If life isn't a constant spiritual challenge...

...then what's the point?

I ask this because I've recently undertaken a project, largely in connection with this blog: to broaden my horizons as a photographer. The results of this project can be viewed on my Flickr account.

There are actually two projects, both of which are germane to this blog. The easy one is that I'm introducing two of my children to digital photography. (The oldest is better than I am; I bought her a good film camera, a 35mm SRL, when she was 12 and she incorporated it into her own considerable artistic ability.) It's been a thrill to go out with Boh and Charlie and see the results, in all their 10.2 megapixel glory, of their initial photographic efforts. And it's been fun to go for photo safaris with them. A day spent in the Japanese garden with your two creative children, helping them look into secret places and capture unique viewpoints of their day, is about as good as it gets.

But.

As I began surfing Flickr for other interesting photographers, looking for techniques and inspiration, two things began to happen. First, I started making friends. No surprise there; I've been making friends on line since the late 1980s. And these friends form an online community which does the wonderful stuff that all online communities do—support each other, cheer each other on, console and encourage and in general just look out for each other.

The other thing that began to happen, though, is that I began to notice that some people were able to reach something different in their photos—something that just isn't there in my nicely composed shots of flowers, cats and scenery.

And it dawned on me that the ones who seemed to imbue their photographs most deeply with this unique quality... were the ones who posted self-portraits.

Uh-uh, I thought. No way. Not me. Nobody wants to look at a hairy, middle-aged fat guy. Step AWAY from the Nikon and no one will be hurt.

But something keeps drawing me to their photographs. I recently commented to an online friend that I've reached a decision point: either I can turn the lens on myself and start down that journey into the unknown country, or I can admit that I'm afraid of it and keep taking pictures of my neighbors' irises or my cats.

Which is all well and good, but as I told Sarah, I was taking nicely framed pictures of cats, flowers and race cars in the Seventies. Nothing new to be gained there.

And that raises the question, which is perhaps the underlying question for this blog and its subject: what's the point of taking on an art form if you're not willing to undertake the spiritual, personal challenge that goes along with it?

Or is that, dare I say it, the fundamental difference between an art and a craft?

I have a passable handle on the craft of photography. (And the craft of writing, for that matter.)

But what else is possible?

Discovering your personal style

Critics and artists often talk about a particular artist's style. We know immediately what it means for familiar artists; if I mention van Gogh or Mozart and talk about their style, you'll almost surely nod your head knowingly. It's something we can discuss: how van Gogh used bold brushstrokes to create a visual texture, how Mozart used repetition and variation to develop a theme through a piece of music. And for artists with a truly powerful and unique style, you can almost always recognize their work immediately, even on your first exposure to it. (I can almost always recognize a Bernard Herrmann score even if it's in a movie I've never seen before, for example.)

But for those of us involved, directly or indirectly, in the creation of art have a different set of questions around style, because it's part of our own experience of our art. Is it something we can consciously pursue? Is it an expression of who we are and how we create? Is it something we have control over, or does it have control over us?

I've started a new set in my Flickr account in which I plan to illustrate some of the examples of what I'm talking about. The set, called simply Style, contains the few photographs I've taken where two things apply:

1. I had a specific vision in my mind for what I wanted the picture to look like -- what elements I wanted it to have, where in the frame the visual components would fall, what I wanted to focus on and what effect I wanted it to have.

2. It worked.

As of this writing, I have 187 pictures on Flickr and four in the Style set. Now, admittedly, many if not most of the other photographs were meant as snapshots of something I was doing at the time. (The Oregon Trail Rally set, for example, is meant to be documentary.) But I've given myself the background task of looking for opportunities to exercise that list: to notice places where what I see creates a specific vision in my mind of what I want a picture to look like, and then to execute on that.

For now I'm limited to my cameraphone, in part because it's always with me so I can capture anything anywhere. It's very limiting for several reasons, not the least of which being the lag between pressing the button and capturing the image. (It's a lag of several carlengths at even low speed, I've noticed, which is why there are no pictures of moving rally cars.) And I can't change aperture and shutter speed to vary my depth of field... heck, I can't focus it at all.

So I'm trying to use this as an exercise in composition and framing. Don't just point and shoot -- think about what the picture is going to look like. Where will each element be placed in the final image? How important will it be in relation to the other elements? Is there a natural "line" that gives the image movement, or is that not part of what you're going for?

Lots to think about.

But how about you and your art -- where are you with respect to your own style? Is it something you're consciously working on, is it starting to bubble up from the depths, or is it still something elusive and frustrating?

What the heck is an artist midwife, anyway?

All my life I've been fascinated by the creative process, my own and anyone else's. What is it that drives us to create, in whatever medium we choose? How do you go about writing a book, composing a song, choreographing a dance? And perhaps most important, how do you keep doing it again and again and again?

This blog will be an exploration of issues surrounding the birth of artists, primarily -- that is, what does it take for us to be who we are? What's involved in being (not becoming) an artist -- a working, recognized artist, in whichever field calls to you? And maybe most important -- how do we get our hands on the controls of our individual talent, so we can turn it on like flicking a switch?

I hope to have guests from time to time who can bring insight into their own lives, whether it's from the strict creative process (how I take pictures, my favorite chord progressions, etc.) or from a more "ontological" viewpoint -- the work it takes to force the Universe to align with their being as an artist. Part of that is the ubiquitous "paying your dues." Part of that is what we have to give up because -- no matter how comfortable, how rewarding, or how familiar -- it's getting in the way of our being who we are with respect to art and our art form. And part of that is introspective -- looking into the pieces of your soul that hold you back, and getting them out of the way of the part of you that is most alive, most creative, and most powerful.

Incandescent creative power -- that's what we're all about. Giving birth to the artist within, and letting it loose on an unsuspecting world. Keep it in a moment -- breathe, breathe -- hold on a bit longer -- now push as hard as you can! We'll get this baby out, don't worry.