The relationship between the content and
the geometry of a photograph, and the
difficulty of separating them for analysis, has
caused anguish, or at least sustained puzzlement,
in more than a few writers. Roland Barthes,
for example, considered photography more or
less unclassifiable because it “always carries its
referent with itself” and there is “no photograph
without something or someone.”
As a philosophical issue, this applies to
the finished image and to reverse readings of
photographs, but in the context of making a
photograph, matters tend to be simplified by
knowledge of the task at hand. At some point
in the making of almost every photograph, the
photographer knows what the subject should
be and is solving the problem of how best to
make it into an image.
Content is the subject matter, both concrete
(objects, people, scenes, and so on) and abstract
(events, actions, concepts, and emotions). The
role it plays in influencing the design is complex,
because it has a specific attention value. Moreover,
different classes of subject tend to direct the
shooting method, largely for practical reasons. In
news photography, the fact of an event is the crucial
issue, at least for the editors. It is possible to shoot at
a news event and treat it in a different way, perhaps
looking for something more generic or symbolic,
but this then is no longer true news photography.
And if the facts rule the shooting, there is likely
to be less opportunity or reason to experiment
with individual treatments. Strong content, in other
words, tends to call for straight treatment—practical
rather than unusual composition.
Perhaps at this point the following tale from
British photographer George Rodger (1908-
1995), a co-founder of Magnum, would not be
out of place, even though fortunately most of
us will never find ourselves in such an extreme
situation. At the end of the Second World War,
Rodger entered Belsen concentration camp with
Allied troops. He later said, in an interview,
“When I discovered that I could look at the
horror of Belsen—4,000 dead and starving lying
around—and think only of a nice photographic
composition, I knew something had happened
to me and it had to stop.”
Sunday, December 21, 2008
LOOKING AND INTEREST
How people look at images is of fundamental
importance to painters, photographers,
and anyone else who creates those images. The
premise of this book is that the way you compose
a photograph will influence the way in which
someone else looks at it. While this is tacitly
accepted throughout the visual arts, pinpointing
the how and the why of visual attention has been
hampered by lack of information. Traditionally,
art and photography critics have used their
own experience and empathy to divine what
a viewer might or should get out of a picture,
but it is only in the last few decades that this
has been researched. Eye-tracking provides the
experimental evidence for how people look at
a scene or an image, and the groundbreaking
study was by A. L. Yarbus in 1967. In looking
at any scene or image, the eye scans it in fast
jumps, moving from one point of interest to
another. These movements of both eyes together
are known as saccades. One reason for them
is that only the central part of the retina, the
fovea, has high resolution, and a succession of
saccades allows the brain to assemble a total view
in the short-term memory. The eye’s saccadic
movements can be tracked, and the so-called
“scanpath” recorded. If then superimposed on
the view—such as a photograph—it shows how
and in what order a viewer scanned the image.
All of this happens so quickly (saccades last
between 20 and 200 milliseconds) that most
people are unaware of their pattern of looking.
Research, however, shows that there are different
types of looking, depending on what the viewer
expects to get from the experience. There is
spontaneous looking, in which the viewer is “just
looking,” without any particular thing in mind.
The gaze pattern is influenced by such factors as
novelty, complexity, and incongruity. In the case
of a photograph, the eye is attracted to things
that are of interest and to parts of the picture that
contain information useful for making sense out
of it. Visual weight, as we saw on the previous
pages, plays an important role; this is because
spontaneous looking is also influenced by “stored
knowledge,” which includes, among other things,
knowing that eyes and lips tell a great deal about
other people’s moods and attitudes.
A second type of looking is task-relevant
looking, in which the viewer sets out to look for
something or gain specific information from
an image or scene. In looking at a photograph,
we can assume that the viewer is doing this
by choice, and probably for some kind of
pleasure or entertainment (or in the hope that
the photograph will deliver this). This is an
important starting condition. Next come the
viewer’s expectations. For instance, if he or
she sees at first glance that there is something
unusual or unexplained about the image, this is
likely to cause a gaze pattern that is searching for
information that will explain the circumstances.
The classic study was by Yarbus in 1967, in which
a picture of a visitor arriving in a living room
was shown first without any instructions, and
then with six different prior questions, including
estimating the ages of the people in the image.
