four of us in September 2011. You get several hours to get busy, and hardly ever do you see another soul. Since my photography uses large format sheets of black-and-white film, each shot takes a while, and in the time I was there I have managed an extraordinary feat of taking 12 pictures. This is a personal record, as I rarely get more than 2–4 shots in a day, but Canyon X makes you want to take another one, after yet another: from a detail, to a whole-wall shot, to an abstracted view looking up. Then, you start slowing down, and the silence surrounds you, while the gently warm wind slowly caresses the walls. You sit down on the sandy canyon floor, and your thoughts get quieter, and you slowly sip that extraordinary view, feeling so very happy to be there, to be so lucky to be practically alone. You start feeling the place, the canyon becomes more intimate. That’s when magic happens, and you see images in the stone. That is the moment, when I visualise the contrasts, the lines, and their rhythms, that make black-and-white images work in their own very abstract way. Your eye gets trained very quickly to spot those gentle gradations of reflected light on the luminous rock that, as you hope, will play a major role in the drama of the finished image. My best pictures happen then, but I am down to the last 2–3 sheets of film…

I suppose that to many visitors those walls are just pretty shapes, and the place is extraordinary. To a photographer, especially working without colour, and on film, this canyon is pure magic: an excursion into the finesse of light that even the eye does not always see, and a study of the underlying raw structure of time and the canyon’s geological history, which colour tends to mask.

My Slot Canyon Photography Technique

You don’t need to coax those images very hard out of the rock. There are a few simple ideas, which I seem to follow. I arrived at them myself, and I would like to share them with you. If you are interested in knowing how to photograph a slot canyon in expressive black-and-white, I can help you. Colour is a very different story, perhaps much easier in a way, but also perhaps too exuberant for the senses to comprehend without falling into a stereotype. Black-and-white, I think, is much truer to the slightly ascetic spirit of the place.

By all means, please break my suggestions, as there are as many ways to express your vision, as there are grains of sand on the canyon floor. Until then, let me help you get started:

