An Essay By David J. LaBella

    They have lived in our imagination for so long that, if one takes a moment to consider them and stands still with eyes half closed and allows the mind to roam free, almost everyone can picture them roaming over some primitive, primordial landscape—occasionally in small groups but more often singly, moving slowly and deliberately from one location to another, silent, pausing from time to time to take in their surroundings. Their odd and outlandish appearance and lumbering gait belies the keen instincts that have kept them alive through the long years and makes them seem to us, separated from them by our sophisticated modern trappings and by the long evolution that has served to establish our dominion over our world, dim-witted and unlovely. Even now, we wonder if they may have been capable of understanding the inevitability of the march of progress; if, as they trod the forests and plains of places long since brought under the yoke of human industry and agriculture, they might have had some vague premonition of the doom that lay in wait for them all. Indeed, it seems now that we know of them only by the antiquated relics and remains they have left behind; curiosities better left to the endless bone yard that is history. Do I speak of dinosaurs? Not exactly, for I am one: they are large-format film photographers—walking anachronisms untouched by automatic and digital technology; slowly grinding out images one by one on sheet film. A proud but somewhat stubborn lot, given to a certain stodgy satisfaction about their art; carrying on a tradition that reaches back over 150 years. There are even a few who still produce contact prints on glass plates, refusing even the relative convenience of film. The common thread that binds them together in their method is the care, discipline and precision they bring to their art, and their appreciation for the history to which they belong —as honorable an artistic tradition as any.

    In any examination of an artistic tradition or of the history of an artistic medium there are, inevitably, questions about the evolution of the art form that must be raised: is the passage from past to present to future necessarily beneficial to the medium, or is any improvement or benefit merely incidental or even accidental? Do we see genuine progress over time or are we better off taking each period as it is on its own? Who is to judge? And, most notably for the individual artist, do we learn the lessons of the old masters and create something better, or do we create something that is merely different? Would one rather remain a dinosaur or become a new species of artist altogether?
    My own research into the history of landscape photography and nineteenth century landscape painting led me to a discussion of these issues by Benjamin Champney (b. 1817, d. 1907)—the leading figure in what came to be known as the White Mountain School of painting in the mid to late 1800's (landscape painters similar to the Hudson River School in style, technique, and choice of subject  matter)—trained in France with Kensett, an admirer of Cole and Durand, a contemporary of Church, Gifford, Casilear, and Bierstadt. In his autobiography “Sixty Years Memories of Art and Artists”, Champney states, concerning Impressionism, “All artists should not run after the same craze, even if it is new and strange. Impression is just as much a conventional thing as any of the older manners and by and by, it will have had its day and be superceded by something still more grotesque, if that is possible, or candid minds will return to their old allegiance or find new ways for themselves.” As revered as Impressionism is today, it is worth recalling that in the first years of the movement traditionalists reacted with scorn at what they saw as a violation of accepted, condoned, and expected conventions of form, technique, and subject rendition, vilifying the new medium as a rejection of centuries of methods defined and dictated by enlightened criticism and study. And while Champney left us no notes concerning Cubism and Abstract Expressionism, there is little doubt that what he would have seen in his last years would have filled him with dismay.
    The lines are clearly drawn, then, with painting as well as with photography—is one at once and at all times a traditionalist or a modernist: the one relying on one method and set of standards to produce work familiar to observers of the medium; the other re-defining the methods, standards and the medium itself according to rules of their own invention, or at least unfamiliar to others. If the burden of the traditionalist is that one creates works that probably resemble any number of previously finished works and that some explanation of in what context the work was done may be necessary to their audience, then the burden of the modernist is that some explanation of what their works represent and what they mean must always be made in order to connect with their audience. The traditionalist gets labeled as lacking in imagination and independence; the modernist as mercenary and lacking in any respect for history. It may be true that Abstract Expressionism, itself now a century old, has made realism in painting a marginal vocation by dominating the urban/commercial art markets and has relegated it to a subordinate role better suited to suburban and rural art associations; just as digital photography has come to upstage film photography and aggressively extend its influence far beyond the bounds of its original niche in action or casual imagery. Traditional painting and film photography have perhaps been passed by and left behind by the relentless march of modernism and progress; evolving as they do no more quickly than does a lichen spread over rock, trapped  by  their  own insistence on time-honored methods and conventional ideas into depicting the world bit by bit—as it might  preserve  its subjects in amber and bury them deeply beneath the overburden of years, only to be unearthed here and there, by those who would take the time to discover them, and cast them once again in the open light upon the sands of our cherished memories. Modern art, too, must answer the challenge that, in a hundred years, the works themselves are no different from each other; only the names of the artists and their explanations of meaning change from one year to the next, and that without the artists’ explanation of theme and intent, the work is incomprehensible and merely a form without a true frame of reference for the observer. Digital photography invites endless manipulation and tends to breed, some say, quality of composition, mastery of light and shadow, and attention to detail out of the process (although the argument can be made that using film itself creates an artificial image that is a modification of reality). The traditionalist takes the lessons of the old masters and adopts them as method, needing no other direction, and works within those guidelines indefinitely. The modernist seeks definitions within their own individuality and aspires to evolve their method according to their own direction. Champney, again, offers a clear insight into the conflict —quoting a letter written by the American painter Washington Allston (b.1779, d. 1843) to one of his students, “The old masters are our masters, not to imitate but to get means to enable us to see for ourselves, and impress upon canvas our own thoughts and ideas. Individuality in art is what must be sought for. We must not imitate, but look for the means and skill others have used before us, and adapt the methods to our own development.” The answer, then, would seem to lie in a synthesis of history and individuality—allowing elements of both to combine and create work that may take either a traditional or a modern form but that is relevant to the audience and yet is uplifting for the artist. One must not descend into mere imitation—constant improvement in technique and in rendering the subject matter does not automatically preclude the spirit of creativity and spontaneity; an awareness of the history of the medium does not imply a self-imposed prohibition of evolution or vision. Old masters are no less important to modern art than they are to older forms. Art is neither all-inclusive nor all-exclusive—not all that is said to be art is, and no one style or work can stake its claim above all others; those who would have it one way at the expense of all others have only their own interests at heart.
    For all true dinosaurs, alas, the inevitable doom awaits. Any artist only has so much time, and the same circling buzzards that dog the days of the traditionalist cast their shadows on those of the modernist as well; whether one is left standing by the rush to the future or one wakes one day only to find that another is now the next great new thing that you were only yesterday. Time leaves behind all but the most remarkable works of man. So much the better, for if we are to be remembered at all as creative artists let it be due to our skill and effort, to our persistence, and to our understanding of the debt we owe to the masters upon whose shoulders we stand. If that could be, then no amount of time spent dragging antiquated equipment and sensibilities through the dank wilderness would seem wasted, even for the most hard-headed old dinosaur.