The very different scanpaths showed how the
task influenced the looking.
Other research in this area shows that most
people tend to agree on what are the most
informative parts of a picture, but that this is always
tempered by individual experience (personal stored
knowledge makes scanpaths idiosyncratic). Also,
most painters and photographers believe that they
can in some way control the way that other people
view their work (this is, after all, the entire theme of
this book), and research backs this up, in particular
an experiment (Hansen & Støvring, 1988) in
which an artist explained how he intended viewers
to look at the work and subsequent eye-tracking
proved him largely correct. Another experiment
with interesting potential is that the scanpath that
emerges at first viewing occupies about 30% of the
viewing time, and that most viewers then repeat
it—re-scanning the same way rather than using
the time to explore other parts of the picture. In
other words, most people decide quite quickly
what they think is important and/or interesting
in an image, and go on looking at those parts.
importance to painters, photographers,
and anyone else who creates those images. The
premise of this book is that the way you compose
a photograph will influence the way in which
someone else looks at it. While this is tacitly
accepted throughout the visual arts, pinpointing
the how and the why of visual attention has been
hampered by lack of information. Traditionally,
art and photography critics have used their
own experience and empathy to divine what
a viewer might or should get out of a picture,
but it is only in the last few decades that this
has been researched. Eye-tracking provides the
experimental evidence for how people look at
a scene or an image, and the groundbreaking
study was by A. L. Yarbus in 1967. In looking
at any scene or image, the eye scans it in fast
jumps, moving from one point of interest to
another. These movements of both eyes together
are known as saccades. One reason for them
is that only the central part of the retina, the
fovea, has high resolution, and a succession of
saccades allows the brain to assemble a total view
in the short-term memory. The eye’s saccadic
movements can be tracked, and the so-called
“scanpath” recorded. If then superimposed on
the view—such as a photograph—it shows how
and in what order a viewer scanned the image.
All of this happens so quickly (saccades last
between 20 and 200 milliseconds) that most
people are unaware of their pattern of looking.
Research, however, shows that there are different
types of looking, depending on what the viewer
expects to get from the experience. There is
spontaneous looking, in which the viewer is “just
looking,” without any particular thing in mind.
The gaze pattern is influenced by such factors as
novelty, complexity, and incongruity. In the case
of a photograph, the eye is attracted to things
that are of interest and to parts of the picture that
contain information useful for making sense out
of it. Visual weight, as we saw on the previous
pages, plays an important role; this is because
spontaneous looking is also influenced by “stored
knowledge,” which includes, among other things,
knowing that eyes and lips tell a great deal about
other people’s moods and attitudes.
A second type of looking is task-relevant
looking, in which the viewer sets out to look for
something or gain specific information from
an image or scene. In looking at a photograph,
we can assume that the viewer is doing this
by choice, and probably for some kind of
pleasure or entertainment (or in the hope that
the photograph will deliver this). This is an
important starting condition. Next come the
viewer’s expectations. For instance, if he or
she sees at first glance that there is something
unusual or unexplained about the image, this is
likely to cause a gaze pattern that is searching for
information that will explain the circumstances.
The classic study was by Yarbus in 1967, in which
a picture of a visitor arriving in a living room
was shown first without any instructions, and
then with six different prior questions, including
estimating the ages of the people in the image.
The very different scanpaths showed how the
task influenced the looking.
Other research in this area shows that most
people tend to agree on what are the most
informative parts of a picture, but that this is always
tempered by individual experience (personal stored
knowledge makes scanpaths idiosyncratic). Also,
most painters and photographers believe that they
can in some way control the way that other people
view their work (this is, after all, the entire theme of
this book), and research backs this up, in particular
an experiment (Hansen & Støvring, 1988) in
which an artist explained how he intended viewers
to look at the work and subsequent eye-tracking
proved him largely correct. Another experiment
with interesting potential is that the scanpath that
emerges at first viewing occupies about 30% of the
viewing time, and that most viewers then repeat
it—re-scanning the same way rather than using
the time to explore other parts of the picture. In
other words, most people decide quite quickly
what they think is important and/or interesting
in an image, and go on looking at those parts.
