Story Time

One of the more enduring pieces of photographic advice is to tell a story with every picture. I’m not talking street photography here, or documentary photography, or wedding photography, where that advice more obviously applies. I’m talking landscape. If you haven’t heard it yet, you’ll certainly hear it at some point. It essentially boils down to this: Before you trip the shutter, decide what story you’re trying to tell.

WHO DOESN’T LOVE A GOOD STORY?

Now, I love stories. Love books. Movies. TV shows. Practically anything with a plot and I’m in. And really, who doesn’t love a good story? If it’s done well, it’s almost impossible not to become invested in the characters. Don’t like to read? Well, I think you’re missing out, but no problem…go watch Breaking Bad, The Sopranos, Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, Rocky (the original), Star Wars, or The Godfather. I could go on practically forever.

Stories endure not only because they entertain, bringing us delight, anger, sadness, and frustration as our favorite characters triumph, screw up, or (in the case of Game of Thrones) die; they endure because we live those things vicariously. And we carry those lessons and themes with us long after we finish a movie or a book.

But as it relates to landscape photography? I have to admit I mostly end up scratching my head over that advice. If I tried to come up with a story before I tripped the shutter, I might only rarely trip the shutter. One might argue we could all do with taking a few less pictures to make the ones we do take more compelling or valuable. But if I wait for a story to appear, I might never capture an image.

SO WHAT IS IT, EXACTLY, YOU’RE SEEING THERE?

So what causes me to trip the shutter? Easiest answer is: something interesting. Later on, when reviewing images, I might think, “Now why in the world did I take this?” But typically, I’m going to remember whatever interesting or captivating thing it was that made me say, “I gotta capture that!” I do believe, as photographers, that we could do with further self-inquiry, asking ourselves why we want to take a picture, what is it that captivates us? It could be a beautiful sunset, a storm on the horizon, a solitary tree, a sunrise through atmospheric fog. Heck, it could be just about anything.

But there should be something. Right? And I think maybe that’s where the story advice comes from. That “something” is, I guess, the potential story.

I never quite see it that way, though, if I’m being honest. Something appeals, catches my eye, I take a picture.

But here’s where it gets interesting: During processing, a story might reveal itself. And if it does, if you’re lucky enough to see a story appear in an image, you need to listen because that can be your guide on how to process it.

A QUICK RANT…

Let me hop up on my tree stump for a moment and make very clear one of my firmest photographic beliefs. If our goal is artistry we can’t just simply take what the camera gives us. You have to work with that, you have to use that basic information to convey your vision. If you simply want pure documentation of what you saw, that can be done with a cell phone. If, however, you want to show viewers what you felt, if you want to inspire them, if you want to instill a sense of wonder or awe, or simply elicit a “Wow!”, then you have no choice but to process that raw data into something that approximates what it was that rang your emotions. This is the strongest argument I can make for shooting RAW and not taking the straight JPEGs the camera gives you (an entire topic by itself, but this is the gist of it). I don’t care if you’re operating on Auto, you should at least be shooting in RAW. And you should learn to process your images. If you want to be a photographic artist, I don’t think there’s another option.

A landscape image is captured in the field, and there’s a lot that goes into that; but it’s made into something even more special in post processing. Lightroom, Photoshop, Luminar, and other processing engines, that’s where the magic happens. That’s where and how we, as photographers, paint, if you will.

BACK TO THE STORY

I captured this image in 2018 at Utah’s Dead Horse Point State Park, near Moab, at around sunset. I’d spent 15-20 minutes facing in the exact opposite direction, capturing the rugged, craggy landscape of Canyonlands National Park (the park itself is on the other side of the Colorado River). I’d picked up my tripod and camera bag to move to another location when I turned around and saw this lonely tree, apparently growing out of solid rock, standing defiantly against a golden sky. Now, I didn’t think about any kind of story, I just knew I had to take that picture. I processed it the way I remembered it looking, the way it felt to me. And it remains one of my favorite images from that trip, and one of my favorite images period.

I named it “Defiant” because that was the story it told. This gnarled old tree, growing in a barren, unforgiving landscape, practically out of a rock, not only goes on living but apparently thrives. I mean, how great a story is that? How great a lesson is that? Remember, good stories provide lessons and action templates we can use in real life. And what a lesson this old tree can teach us.

Here’s another image, one I’ve really struggled with. Even what you see here, probably my fourth or fifth edit, I’m still not happy with. What captivated me was the little gathering of trees perched on this rocky outcrop 60-70 feet above the surface of the Lake Texoma. This was in January 2020 on a gloomy, windswept, overcast day at Eisenhower State Park, near Denison, TX; the low clouds were just starting to break up, providing some windswept texture over the landforms to the left, which I emphasized by using neutral density filters to create a long exposure, which also smoothed the lake. To the right, the clouds had thinned considerably, leaving a kind of dull glow in the sky, which grew brighter during the longer exposure.