• Timing. Arrive very early in the morning. B&W film is a sensuous being and it loves the gentlest shifts in subject brightness range. A full f-stop is a lot, and most of the time I find that if the sun hits a wall directly, it makes it lose its magic. The best light for my slot canyon photography is diffuse and indirect, when the glow is bounced off the walls of the canyon. By all means walk through the lower and the upper canyons to survey them quickly (you need a good 10–20 minutes for a brisk return walk), but get started photographing soon, before the sun gets too high. It is as if the lower-lying sun hits the very tops of the canyon and zig-zags into it by reflecting off the walls, creating those incredible gradients. Do not wait until it gets bright, trust your film, or trust your (good) sensor.
• Light. In none of my photos there is any direct sunlight on the walls. Film is wonderful at accentuating that shaded subtlety of light—but get your exposures right in the middle. I usually want to have the lighter sections placed on zone 7, and the darker around 3, so I aim for a 5 zone range. If you do not use the zone system, you are just in luck, as in this case you can meter for the rock that is in the middle, between the lighter and the darker. Nonetheless, while metering, I usually discover that the darker sections tend to fall on zone 3–4, and the lighter on 6–7, so we need a touch of contrast expansion—read on.
• Brightness Range. As the interesting light-dark gradations tend to fall in a 3–4 zone (f-stop) range, I generally develop my Canyon X sheets N+1. If you are not shooting individual sheets but an entire roll, this is one of those situations when you can safely N+1 the entire roll, unless you are planning on shooting this canyon with direct sunlight on its walls. If you are not familiar with the concept of N+1 development, I suggest you find out the approximate time in a book, such as Chris Johnson’s “Practical Zone System”, as the extended development time may be 10–40% of the normal development time. This will increase the apparent contrast, spreading the range of sandstone tones to fit a “normal” (grade 2 or 3) paper range nicely. I also like to tone my prints in selenium, which adds a further, smaller level of expansion. I think those contrast expansions show the glow around the edges of the curves on the rock in the most magical way. Of course, if you are shooting digital, you can experiment by moving the level sliders until you get the results you desire, but go gently, as the glow is a very ephemeral thing and it goes away as easily as it appeared. It is easy to miss it digitally, I think.
• Focusing. Focus using movements, if you have that option on your camera, as it will be pretty dark there, and you may prefer not to have to stop your lenses all the way down, as the resulting exposures would be very long. Some of my shots are at EV 5, and I generally use HP5+, which is an ISO 400 film. Most of my negatives are taken at (ISO 400) EV 7–8, which translates into perhaps a 4 s exposure at f/22, before the reciprocity failure factor has been added, making it into more of an 8 s exposure. Personally, I prefer to have the whole shot sharply in focus, because that is how my eye sees the place—you are always an arm’s reach from a wall.
• Filtration. In some of the shots you might want to coax a little bit more detail out of the mostly red rock. I experimented, I think successfully, with using an otherwise rather odd filter: a #47 Tri-Blue, for which I need to add another 2 1/2 or even 3 stops of exposure. It helps to accentuate the detail, and it is the only “trick” I used for some of my photographs.
• Lenses. As you are photographing in a tighter space, you have a cool opportunity to actually use many of those prime lenses you collected over the years. Many focal lengths come useful in the canyon, but you are unlikely to need anything too long. On my 4 × 5″ I used, in the order of frequency, a 150 mm (about normal), 110 mm (bit wide), 210 mm (normal), and an 80 mm (wide).
• Support. Make sure your tripod is happy holding the camera in odd positions. In quite a few shots my LF camera was pointing upwards. I only have a rather undersized ball-head on a smallish (and light) carbon fibre tripod, but with a good tightening (carry that spare allen key, or be thankful to Charly) it all stayed in position for even the longest exposures. There is none, or very little wind there, which helps to keep things steady.
• Notes. Make notes. My “metadata” is a notepad and a pen. I figured a while ago, that a great aid in learning and improving my skills is having notes to go back to. Here is a little problem, perhaps specific to sheet film: as you may be shooting very strange and abstract images, you may find it difficult to relate the finished images to your notes. Make a rough sketch in your notepad, it helps immensely in reconciling things when you are printing.
• Dust. Finally, take the usual sand-and-dust precautions: ziplock bags for the negative holders etc. No matter what you do, there will be an odd speck here and there, but I think it adds to the character of traditional photography, and gives you a chance to have a go at spotting your finished prints. Just to be on the safe side, I shoot each image twice, so I have a backup. My second shot is usually a 1 f-stop bracket (usually +1), and it also gives me a fallback option in case the negative has a speck in a lighter section of the image. I wish I did that with my earliest images, for which I only have a single negative!

Above all, enjoy the experience. The images will make a connection to the spirit of the place whenever you look at them in the future. I wish you an experience that fills you with awe and joy. I hope to return to Canyon X to experience it again. I might even take more photos.

Even now, with questionable political moves, and dubious judgements in international affairs of the US sometimes saddening my previously idealistic perceptions, I believe that there is something powerful and unique in that land that has the energy to keep inspiring people to reach for their stars. That is precisely how I feel about the landscape of the American deserts and its mountains. Often, when I stand on a precipice of a canyon, as I cast my eye to that seemingly never-ending horizon, I feel hope and inspiration in a moment of a perfect clarity. In that instant, it becomes easy for me to see how daily troubles we face are not always so important in comparison to the joy brought by the amazing beauty and the perfection of what surrounds us, and what connects us to everything else on this planet.

That is what I photograph. My pictures are not sad or sentimental, they do not show pain, tragedy, or suffering—not because that would be a bad photographic subject: just look at the wonderful works of Robert Capa. I am inspired by the idealism of the land and of its potential, and I feel a need to capture, to express, and to share it. Sometimes, it is a bit more pictorial, like in the photograph of the Grand Canyon moments after a summer storm has passed, otherwise, it is in the abstractions, like those of Canyon X, created entirely by nature yet worthy of a most accomplished sculptor. I wonder if the strength of my feelings for that landscape might prevent me from feeling the same elation anywhere else. Am I destined to photograph no other place? Not a bad destiny, on the other hand…

Perhaps, you could see not just the inner beauty, but also the hope, maybe some child-like naiveté, and the humbling honesty in the American landscape, which I tried to share with you. May it, too, uplift your soul.

