Photography

Can Dance be Photographed?

Elsewhere has it been proposed,

and herewith it’s re-exposed,

that in the faces of the others,

emotional expressions one discovers.

Investigations of decoding have discovered,

which generations needed theories uncovered,

that the mystery of the emotions here,

lies in the ability of one to gear.

Of particular importance are the context types,

as well as multitudes of prototypes,

that lead one to the interpretation,

that static or dynamic – it’s all an aggregation.

Investigations of the brain have been reported,

and many areas have been purported

to be involved in reading of the mind,

including in the cases of the blind.

STS and mirror systems would unfold

a model worthy of the gold.

No matter if spontaneous or posed,

there’s no need to be opposed;

static or dynamic one could utilise,

one’s eternal dream’ll be realised.

With these rhymes, I completed my Bachelor’s degree – the abstract of my thesis on facial expressions and the use of static and dynamic facial expressions as stimulus material in psychology experiments. Now, what this means in the language of my grandmother (following the instructions by Daryl Bem), this means a comparison between pictures and videos showing people smiling (and other emotions). Back then, I found that there is a difference in what such stimuli measure but that the two aspects are not mutually exclusive but rather complementary.

I have been photographing dance on several occasions (ballet, traditional Bulgarian, and now modern ballet) trying to capture the motion, the tension, the continuity, the choreography, the synchrony, the emotion. In the thousands or hundredths of a second, I’ve tried to capture that which even the human eye misses amidst the myriad of other “which”-s. It is a chaos, a random pattern, a crystalized network. This constant vigilance creates a sense of urgency, a ten-fold urgency compared to that of street photography, even more unpredictable but more gracious, because it had been choreographed – I just didn’t know it.

Many photographers have pondered about this. Richard Avedon is know to have been jumping and dancing together with his models to feel it, to be in synchrony, to mirror. Annie Leibovitz in the TV documentary said that dance cannot be photographed no matter how obsessively one tries to pose it, to look for the geometry, and the grace in movement. Martha Graham fascinated with dance, took controlled photographs of the postures and the floating of the cloths.

But the question is whether dance can be photographed or not: the dance, the emotional aspect of it. Does a photograph elicit the same visceral reaction as the actual dance (or to make things equally removed, as a video recording of the actual dance)? The photograph can capture a heightened moment, the essence of the dance, the geometry; but can it capture the emotion? Can it capture the same emotion or does it capture a different emotion? Why would it be different from the question of portraiture (and yet people take portrait photographs)?

It's not the camera, stupid! It is the people that you love!

Already after my first post on the new website, I feel different about photography.

It used to be the case that most io my posts and photos would be taken during my morning or evening jogging and they would be of nature or of architectural quality or of animals (if anything animate at all). But all of a sudden after verbalizing what photography means to me, i.e. intimate communication, I cannot help but keep my finger off the shutter unless there are people in view. Street photos have become more contemplative, less sporadic, more measured. Sure, I love looking at the setting sun and the beautiful light it produces, the way it shines through the leaves, the way it warms up even the coldest of hearts (mine). But I keep wishing that person A and person B and everyone else and beyond the alphabet were here. They don't need to be aware of my presence - I'll be just taking pictures. Simple as that. From the distance (but not too far), right next to them (but not intrusive). And that will be my drug. I don't need more.

Does one need more to be happy? Expensive equipment? Fancy lenses? Fast shutter speed, mega- mega- pixels, complex flash systems, filters, photoshop, ... ?

No. 

And I even deleted those lenses from my eBay watch list and started saving: so I can go and meet each one of my alphabet people: those that I think of constantly. Don't save for equipment, save for vacation! There is no greater joy than photographing the people you love. Did you get lactose intolerance from all this cheesiness?

At what point does a photograph become too intimate?

I think about photography as a most intimate form of communication. I do not refer to what we see in magazines or on billboards. Nor do I mean the street photographs that give the traveller tips about the world or its people. Nor do I mean the documentary photography which takes up a distant, detached angle on the intimacy of misery. And I do not mean the intimacy of love or nudity. What I mean is the intimacy of non-verbal, metaphoric, symbolic communication captured by the stillness of the shutter speed.

Who is saying more: the photographer who captures that moment (having first provoked it with a question, a word, a glass of wine, hours and hours of chatting...), the subject of the photograph (having become comfortable with that bright reflective black eye made out of layers of glass), or the people who would look at the photograph (seeing, through the eye of the photographer, trying to do a Theory-of-mind exercise penetrating the boundary between their own reality and that of the person with the camera: they become the true photographer themselves?).

I often feel frustrted seeing the pictures in fashion magazines, on facebook photography pages, and blogs: if you were an alien to visit us from the future and look at our portrayal of ourselves, you've got to conclude that we are miserable, depressed, and in need of affection. Growing up in Easter Europe post '89, I've seen this sadness engraved in each pore of people's faces. Now, with camera in hand, I find it difficult to push the button without the presence of a smile. You know those cameras that can take a picture once they detect a smile in the frame? I am that kind of camera. And I am lucky to have people in my life who have the glow. The ability of people to shine through the lights of the city, or the setting sun, or the candle is what inspires me every time to look them in the eyes and carry on with the ritual. 