VISUAL WEIGHT
So obvious as to be a truism is that we look
most at what interests us. This means that
as we start to look at anything, whether a real
scene or an image, we bring to the task “stored
knowledge” that we have accumulated from
experience. Recent research in perception
confirms this; Deutsch and Deutsch (1963)
proposed “importance weightings” as a main
factor in visual attention. This is crucial in
deciding how photographs will be looked
at, because in addition to the composition,
certain kinds of content will do more than
others to attract the eye. Of course, filtering
out idiosyncrasy is difficult, to say the least, but
there are some useful generalizations. Certain
subjects will tend to attract people more than
others, either because we have learned to expect
more information from them or because
they appeal to our emotions or desires.
The most common high-attractant subjects
are the key parts of the human face, especially
the eyes and mouth, almost certainly because this
is where we derive most of our information for
deciding how someone will react. In fact, research
into the nervous system has shown that there are
specific brain modules for recognizing faces, and
others for recognizing hands—clear proof of how
important these subjects are visually.
Another class of subject that attracts the
eye with a high weighting is writing—again,
something of obvious high-information value.
In street photography, for example, signs and
billboards have a tendency to divert attention,
and the meaning of the words can add another
level of interest—consider a word intended to
shock, as is sometimes used in advertising. Even
if the language is unknown to the viewer (for
example, the image on page 42 for any non-
Chinese speaker), it still appears to command
attention. Ansel Adams, on the subject of a
photograph of Chinese grave markers, wrote,
“Inscriptions in a foreign language can have
a direct aesthetic quality, unmodified by the
imposition of meaning,” but the very fact
that they had any visual quality was because
they represented a language.
As well as these “informational” subjects,
there is an even wider and harder-to-define class
that appeals to the emotions. These include sexual
attraction (erotic and pornographic images),
cuteness (baby animals and pets, for example),
horror (scenes of death and violence), disgust,
fashion, desirable goods, and novelty. Reactions
in this class depend more on the individual
interests of the viewer.
There is no way of accurately balancing
all of these weightings, but on an intuitive level
it is fairly easy, as long as the photographer is
conscious of the various degrees of attraction.
All of this content-based weighting also has to be
set against the complex ways in which the form
of the image—the graphic elements and colors—
directs attention.
most at what interests us. This means that
as we start to look at anything, whether a real
scene or an image, we bring to the task “stored
knowledge” that we have accumulated from
experience. Recent research in perception
confirms this; Deutsch and Deutsch (1963)
proposed “importance weightings” as a main
factor in visual attention. This is crucial in
deciding how photographs will be looked
at, because in addition to the composition,
certain kinds of content will do more than
others to attract the eye. Of course, filtering
out idiosyncrasy is difficult, to say the least, but
there are some useful generalizations. Certain
subjects will tend to attract people more than
others, either because we have learned to expect
more information from them or because
they appeal to our emotions or desires.
The most common high-attractant subjects
are the key parts of the human face, especially
the eyes and mouth, almost certainly because this
is where we derive most of our information for
deciding how someone will react. In fact, research
into the nervous system has shown that there are
specific brain modules for recognizing faces, and
others for recognizing hands—clear proof of how
important these subjects are visually.
Another class of subject that attracts the
eye with a high weighting is writing—again,
something of obvious high-information value.
In street photography, for example, signs and
billboards have a tendency to divert attention,
and the meaning of the words can add another
level of interest—consider a word intended to
shock, as is sometimes used in advertising. Even
if the language is unknown to the viewer (for
example, the image on page 42 for any non-
Chinese speaker), it still appears to command
attention. Ansel Adams, on the subject of a
photograph of Chinese grave markers, wrote,
“Inscriptions in a foreign language can have
a direct aesthetic quality, unmodified by the
imposition of meaning,” but the very fact
that they had any visual quality was because
they represented a language.
As well as these “informational” subjects,
there is an even wider and harder-to-define class
that appeals to the emotions. These include sexual
attraction (erotic and pornographic images),
cuteness (baby animals and pets, for example),
horror (scenes of death and violence), disgust,
fashion, desirable goods, and novelty. Reactions
in this class depend more on the individual
interests of the viewer.