Proudly holding a test run sheet at the back of a Heidelberg Speedmaster

My exhibition, (Be)Longing, has closed, but the book of the same title, which I have printed for the show, is here to remain. I am pleased with the book. The layout is nice, and the reproductions of my prints came out really well. I’d like to share a few thoughts about the process, and the people, who helped me get it printed. Of course, you can buy it here, too.

Rafał Sosin, DTP, makes a last minute adjustment

Agfa thermal plate being fed into the platesetter

Heidelberg Suprasetter that made the better offset plates for me

An exposed and developed plate emerges from the setter

Patrycja Warmińska, Prepress, checks a plate

Paper waiting at the front of a Heidelberg Speedmaster offset press

Tomasz Gołdyn, Machinist, removes excess ink

Janusz Moskiewicz, Chief of Production (left) suggests ink delivery adjustments to Paweł Dziurdzia, Print Supervisor (right)

The hardest part in planning of the book’s project was the decision about the printing technique, which ought to be as faithful as possible to the prints. I had three requirements: the resolution had to be good, the tonality (contrast) representative, and the tone (colour) as close to the subtle plum tones that selenium produces on the photographic paper, which I like using in my wet darkroom. Together with my designer, Rafał Sosin, we settled on tritone offset. After some testing, we chose to use a mixture of a 400 dot screen for Pantone Cool Gray 6C and Pantone 663C (a light purple) inks, and a stochastic screen for the process black ink. The gray and black combination built a good contrast with juicy midtones, while the 663C provided the selenium tone, which I so very much wanted. Having done a fair bit of research, and having chatted to several printers, I felt we have made a good discovery, as I have not found anyone who had used this combination, or in fact, who has previously published any information on how to reproduce the specifics of selenium tone in offset printing. The use of the stochastic screen for the black ink has given us a much better contrast in the highlights, especially in the clouds, which do have some small, but important areas of pure white, with only an occasional dot of ink.

Another major decision, which I had made at the beginning, was that I was not going to use scans of my large format negatives, but instead I decided to take digital photographs of the actual, finished wet-darkroom prints. I wanted the book to be faithful, and I felt that using scans would, perhaps, create an image that was sometimes better, sometimes worse, but never true to the hand-made print. It is not easy — not for me — to duplicate, digitally, the hand burning and dodging that is applied during the printing process under the enlarger.

After debating the choice of a paper, we decided on a nice matte 170 gsm bright white. The hard cover was bound in another paper, overprinted with plain CoolGray 6C, which provided continuity with the prints inside the book. We decided not to use any varnish, except on the cover, due to its slight yellowing properties — I wanted the prints not to have any suggestion of sepia, which I feel does not agree with my subjects.

The best part of the entire experience was the day at the printing shop. Watching the presses deliver sheets containing my prints was magical. Being able to assist the operators in adjusting the flow rates of the three inks, in little vertical strips that run top-down of each page, was the final bit of the mystery in the process that led to the results I desired. It was that very final adjustment, sometimes very subtle, which got the printed pages to have a glow, which is often hard to find in black-and-white, photographic albums. The patience and the experience of the machinists, operators, and the chief of production was a big part of the success. Being able to spend a full two days on-site, supervising what is only a small job of 64 pages with 24 prints, was my good good luck of having chosen a very understanding press (Drukarnia Skleniarz) in Kraków, the city of my birth, and the place where my exhibition took place. Had I not been there, in person, the book would have been probably fine. On the other hand, the feedback I was able to give to the staff meant they knew exactly what I was looking for, and they reciprocated by being creative and ready to suggest interesting solutions to the issues we have encountered. For example, the idea of mixing a regular raster with a stochastic one was suggested, on the day, by Mr Janusz Moskiewicz, Chief of Production. Later, they told me, that they wished every author was on-site when their book was being printed. I suppose they wished none would be as demanding of their time as I was…

Printed sheet comes out of the Speedmaster

If possible, I would recommend that anyone who prints black-and-white photographs, digitally, or traditionally, should consider having their pictures printed in a book, a traditional one, rather than made on an inkjet or a laser printer, at least once in their life. It was an incredible learning opportunity for me, which taught me more about my work, but also a wonderful, very enjoyable two days, and an elating experience. I won’t forget the smile I had on my face when I saw my prints appear on page of a book for the first time — it was one of the happiest days of my life.

