O YOU REMEMBER your first time? I do. My first time—my first intimate encounter with a photographic subject—was with Daisy, a white Shasta daisy to be exact, and it happened on a hot August day in Oregon while looking through the viewfinder of my brother’s Nikon F. And, I confess, I have been a close-up photography addict ever since.
If there is any constant in the world of close-up photography, it is this: Flowers are like snowflakes; no two are exactly the same when viewed through any combination of close-up photography equipment. The closer you focus on a given subject, the more that is revealed, and it is with these revelations that the “drug” that is close-up photography maintains its constant and unrelenting hold. You begin to consider adopting a belief in reincarnation or reaffirming your lapsed reincarnation beliefs as you soon realize that your appetite, your hunger, your insatiable desire for more “intimate encounters” is truly vast and deep and that “there can’t possibly be just one lifetime, because I need to come back for more—much more!”
I’ve often been asked by students in my workshops, at my seminar presentations, and in my online photography school how I define an intimate encounter in photography. My answer hasn’t changed a whole lot since the first time this question came up, way back in 1978. In my mind, an intimate encounter was then and continues to be an “in your face” experience, one with an emotional charge so great that it is best described as a low-voltage electrical shock to all five of your senses, especially sight, touch, and smell. The world of close-up photography does serve up a bounty of texture-filled images: feathers, human skin, animal fur, wood, rocks, sand, leaves, thorns, berries, broken glass, ice, frost, and even pond scum. It is often the texture within a close-up photograph that awakens our senses the most, whether that texture is “felt” as soft or hard, rough or smooth, dull or sharp, or hot or cold.
To convey that texture—so that the subject is “felt” by the viewer—we must toss aside the old adage “Less is more” in exchange for a new motto: More is more. Intimate encounters are all about getting close, in many cases closer than you ever thought possible. When our loved ones are away for extended periods, we ache for their touch. We’ve had enough of “less is more,” and we want them to return now so that we can get back to “more is more.” It’s hard to be intimate when we are miles away from the ones we love, and it’s just as hard to be intimate with any photographic subject when you’re “miles away” from it, as well. Just as the only way to feel a person’s touch—to feel alive—is to be right there, the only way you can evoke a tactile experience with your photography is to be right on top of, next to, in front of, or underneath your subject at a very intimate distance.
The human need and drive for intimacy is very strong. It is, for some, a lifelong need. It is all about connecting, about feeling we are a part of something outside of ourselves, and it is in close-up photography that we can, if only for a moment, be a part of something that most people have otherwise not noticed. This is what makes it so special. You may ask, for example, “What intimacy could possibly be found in the gutters of our streets?” A lot, actually, as you will soon see for yourself.
My first intimate encounter with that daisy was, in all likelihood, no different from the first encounters of 99 percent of all photographers, since it is the flower that is the most photographed subject in the world, outside of pictures of family and friends. Of course, it isn’t long after that first flower photograph that you begin to realize that close-up photography needs to be precise in many cases and can be very demanding of your patience. If it’s not just the slightest shift in the camera’s position, then it will be the wind; and if it’s not the wind, then it will be the absence of the right light falling on your subject; and if it’s not the lack of proper light, then it will be the wrong background; and if it’s not the wrong background, then it’s that missing piece of equipment you’re still saving up for, and on it goes.
Yet despite the demands placed on us by close-up photography, we addicts seem to dig our heels in even deeper. Once we feel the joy of succeeding with one great close-up shot, we’re hooked. We see so much potential, so many possible intimate encounters, in a world that most people are too busy to notice or simply never thought was worth the look. But we know different, and we want to not only connect with the close-up world but share that world with the greater world at large, as well.
So, as much as this book is about conventional close-up photography (i.e., the flowers), it is certainly also about unconventional close-up photography. In my mind, close-up photography must include anything that isn’t normally experienced up close. Familiarity can breed contempt but not when looking for opportunities to shoot close-ups. This whole subject of making discoveries in close-up photography is so far from reaching its end because nothing is ever familiar—at the slightest twist or turn, a new image is revealed! It is truly a lifelong journey, and like most journeys, there are many stops along the way and any number of paths to our destination.
Regardless of the equipment, lighting, locations, and viewpoints you choose, you are at the controls. So, no matter where you are in your journey, you always have the option of stopping, surveying the scene before you, and making the decision as to how and when to preserve what you see. We’ve all heard of and seen, either in pictures or in person, the Seven Wonders of the World, but the photographer armed with any amount of close-up equipment will soon see the Seven Million Wonders of the World.