There is no way of accurately balancing
all of these weightings, but on an intuitive level
it is fairly easy, as long as the photographer is
conscious of the various degrees of attraction.
All of this content-based weighting also has to be
set against the complex ways in which the form
of the image—the graphic elements and colors—
directs attention.
PERSPECTIVE AND DEPTH
One of the paradoxes of vision is that while
the image projected onto the retina obeys
the laws of optics and shows distant objects
smaller than nearer ones, the brain, given
sufficient clues, knows their proper size. And, in
one view, the brain accepts both realities—distant
objects that are small and full-scale at the same
time. The same thing happens with linear
perspective. The parallel sides of a road stretching
away from us converge optically but at the same
time are perceived as straight and parallel. The
explanation for this is known as “constancy
scaling” or “scale constancy,” a little-understood
perceptual mechanism that allows the mind to
resolve the inconsistencies of depth. Its impact on
photography is that the recorded image is purely
optical, so that distant objects appear only small,
and parallel lines do converge. As in painting,
photography has to pursue various strategies to
enhance or reduce the sense of depth, and images
work within their own frame of reference, not
that of normal perception.
Photography’s constant relationship with
real scenes makes the sense of depth in a picture
always important, and this in turn influences
the realism of the photograph. In its broadest
sense, perspective is the appearance of objects in
space, and their relationships to each other and
the viewer. More usually, in photography it is
used to describe the intensity of the impression
of depth. The various types of perspective and
other depth controls will be described in a
moment, but before this we ought to consider
how to use them, and why. Given the ability
to make a difference to the perspective, under
what conditions will it help the photograph to
enhance, or to diminish, the sense of depth?
A heightened sense of depth through strong
perspective tends to improve the viewer’s sense
of being there in front of a real scene. It makes
more of the representational qualities of the
subject, and less of the graphic structure.
The following types of perspective contain
the main variables that affect our sense of depth
in a photograph. Which ones dominate depends
on the situation, as does the influence that the
photographer has over them.
LINEAR PERSPECTIVE
In two-dimensional imagery, this is, overall, the
most prominent type of perspective effect. Linear
perspective is characterized by converging lines.
These lines are, in most scenes, actually parallel,
like the edges of a road and the top and bottom
of a wall, but if they recede from the camera,
they appear to converge toward one or more
vanishing points. If they continue in the image
for a sufficient distance, they do actually meet at
a real point. If the camera is level, and the view is
a landscape, the horizontal lines will converge on
the horizon. If the camera is pointed upward, the
vertical lines, such as the sides of a building, will
converge toward some unspecified part of the sky;
visually, this is more difficult for most people to
accept as a normal image.
In the process of convergence, all or most
of the lines become diagonal, and this, as we’ll
see on pages 76-77, induces visual tension and
a sense of movement. The movement itself adds
to the perception of depth, along lines that
carry the eye into and out of the scene. By
association, therefore, diagonal lines of all kinds
contain a suggestion of depth, and this includes
shadows which, if seen obliquely, can appear as
lines. So a direct sun, particularly if low in the
sky, will enhance perspective if the shadows it
casts fall diagonally. Viewpoint determines the
degree of convergence, and the more acute the
angle of view to the surface, the greater this is—
at least until the camera is close to ground level,
at which point the convergence becomes extreme
enough to disappear.
The focal length of lens is another important
factor in linear perspective. Of two lenses aimed
appropriate place in the scene, it helps to establish
perspective. Also associated with diminishing
perspective are placement (things in the lower
part of the picture are, through familiarity,
assumed to be in the foreground) and overlap
(if the outline of one object overlaps another,
it is assumed to be the one in front).
directly towards the vanishing point of a scene,
the wide-angle lens will show more of the
diagonals in the foreground, and these will tend
to dominate the structure of the image more.
Hence, wide-angle lenses have a propensity to
enhance linear perspective, while telephoto lenses
tend to flatten it.
DIMINISHING PERSPECTIVE
This is related to linear perspective, and is in
fact a form of it. Imagine a row of identical
trees lining a road. A view along the road would
produce the familiar convergence in the line
of trees, but individually they will appear to
be successively smaller. This is diminishing
perspective, and works most effectively with
identical or similar objects at different distances.