Karolina Vyšata introduces Rafal Lukawiecki. Courtesy © Szymon Madej.

(Be)Longing, my first solo exhibition, has opened at 7 PM, on Friday, 14 January 2011, at the Stained Glass Museum in Kraków. It has been a very emotional moment for me, but there was no time for tears: a last minute rush to get everything ready was followed by an unexpectedly large turnout. Having planned for 40–50 guests, I was very nicely surprised when some 120 turned up. Thank you!

I was very pleased to see my patrons and sponsors. Consul Jonathan Koehler represented the Consulate General of the United States of America, together with staff members and their spouses. Urszula and Piotr Ostrowscy (Stained Glass Museum) and Nick Goward (Sick Little Fox) helped greet the guests. Karolina Vyšata, exhibition curator, gave the opening speech and eased me into the evening.

Press & Web Response

Rafal Lukawiecki signs a copy of his (Be)Longing photo book. Courtesy © Szymon Madej.

Stained Glass Museum on the opening night. Courtesy © Szymon Madej.

A major Polish daily, Dziennik Polski, has provided a kind review of my exhibition in this article. I was chuffed to see that National Geographic in Poland has listed it as a recommended event. Fotomargines, a Polish blog, published an interview with me. There are other mentions of the exhibition on art, event, and photographic web sites. I will blog about any reviews and comments as they appear.

All photos shown in this post were taken by my friend, Szymon Madej, who specialises in 360° spherical panoramas. He took one on the opening night, please click here to see it (Flash required). There are also a few others on his site, taken while visiting us in Ireland, which show my large format camera and my darkroom in action. Thank you, Zbooy.

I am grateful to all who supported me in this adventure, thank you, very much.

This exhibition closed on 6 March 2011.

I have spent many years looking for better results as I was disappointed with the formal quality of my traditional 35 mm pictures — despite their likeable content. I have, also, envied the exceptional photographs taken by the masters of the twentieth century. I decided to ascend to a technically more advanced level on a whim in 2000 and I entered the world of large format photography. This opened avenues that were previously closed to me. It enabled me to encounter an older and simpler form of photography before it became more automated and standardised. For example, a large format camera lets me set the plane of the film any way I desire, often not parallel to the plane of the lens, yielding full control of the perspective of the frame. This makes it easier for me to express the dynamic nature of seeing in a static photograph. A 4 × 5” sheet of black-and-white film is capable of recording an image with a high fidelity, beautiful tonality, sharpness, and a particular character that is not available in a smaller format or even with digital photography.

Large format photography has its own specific requirements: time consuming preparation for the day of work, slowing down of the entire approach, executing additional technical steps in the creative process. All of these obstacles actually intensify the engagement of my mind and of my heart. When I hide my head under the darkcloth and I look at the upside-down, almost abstract image I find myself in a different world — I contemplate what I see and I increase my understanding of the possibilities a particular scene might offer. Usually, I take between two and six negatives in a day dedicated to photography. There are days when after having set-up my camera I decide to put it away an hour later without making any exposures. This slow pace of work helps me improve both the formal quality and the subjective content of my photographs and forms an important aspect of my creativity. I respect photographers who having shot hundreds of takes in a day find a number of great images amongst them. Though I have tried that approach too, I feel decidedly better working slowly and more meditatively. When I have been denied the luxury of this time consuming large format ritual, such as when taking portraits or when travelling in a more limiting way, I simplify by using a medium format camera with 2½ × 2½” film. Often, it turns out to be only a temporary saving as I return, placated, to those places carrying my large format kit and resigning myself to the necessity of spending the time I was trying to save by choosing that compromise.

Karolina Vyšata interviewed me in October 2010 for a photo book that accompanies the (Be)Longing exhibition, which she has curated. This was her original question, which I have answered above:

You have been a photographer for many years. What is the origin of your interest in photography and in large format? What makes you passionate about it?

