Print Size

There was a review in the July/August, 2002 issue of Atlantic Monthly magazine of an Ansel Adams exhibit going around, in which Kenneth Brower objected to some of the small prints of Western scenes. His points were that Adams preferred large prints, and that the subject matter called for large displays. In the latest issue of the magazine (October), the instigator of the exhibit took issue with his objections, saying that impact is independent of size--that one simply adjusts one's distance from the photograph according to the size. Another reader seconded Brower's objections.

I recently attended an exhibit of Adams's photos at our local museum (not the same exhibit reviewed by Brower), and I found the large landscapes stunning. Almost all of the photos were, as I remember, at least 16 x 20 inches or so. Because Adams used a large-format camera (by today's standards, anyway), the detail in his landscapes held up even when I moved close--adding to the overall impact, for me. I could spot a photograph as I entered the room and immediately appreciate it from thirty feet away, and continue to be impressed as I moved toward it, until I was inches away, no longer looking at the mountain but rather at a small group of trees, still marveling at the crisp detail and perfection of exposure. An 8 x 10 of that photograph, which I have seen countless times in magazines and calendars, lacks a lot of the breathtaking quality of the image. So I had to agree with Brower on those photos.

Another photo, a still life of an egg slicer (yes, by Ansel Adams!) lacked that same punch, even though it was a large print. It simply didn't need to be so big, and I think would have been more effective at somewhere near life-size, which would have made the print about 5 x 7. I've always loved the contact prints of Edward Weston, who worked mostly with 8 x 10 cameras. There's something magical about a good contact print, that's almost impossible to retain in an enlargement. In a gallery, one usually has the flexibility of moving closer to a picture in order to study it, and for me that's a good thing. Some photographs call out to me to come closer. A miniature is an invitation to intimacy. An 8 x 10 of one of Ansel Adams's Yosemite photographs might invite me, but would still be disappointing at close viewing range. (I’ve often envied my near-sighted friends who can remove their glasses to inspect something from two inches away.)

Anyway, it got me to thinking about my own work, and how my photographs are viewed. The photos that I post on my web site are also of uniform size, mostly. I make them about 640 pixels on the longest dimension, so those who view them with other computer monitors can see them complete without having to scroll. On my monitor, a vertical photo of that size just fits the browser window. Since all my printing these days is through the computer, I tend to size my prints to suit the printer, making them as large as possible on the standard 8 1/2 x 11 paper. This uniformity of process ignores the aesthetic needs of the individual photograph. I have to admit that if my printer could turn out 16 x 20 prints, I'd be inclined to make all my prints that size, if I could afford the paper. But it might be that I would then begin to think about "appropriateness" of print size.

Digital photography just compounds the problem. Mostly, the digital image cannot take as much enlargement as a film negative can, before the digital "grain" begins to be noticeable. If I'm aware of how the final photograph is to be used, I can adjust the resolution of the digital camera so that, at the size it will be printed, the pixels will not detract from the image. Usually, I shoot at maximum or near-maximum resolution for everything, but the process is slower in the camera I use (I have to wait until the image gets stored before I can take another photo), and of course the images take up a lot more space, limiting the number I can take before offloading (or changing memory cards). Still, I like to have as good quality as I can get to start with--as they used to say, you can't get a silk purse from a sow's ear. I also tend to crop a lot after I get my images into the computer.

The crucial thing for me is to stop and think about the final photograph before I click the shutter. That's always been important in photography. In Edward Weston's photography, the sheer cost of film and the work it took to transport and set up the camera was enough to remind him to think before shooting. It's so easy with a digital or 35mm camera to shoot first and think later--and if in doubt, get multiple exposures, just to be safe. As I sit here thinking about it, such casual shooting robs me of one of the delights of photography--learning to see better. When I began serious photography in my teen years, I found the world a more interesting place, because I habitually looked at things in terms of pictorial interest, even if I wasn't carrying a camera.

I want to get the most out of photography and, slowing down, thinking and really seeing first seem to be important. Other photographers, of course, have different objectives, and perhaps different psychological rewards from the craft. A photojournalist, for example, might need to shoot a lot of images in order to get one prize winner--the world doesn't wait for the photographer to choose composition and timing.

My darkroom used to be a magical place, where impact appeared in a yellow-lighted tray. Today, it's on my computer screen. I can't pretend that it's just as magical. On the other hand, the wide range of manipulation that I can accomplish with my limited skill gives me a lot of pleasure, too. Recently, I complained that I missed the smell of acetic acid, and someone suggested I put a few drops on a wad of cotton and stick it on my monitor. The best of all possible worlds?

The bottom line, I know, is to stay aware of what's going on, in the camera viewfinder, on my computer screen, and in my gut as I take it all in.

Donald Skiff, September 7, 2002

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