For similar reasons, anything of recognizable
size will give a standard of scale; in the
appropriate place in the scene, it helps to establish
perspective. Also associated with diminishing
perspective are placement (things in the lower
part of the picture are, through familiarity,
assumed to be in the foreground) and overlap
(if the outline of one object overlaps another,
it is assumed to be the one in front).
AERIAL PERSPECTIVE
Atmospheric haze acts as a filter, reducing the
contrast in distant parts of a scene and lightening
their tone. Our familiarity with this effect (pale
horizons, for example), enables our eyes to use
it as a clue to depth. Hazy, misty scenes appear
deeper than they really are because of their strong
aerial perspective. It can be enhanced by using
backlighting, as in the example below, and by
not using filters (such as those designed to cut
ultraviolet radiation) that reduce haze. Telephoto
lenses tend to show more aerial perspective than
wide-angle lenses if used on different subjects,
because they show less of nearby things that have
little haze between them and the camera. Favoring
the blue channel when using channel mixing to
convert an RGB digital image to black and white
also accentuates the effect.
TONAL PERSPECTIVE
Apart from the lightening effect that haze has on
distant things, light tones appear to advance and
dark tones recede. So, a light object against a dark
background will normally stand forward, with a
strong sense of depth. This can be controlled by
placing subjects carefully, or by lighting. Doing
the reverse, as we saw on pages 46-47, creates a
figure-ground ambiguity.
COLOR PERSPECTIVE
Warm colors tend to advance perceptually and
cool colors recede. Other factors apart, therefore,
a red or orange subject against a green or blue
background will have a sense of depth for purely
optical reasons. Again, appropriate positioning
can be used as a control. The more intense the
colors, the stronger the effect, but if there is a
difference in intensity, it should be in favour of
the foreground.
the image projected onto the retina obeys
the laws of optics and shows distant objects
smaller than nearer ones, the brain, given
sufficient clues, knows their proper size. And, in
one view, the brain accepts both realities—distant
objects that are small and full-scale at the same
time. The same thing happens with linear
perspective. The parallel sides of a road stretching
away from us converge optically but at the same
time are perceived as straight and parallel. The
explanation for this is known as “constancy
scaling” or “scale constancy,” a little-understood
perceptual mechanism that allows the mind to
resolve the inconsistencies of depth. Its impact on
photography is that the recorded image is purely
optical, so that distant objects appear only small,
and parallel lines do converge. As in painting,
photography has to pursue various strategies to
enhance or reduce the sense of depth, and images
work within their own frame of reference, not
that of normal perception.
Photography’s constant relationship with
real scenes makes the sense of depth in a picture
always important, and this in turn influences
the realism of the photograph. In its broadest
sense, perspective is the appearance of objects in
space, and their relationships to each other and
the viewer. More usually, in photography it is
used to describe the intensity of the impression
of depth. The various types of perspective and
other depth controls will be described in a
moment, but before this we ought to consider
how to use them, and why. Given the ability
to make a difference to the perspective, under
what conditions will it help the photograph to
enhance, or to diminish, the sense of depth?
A heightened sense of depth through strong
perspective tends to improve the viewer’s sense
of being there in front of a real scene. It makes
more of the representational qualities of the
subject, and less of the graphic structure.
The following types of perspective contain
the main variables that affect our sense of depth
in a photograph. Which ones dominate depends
on the situation, as does the influence that the
photographer has over them.
LINEAR PERSPECTIVE
In two-dimensional imagery, this is, overall, the
most prominent type of perspective effect. Linear
perspective is characterized by converging lines.
These lines are, in most scenes, actually parallel,
like the edges of a road and the top and bottom
of a wall, but if they recede from the camera,
they appear to converge toward one or more
vanishing points. If they continue in the image
for a sufficient distance, they do actually meet at
a real point. If the camera is level, and the view is
a landscape, the horizontal lines will converge on
the horizon. If the camera is pointed upward, the
vertical lines, such as the sides of a building, will
converge toward some unspecified part of the sky;
visually, this is more difficult for most people to
accept as a normal image.