Karolina Vyšata interviewed me in October 2010 for a photo book that accompanies the (Be)Longing exhibition, which she has curated. This was her original question, which I have answered above:

Travel is your other passion. How do you select places and objects that you want to record on film? When you see something for the first time do you instantly know “This is it!”? Are there, perhaps, places that you visit many times, returning and photographing them again?

My fascination with the primeval artistic aspect of geology forms the second expressive layer in this series. Landscape of the Colorado Plateau, which spans Arizona, Utah, Nevada, and California, has been shaped by an interesting geological coincidence based on a triple emergence and disappearance of a large inland sea. This phenomenon had been reflected in a triplication of elements of creation of mountainous and desert landscapes. Hence, looking at the majesty of the Grand Canyon one can see three similar, but not identical layers consisting of a further three layers: limestone, sandstone, and red shale — nine visual notes in three grand bars. In a similar manner, through a tireless repeating, erasing, and again repeating of erosion nature has made those unusual slot canyon walls such as in Canyon X. It seems to me that this geological aspect of the landscape interests me the most as it contains a note of aesthetics that has influenced art, architecture, and culture. Whilst this would be an oversimplification, Grand Canyon could be related to Cubism, Yosemite relates to the paintings of early Romanticism, Canyon X reminds of Kandinsky, and one can hear Johann Strauss II in the Delicate Arch. These are my feelings, which I photograph and record as another expressive layer in my works.

I hope that my photographs would not only bring famous natural objects closer to viewers but also arouse a curiosity about their impact on the artistic creativity of our civilization. I am interested in the question of the primal originality of the objects I have been showing and their fundamental role in art and culture. Is all man-made art derivative in its nature? How false, perhaps, is our feeling of complete originality? Of course, I ask myself those questions being fully aware of the technically reproductive nature of photography. Could such a reproduction ever be original? Could any painter or a composer be truly original or do they also reproduce something that had existed before? Thinking about those questions helps me reconcile the influence American twentieth century photographers have had on me. I hope, however, that my viewers would appreciate a difference — one that is dear to me — between the illustrative and pictorial form of expression of the photographs of those times and the more abstract approach demanded by the culture of the early twenty-first century.

I would not wish to impose a particular interpretation of my photographs. I hope that the viewer can return to them more than once giving them time to show their depth.

Karolina Vyšata interviewed me in October 2010 for a photo book that accompanies the (Be)Longing exhibition, which she has curated. This was her original question, which I have answered above:

The (Be)Longing series comprises fragments of a particular landscape. How do you perceive the nature that you photograph? Are you fascinated only by the aesthetics of the landscape and its wilderness or do you also study it from a natural science perspective? What do you wish to convey through your photographs?

I care about the permanence of my prints and I work hard to achieve this by applying archival techniques, using high quality conservation materials, fixing photographic paper twice, rinsing it, toning it, and gently drying it at its own pace. I dry-mount my prints by myself so that my viewer may enjoy a pleasantly flattened image without a risk to its permanence. Time and costs are significant. I have been developing film and making my prints for a long time. Nonetheless, I am always learning and I hope that one day I might further improve my practices.

Karolina Vyšata interviewed me in October 2010 for a photo book that accompanies the (Be)Longing exhibition, which she has curated. This was her original question, which I have answered above:

Large format photography requires exceptional technical preparation and the process of making prints takes a lot of work. Could you reveal a secret of your practice?

As a black-and-white photographer, I am faced with a major hurdle, as most of the fun of a picture happens in those low and high extremes. If I worked in colour, I would know that your eye can spot even a subtle difference between a rock’s edge and a shadow cast on it, no matter how well calibrated your monitor was.

To help you, I have created a very simple tool. I photographed a reliable grayscale and I adjusted it as a JPG image in a way that matches the extremes of tones contained in my web reproductions. It is very easy to use:

1. Make it large enough on your screen to see each numbered bar.
2. Adjust brightness and contrast controls of your monitor until you are satisfied that you can see a difference between every numbered bar. The goal is to be able to differentiate between every neighbouring bar, especially the darkest and the brightest five.
3. Ideally, the darkest would be as black as you can make it and the brightest as white, but this is not necessary.

That’s it! Now you should be able to see what my reproductions offer. Still, I would prefer to show you the original print…

Let me know your thoughts and suggestions.