Along Sourdough Trail

In considering this project—circularly defined as whatever this blog is about—I’ve sometimes thought that what might be nice to create, and probably more useful to more people, would be a documentary record of what this place is like now, to serve as a reference in future. So it’s a bit of a shock to realize how boring, even depressing, that idea is to me. Am I that narcissistic and anti-social?

True, the reaction (my own and others’) to simple images like the saplings in the previous post suggests that an “objective,” affectless image is almost impossible to make. One might posit that maximum sharpness throughout makes for the most “accurate” image, but it’s clear that it gives rise to an inevitable emotional response that may not at all represent what a person (in particular, the photographer) experiences in the actual setting. I’m not so pedantic as to argue that the idea of documentation is therefore fatally flawed. Indeed, I’m quite certain that a competent photographer could produce a set of photographs that would be far more useful to the historical record than mine will be.

Except maybe that’s not quite right, or at least not the full story. After all, history is not merely about the changing configuration of physical objects. At bottom, I think we’re mainly interested in history because of what we learn about other people and their behavior in situations that resemble ones we have been or might be in. What I’m interested in now is my own thoughts and impressions as I engage with this micro-landscape. I’m interested in the process of developing a sense of place. How better to begin such a study than with myself? In fifty years, will it be more important to know what trees were where, or what it was like to someone hooked on this spot?

I’m comfortable calling this project a personal documentary, understanding the subject to be as much the person as the place, and especially the relationship between the two. The “my place” in the blog’s tagline is not about legal ownership. It’s about the experience of place that enfolds each individual like a self-woven cocoon. That analogy may not work for everyone, but I sometimes feel wrapped in a magical cloak when I’m walking along Sourdough Trail.

The image above is my favorite from a series taken from the same position, but with depth of field varied using apertures from f/5.6 to f/16. Below is most of the set, with f/8 left out to enable easier comparison of f/11 with either extreme).

The f/11 version seems to me to have the right balance (or tension) between the two saplings as principal subject and the similar shapes in the background. The latter draw the eye much more than with f/5.6, but still leave the central pair dominant. I find f/5.6 over-emphasizes the isolation of the pair from the surroundings, while f/16 gives too little separation, making the image feel too complex and confusing. In general, I like complexity, but complexity with structure.

Be that as it may, I think the main point here is that changing depth of field changes the message. As I commented in discussion on Art and Perception

What I “want to say” is not so clear yet, which is why I chose this image to illustrate the issue. Or rather, I want to say both that here’s an interesting pair of saplings entangling and they’re here entangled in an interesting patch of woods.

At the time I made the photograph, I was thinking of the saplings as purely visual elements, whose relationship I adjusted by the camera position. It wasn’t until processing at the computer that the allusion to human figures embracing occurred to me. This fits right in with recent musings at A&P on the subliminal significance of the figure.