The power of a print

As photographers we've heard the Ansel Adams quote, "the negative is a musician's score and the print is the performance of that score." Its recitation is usually an argument for the tangibility of a photo print over merely publishing the image to a digital feed. However, it is the assertion after that quote which more directly states this for the modern day: "the negative comes to life only when 'performed' as a print." Come[s] to life is a literal statement on the process of printing. It's not as simple as taking our image from Lightroom and hitting print; there is a process to making a print--it is a marriage between a standardized process and an individual process. Through this marriage of processes, we can rein in our worst impulses for our art, uncover the weight of the image, and discover our creative instinct with intention.

The impulse to create what is already celebrated poisons our creative vision and collapses our individuality. This fundamental conflict bears much of the weight for online photography--how can artistic vision be explored truly when a third-party dictates what will be seen, what will be liked, what will be celebrated? Secondhand curation pushes those questions in the forefront of motivations; answering them takes priority in the work rather the work of art itself. This should come as no surprise to any photographer fighting for the spotlight in online spaces. Regardless of where the spotlight is found (be it on Meta's Instagram, in Reddit's ocean of communities, or amidst a random Discord), the momentary shine provides a cold warmth; you will get your moment to be raised above the rest only for gravity to send you back to that familiar bottom. When resorting to these online spaces as the primary well for inspiration, the work suffers tremendously; the work absorbs what the artist has been exposed to rather what the artist initially envisioned. This act of reiteration provides eviscerates individual creativity, further categorizing photographers into disconnected parts within the larger whole of the medium.

The process of making digital images into a printed photo gives the work a new perspective. The frame becomes a tangible boundary, the subject transforms from a fugitive memory into a physical manifestation of that moment; photography can be shared as a gift or displayed in homes as a private gallery. The true reward comes in the form of developing a process. For example, proofs ("rough drafts") are a way to nudge the image towards its fate as a photo; they can be the size of the final product or a smaller paper of the same type. These proofs allow us to visualize the adjustments by drawing on the image with a vibrant marker. This is not about getting the image "right" but about discovering what the image has to say in its new format; the feeling that an image evokes on a screen is different once it reaches the paper. Shadows on a screen are not as bright after printing; color can flatten into muddy tones impersonating hues; the depth is lost unless calibrated with the paper in mind. Working the intricacies of moving the image into a photo is rife with opportunities for refining that process, along with giving the work a new shape. What looks good on a print often translates well back into the digital, the inverse is not so smooth, however. That is where our creative instinct can shine the brightest.

Creative instinct is the individual’s voice for their photo and can be sharpened through the process of making a print. A far cry from the ceaseless scroll of an online feed, printing imposes a limitation on the work. Photos will not look perfect on paper, they may even lose their spark; however, working within these conditions rather than changing the conditions as a whole is the beginning of discovering the creative instinct. How do we move from the idea of the image inside to the materialization of that photo? Digital software tracking development history works for a time but the throes of development (sliding and masking away at the pixels) the history becomes unintelligible. Where in the process exactly a change should be made to affect the work as a whole cannot be traced easily. The vision forms slowly and intentionally with each print markup completed; there is little guesswork to fight through when the process truly in the hand. As we muse these adjustments (literally) on the image before committing to them, a deeper engagement with the medium forms. The photo demonstrates how to process an image in the field; the frame of the page is visualized along with the subject in the field. Slowly and surely confidence in the vision grows, untangling from the web of expectation and taking on a meaning of its own. Then instinct takes over and the weight of the image can be felt before we have an image to develop in the first place.

The weight of an image is an elusive, ever-deepening, inquiry for our artistic vision; it is discoverable with curiosity and dedication to reflection. While it is easiest to absorb images from photobooks, the act of making the photograph itself spurs curiosity in a visceral way. At the moment where the image is going to be made, the weight is sensed but not realized. In development it is teased but the sense itself expounded upon. The process often ends here; the digital image is published to a feed and the cycle repeats with another image, disregarding reflection entirely. However, we can fully realize the photo's potential by incorporating the print as its fate and not as an optional task. The process of making the print invites both curiosity and reflection. It inspires the curiosity to make adjustments otherwise ignored, to look deeper into what truly makes the image itself compelling. The repetitive process of printmaking welcomes reflection; what is and what could be take shape as what was fractures beneath markings for the next proof. This trap of existing between two—same, yet different—images dissolves with a refined creative instinct.

Understanding creative instinct is a skill that must be sharpened and then refined through uncovering our voice and what it is fighting against the current to say. This is what photography is made of: images with weight. Whether it is a revealing portrait or a dramatic landscape, the weight of the image is paramount to the art of photography. Engaging with the medium in this tactile manner provides that weight--literally and figuratively. But the weight is not only for the audience to feel when see the photo. It comes from an appreciation of the work it takes to get there, and a respect for the craft as a whole. After all, that is what we are striving for when we take our camera out into the world. The medium of photography, the craft of making photos, is a compelling medium to convey ideas. To do so is to commit to all facets of a visual medium including the presentation of the final work, accepting that the power of a print is its realness. It's not simply a digital object to scroll past, it's not a piece making its case in a sea of pick-me cacophonies; the reality of a print is its ability to slow down the process of experiencing it (making it and viewing it). Presenting a print to a confidant holds more value to both parties involved than simply sending them a digital image to get their thoughts on it (not to mention the question of who is making the art if it is made by committee, but I digress). The print opens our eyes to the possibilities of the medium, but can we see them when we are so blinded? The worst part of being a photographer is the inability to understand the image. Composition, framing, light, and color contribute to seeing the image while making it but understanding why we saw it the way we did is different. That is an internal endeavor, one that no amount of pay-to-play can save us from. The print, in its deceptive simplicity, assists in that discovery.

My first print I ever made with my own printer and paper is of the Absaroka mountains and a pine tree. It's a super blue image that, digitally, I tried to force into monochrome but continued to feel quite disappointed in the feeling of the image. After having the printer set up and a sheet of MOAB Lasal Exhibition Lustre ready to go, I printed it in that flat black and white only to see what the photo was telling me all along: the color was the subject. After making that change and printing again, the photo sits in our bedroom framed. I am reminded each morning of that day in Montana, why I love photography, and why printing photographs is the real way to see differently. Besides, you really can't knock it until you've tried it.