In the process of putting a smile oneself, I take a picture of that shared moment - shared only between the two of us - that moment reveals who the person is, what she dreams of, where she travels, where she came from, what we talk about, what she thinks of me. In a sense, the process of taking such intimate portraits is a process of self-portraiture - gathering the pieces of the puzzle that make up the self: after all those people are part of my life for no casual reason. What is it that makes them a unique addition to my life? In these pictures, I no longer see the other person 'in that moment', nor do I see myself in that moment - I see a dynamic system that changes with every click of the mechanical clock, with every thunderbold and thunder, with every splash of the water. It is a system that minutes, hours, days, months, or years later will be stripping even more of its shields. And that's true intimacy.

July Vacation Last Days – of Emotional and Altitudinal Highs

Friday, 22nd July – clear skies, fresh air, cool summer temperatures, herbs in purple, cold water. 07:55 – morning sunshine in Sofia, group gathers together. On the road. Till 09:55 or so. Vihren Mountain Hut our starting point. Step by step, up and up, kilometer by kilometer, breath after breath. 10:39 I see the peak and in front of it a flower – yellow, leaves, a pyramid; the peak is still a fog away. 11:13 I see a stone with orange moss – not red like blood, but orange like fire. 11:31 the peek feels further away – like a goal that takes a lifetime to accomplish. 11:47 wind comes over as a warning – almost stealing my scarf, my protection, my astrological map. 11:55 last bits of vegetation are left behind and only rocks remain in front – a pyramid of rocks, of marble, unpolished and raw – like debris. People left their mark – arranging stones in shapes and words etching white on green. 12:05 dark clouds try to scare. 12:30 we are there on the top. Joyous of the conquest of peak Vihren, joyous of our dear cousin nailing great results in university examination. 13:45 we go down – an hour sunshine, fruit and honey is enough. 15:28 we are down ready for a break drinking water like a whale adding honey like a bee.

July Vacation Day 3 – of Nature

Day 3 – A cheerful morning glow – the rain from last night had prepared the grass for our steps, the morning sun had cleared the air from the fog, the sun was waiting to burn even more of my face and shoulder skin. And the walk started from a ski resort. The type that is like a monolith with windows attached to a ski-line and that makes (they say) a great place to be in Winter. why did it feel as if we were entering an abandoned post-apocalyptic city? Why is that the only thing I could hear was Contrapunctus IX (a 4, alla Duodecima) as performed by Glenn Gould on the organ? Nothing of laughter, nothing of joy, nothing of energy. The sun was burning, the ground was grey, the buildings were dilapidating.

Next to those buildings that were once built and were once full of people (communist times?) new buildings were being constructed. Or construction had started before a plan went terribly wrong at the iron rods and cold concrete blocks were left unattended, abandoned behind the high fences warning off animals and mountaineers aline with their cold rust. Subtly informing you not to dip your toes in the lake right behind, let alone drink from it. Abandoned restaurant huts suggest that there is nothing to see here in the summer. Without the snow this place is dead. The hill specially designed for skiing (i.e. trees gotten rid of) felt like a torture – artificial, naked, as if the skin of the mountain has been ripped apart and the wound left uncovered.

We reach the top of the hill – the TV tower where a swarm of tourists (who had used the lift and who couldn’t care less about the packaging of sweets and chips they were spreading around) were taking picture with the view – artificial, as if they’ve made it – they’ve moved away from the car and away from the daily routine specially to discover its magnificence. Nature is taking her tole – it engulfs that which belongs to Her – the entrance of the tower also looked abandoned with grass trying to overtake the steel – which one is going to win?

And just 15 minutes away was the edge of the cliff – the same ridge from which Orpheus had sung his song for his beloved Eurydice. And when you stand on that ridge, you feel so minuscule, vulnerable, and yet omnipresent. The wind blows it takes off your atoms and molecules and spreads them across the valley. We spent 20 minutes there – none of the other tourists felt attachment for more than a fleeting moment of that picture they felt they needed to take to justify their presence. Nature has no sanctity. Nature is (?) no sanctity.

We come we build and we don’t finish. And you know. Nature will finish it for us. Not according to our design but to Hers. Because no matter how smart we are and how much backward engineering of nature we are capable of doing, nature is still the engineer and we shall always be observing her past and not her future.

Unless, we let in our instincts guide us. A horse hiding in the shade waving his tail at the wasps. Staying there unchained, without horseshoes, without a hotstamp, without a name, without identity. Apart from the one that Nature bestowed on him. And he came, sniffed us, cuddled with us, gave us his blessing and told us that all will be well. Nature has Her ways – we’ve been there before and we’ll be there again. If we don’t finish something, Nature will finish it for us – according to Her plan. And we are part of it. Somehow. I am sure. I am hopeful.