In the process of convergence, all or most
of the lines become diagonal, and this, as we’ll
see on pages 76-77, induces visual tension and
a sense of movement. The movement itself adds
to the perception of depth, along lines that
carry the eye into and out of the scene. By
association, therefore, diagonal lines of all kinds
contain a suggestion of depth, and this includes
shadows which, if seen obliquely, can appear as
lines. So a direct sun, particularly if low in the
sky, will enhance perspective if the shadows it
casts fall diagonally. Viewpoint determines the
degree of convergence, and the more acute the
angle of view to the surface, the greater this is—
at least until the camera is close to ground level,
at which point the convergence becomes extreme
enough to disappear.
The focal length of lens is another important
factor in linear perspective. Of two lenses aimed
appropriate place in the scene, it helps to establish
perspective. Also associated with diminishing
perspective are placement (things in the lower
part of the picture are, through familiarity,
assumed to be in the foreground) and overlap
(if the outline of one object overlaps another,
it is assumed to be the one in front).
directly towards the vanishing point of a scene,
the wide-angle lens will show more of the
diagonals in the foreground, and these will tend
to dominate the structure of the image more.
Hence, wide-angle lenses have a propensity to
enhance linear perspective, while telephoto lenses
tend to flatten it.
DIMINISHING PERSPECTIVE
This is related to linear perspective, and is in
fact a form of it. Imagine a row of identical
trees lining a road. A view along the road would
produce the familiar convergence in the line
of trees, but individually they will appear to
be successively smaller. This is diminishing
perspective, and works most effectively with
identical or similar objects at different distances.
For similar reasons, anything of recognizable
size will give a standard of scale; in the
appropriate place in the scene, it helps to establish
perspective. Also associated with diminishing
perspective are placement (things in the lower
part of the picture are, through familiarity,
assumed to be in the foreground) and overlap
(if the outline of one object overlaps another,
it is assumed to be the one in front).
AERIAL PERSPECTIVE
Atmospheric haze acts as a filter, reducing the
contrast in distant parts of a scene and lightening
their tone. Our familiarity with this effect (pale
horizons, for example), enables our eyes to use
it as a clue to depth. Hazy, misty scenes appear
deeper than they really are because of their strong
aerial perspective. It can be enhanced by using
backlighting, as in the example below, and by
not using filters (such as those designed to cut
ultraviolet radiation) that reduce haze. Telephoto
lenses tend to show more aerial perspective than
wide-angle lenses if used on different subjects,
because they show less of nearby things that have
little haze between them and the camera. Favoring
the blue channel when using channel mixing to
convert an RGB digital image to black and white
also accentuates the effect.
TONAL PERSPECTIVE
Apart from the lightening effect that haze has on
distant things, light tones appear to advance and
dark tones recede. So, a light object against a dark
background will normally stand forward, with a
strong sense of depth. This can be controlled by
placing subjects carefully, or by lighting. Doing
the reverse, as we saw on pages 46-47, creates a
figure-ground ambiguity.
COLOR PERSPECTIVE
Warm colors tend to advance perceptually and
cool colors recede. Other factors apart, therefore,
a red or orange subject against a green or blue
background will have a sense of depth for purely
optical reasons. Again, appropriate positioning
can be used as a control. The more intense the
colors, the stronger the effect, but if there is a
difference in intensity, it should be in favour of
the foreground.
PATTERN, TEXTURE, MANY
ike rhythm, pattern is built on repetition,
but unlike rhythm it is associated with area,
not direction. A pattern does not encourage the
eye to move in a particular way, but rather to
roam across the surface of the picture. It has at
least an element of homogeneity, and, as a result,
something of a static nature.
The prime quality of a pattern is that it covers
an area, thus the photographs that show the
strongest pattern are those in which it extends
right to the edges of the frame. Then, as with
an edge-to-edge rhythm, the phenomenon of
continuation occurs, and the eye assumes that
the pattern extends beyond. The photograph
of the bicycle saddles illustrates this. In other
words, showing any border at all to the pattern
establishes limits; if none can be seen, the image
is take to be a part of a larger area.
At the same time, the larger the number of
elements that can be seen in the picture, the more
there is a sense of pattern than of a group of
individual objects. This operates up to a quantity
at which the individual elements become difficult
to distinguish and so become more of a texture.