I took multiple pictures of this scene, including from several different angles, and I bracketed like hell because it was a fairly wide dynamic range with the sky growing brighter as the cloud cover thinned.

But no matter how I processed this image it never looked right. The closest I came was going monochrome but even then I wasn’t satisfied. So I put it away and let it simmer for a couple of months. Revisited, still didn’t like what I created, put it away again.

A few weeks ago I looked at it and saw something different. Instead of trees perched on a pointed crag against a gloomy winter sky, I saw something else. I saw a family. A family staring out across a watery barrier to those two far peninsulas covered with more trees. What we’re witnessing is the aftermath of some kind of apocalypse, an exodus of trees from a disaster that befell them, like Okies fleeing the Dustbowl. And this little family, they were delayed for some reason, and now they’re stuck, staring out at their brethren making a new life in a new place. They’ve been left behind, with all of those stretched clouds pointing to where they want to be but can’t get. And that’s how I went about processing it; tried to make it gloomy, cold, almost hopeless. Sad even.

I was OK with that but I’d always like to believe there’s some hope somewhere, right? Take a look at the trees again. That’s Dad on the left, and Mom on the right with an older daughter. Right on the edge of the cliff looking down into the lake are two sons, oblivious to the family’s fate, doing what boys do, probably trying to guess how high they are and dropping stuff into the water to watch it splash. The smallest tree, to the left, is peering over the edge, and I can just see that little tree turning back to his dad and saying, “You know what, Dad? Betcha I could swim over there.” And there’s your hope. Where there’s a will there’s a way…how’s that for an admittedly cliched, yet fully appropriate, little story? To represent that hope and pull it out, I tried to emphasize the light glowing in from the right side, dropping warmth on the pointed crag and lighting up the otherwise dull water a bit.

Again, I’m not happy with this; it’s not a portfolio image, although I wish it could be because the story’s a good one. But it was the story that revealed itself that guided my processing.

Here’s another image, one I call “Condolences”. Went back and forth over this one a number of times too. What grabbed my attention is probably the first thing you noticed: those two trees crossing each other, forming an ‘X’. That’s why I took the picture, and I took a bunch of them. Partially processed a bunch of them with growing frustration because nothing seemed to work.

One day, as I pondered over this, I got the sense that the upright tree was kind of hugging the other, offering comfort. And then all of those trees on the right suddenly appeared to be gathering together in support, like a receiving line, all there to offer their own comfort and condolences to the bereaving tree. I don’t know what the curved tree lost, just that it’s sad. And that it’s surrounded by a community of other trees that are feeling sad with it. But look at the grass on the forest floor; look at the tree in the background with the bright green leaves, and the top of the sad tree sprouting bright new leaves to replace older ones gone dull. They’re all lit by a bit of warm light coming in from above, providing a sense of hopeful expectation, the faith that even in the midst of difficulty there’s reason for optimism.

Cool story, and that’s what finally guided my processing, pushing me away from a dark and gloomy image with dull, dystopian-type hues, to one that tries to bring out warm and hopeful colors, with light and glow sprinkled liberally in.

One final image, with more trees here, interestingly enough; I’m apparently obsessed! As I indicated in this previous entry, woodland photography can be difficult, but sometimes, if you anthropomorphize the trees (and some of these Texas trees have got crazy shapes), you can find them doing interesting things, telling you a story. I took this image because I liked the shape of these three trees up against this cliff and the sky above, with their lower trunks essentially anchoring the corners of the image and all of their gnarled upper branches holding up the top. Initial attempts to process didn’t yield much excitement so I put it aside until just recently when the story revealed itself.

I call this “The Argument”. Start with the tree on the left: looks like a person thrusting their chest forward, left hand planted firmly on hip, right held high, vociferously trying to make a point. On the right is their opponent, also with chest thrust out, arms splayed wide, as if it’s saying, ”You’re not only wrong, you’re absolutely out of your mind!” Then there’s the tree stuck in the middle, unnerved by the anger his counterparts obviously feel, little arms trying to keep them separated so they don’t hurt each other. You can almost hear that tree saying, “Guys, guys, let’s keep it calm, OK? Before we say something we can’t ever take back.”

What a story that is, huh? And somewhat appropriate for these polarizing times. How often have you felt like that tree in the middle? Or one of the arguing trees?

I chose to do this in black and white, mainly because color just wasn’t working, but also to make everything kind of stark and dramatic, the way you feel when you’re in an argument. I also lit certain areas more than others for emphasis, to bring the combatant trees forward from the cliff face a bit.

TELL THE STORY!

So, how do you tell a story? Take pictures of what captivates you, what you find interesting. If you’re lucky enough to see a story right there, that’s great. If not, and you struggle with how to process - which isn’t at all unusual - look for a story in the image to guide you. If there’s nothing there, if nothing reveals itself, might be time to move on; I suspect our storage devices are full of images like that.

But if something does show up, don’t ignore it.

Tell the story!