In terms of the number of elements, the effective
limits lie between about ten and several hundred,
and a useful exercise when faced with a mass of
similar objects is to start at a distance (or with
a focal length) that takes in the entire group,
making sure that they reach the frame edges,
and then take successive photographs, closing in,
ending with just four or five of the units. Within
this sequence of images there will be one or two
in which the pattern effect is strongest. Pattern,
in other words, also depends on scale.
A pattern seen at a sufficiently large scale
takes on the appearance of texture. Texture is
the primary quality of a surface. The structure
of an object is its form, whereas the structure of
the material from which it is made is its texture.
Like pattern, it is determined by scale. The
texture of a piece of sandstone is the roughness
of the individual compacted grains, a fraction
of a millimeter across. Then think of the same
sandstone as part of a cliff; the cliff face is now
the surface, and the texture is on a much larger
scale, the cracks and ridges of the rock. Finally,
think of a chain of mountains that contains this
cliff face. A satellite picture shows even the largest
mountains as wrinkles on the surface of the earth:
its texture. This kind of repeating scale of texture
is related to fractal geometry.
Texture is a quality of structure rather than
of tone or color, and so appeals principally to
the sense of touch. Even if we cannot physically
reach out and touch it, its appearance works
through this sensory channel. This explains why
texture is revealed through lighting—at a small
scale, only this throws up relief. Specifically, the
direction and quality of the lighting are therefore
important. Relief, and thus texture, appears
strongest when the lighting is oblique, and when
the light is hard rather than soft and diffuse.
These conditions combine to create the sharpest
shadows thrown by each element in the texture,
whether it is the weave in a fabric, the wrinkles
in leather, or the grain in wood. As a rule, the
finer the texture, the more oblique and hard the
lighting it needs to be seen clearly—except that
the smoothest of all surfaces are reflective,
such as polished metal, and texture is replaced
by reflection (see page 124).
Related to pattern and texture, but with
content playing a stronger role, is the idea
of many, as in a crowd of people or a large
shoal of fish. The appeal of huge numbers
of similar things lies often in the surprise of
seeing so many of them in one place and at
one time. The view of the Kaaba in Mecca,
seen from one of the minarets, for example,
is said to take in at least a million people, and
this fact is itself remarkable. Large numbers
congregating usually constitutes an event.
Framing to within the edges of the mass allows
the eye to believe that it continues indefinitely.vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
but unlike rhythm it is associated with area,
not direction. A pattern does not encourage the
eye to move in a particular way, but rather to
roam across the surface of the picture. It has at
least an element of homogeneity, and, as a result,
something of a static nature.
The prime quality of a pattern is that it covers
an area, thus the photographs that show the
strongest pattern are those in which it extends
right to the edges of the frame. Then, as with
an edge-to-edge rhythm, the phenomenon of
continuation occurs, and the eye assumes that
the pattern extends beyond. The photograph
of the bicycle saddles illustrates this. In other
words, showing any border at all to the pattern
establishes limits; if none can be seen, the image
is take to be a part of a larger area.
At the same time, the larger the number of
elements that can be seen in the picture, the more
there is a sense of pattern than of a group of
individual objects. This operates up to a quantity
at which the individual elements become difficult
to distinguish and so become more of a texture.
In terms of the number of elements, the effective
limits lie between about ten and several hundred,
and a useful exercise when faced with a mass of
similar objects is to start at a distance (or with
a focal length) that takes in the entire group,
making sure that they reach the frame edges,
and then take successive photographs, closing in,
ending with just four or five of the units. Within
this sequence of images there will be one or two
in which the pattern effect is strongest. Pattern,
in other words, also depends on scale.
A pattern seen at a sufficiently large scale
takes on the appearance of texture. Texture is
the primary quality of a surface. The structure
of an object is its form, whereas the structure of
the material from which it is made is its texture.
Like pattern, it is determined by scale. The
texture of a piece of sandstone is the roughness
of the individual compacted grains, a fraction
of a millimeter across. Then think of the same
sandstone as part of a cliff; the cliff face is now
the surface, and the texture is on a much larger
scale, the cracks and ridges of the rock. Finally,
think of a chain of mountains that contains this
cliff face. A satellite picture shows even the largest
mountains as wrinkles on the surface of the earth:
its texture. This kind of repeating scale of texture
is related to fractal geometry.
Texture is a quality of structure rather than
of tone or color, and so appeals principally to
the sense of touch. Even if we cannot physically
reach out and touch it, its appearance works
through this sensory channel. This explains why
texture is revealed through lighting—at a small
scale, only this throws up relief. Specifically, the
direction and quality of the lighting are therefore
important. Relief, and thus texture, appears
strongest when the lighting is oblique, and when
the light is hard rather than soft and diffuse.
These conditions combine to create the sharpest
shadows thrown by each element in the texture,
whether it is the weave in a fabric, the wrinkles
in leather, or the grain in wood. As a rule, the
finer the texture, the more oblique and hard the
lighting it needs to be seen clearly—except that
the smoothest of all surfaces are reflective,
such as polished metal, and texture is replaced
by reflection (see page 124).
Related to pattern and texture, but with
content playing a stronger role, is the idea
of many, as in a crowd of people or a large
shoal of fish. The appeal of huge numbers
of similar things lies often in the surprise of
seeing so many of them in one place and at
one time. The view of the Kaaba in Mecca,
seen from one of the minarets, for example,
is said to take in at least a million people, and
this fact is itself remarkable. Large numbers
congregating usually constitutes an event.
Framing to within the edges of the mass allows
the eye to believe that it continues indefinitely.vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
RHYTHM
hen there are several similar elements in
a scene, their arrangement may, under
special conditions, set up a rhythmic visual
structure. Repetition is a necessary ingredient, but
this alone does not guarantee a sense of rhythm.
There is an obvious musical analogy, and it makes
considerable sense. Like the beat in a piece of
music, the optical beat in a picture can vary from
being completely regular to variations similar to,
for instance, syncopation.
Rhythm in a picture needs time and the
movement of the eye to be appreciated. The
dimensions of the frame, therefore, set some limits,
so that what can be seen is not much more than
a rhythmical phrase. However, the eye and mind
are naturally adept at extending what they see (the
Gestalt Law of Good Continuation), and—in a
photograph such as that of the row of soldiers on
page 183— readily assume the continuation of the
rhythm. In this way, a repeating flow of images is
perceived as being longer than can actually be seen.
Rhythm is a feature of the way the eye scans the
picture as much as of the repetition. It is strongest
when each cycle in the beat encourages the eye
to move (just as in the example to the right). The
natural tendency of the eye to move from side to
side (see pages 12-15) is particularly evident here, as
rhythm needs direction and flow in order to come
alive. The rhythmical movement is therefore usually
up and down, as vertical rhythm is much less easily
perceived. Rhythm produces considerable strength
in an image, as it does in music. It has momentum,
and because of this, a sense of continuation. Once
the eye has recognized the repetition, the viewer
assumes that the repetition will continue beyond
the frame.
Rhythm is also a feature of repetitive
action, and this has real practical significance in
photographing work and similar activity. In the
main picture opposite, of Indian farmers in the
countryside near Madras winnowing rice, the
potential soon became apparent. The first picture
in the sequence is uninteresting but shows the
situation. The individual action was to scoop rice
into the basket and hold it high, tipping it gently
so that the breeze would separate the rice from
the chaff. Each person worked independently,
but inevitably two or more would be in the same
position at the same time. It was then a matter of
waiting for the moment in which three were in
unison, and finding a viewpoint that would align
them so that the rhythm has maximum graphic
effect. These things are never certain—someone
could simply stop work—but the possibility in a
situation like this is high.
a scene, their arrangement may, under
special conditions, set up a rhythmic visual
structure. Repetition is a necessary ingredient, but
this alone does not guarantee a sense of rhythm.
There is an obvious musical analogy, and it makes
considerable sense. Like the beat in a piece of
music, the optical beat in a picture can vary from
being completely regular to variations similar to,
for instance, syncopation.
Rhythm in a picture needs time and the
movement of the eye to be appreciated. The
dimensions of the frame, therefore, set some limits,
so that what can be seen is not much more than
a rhythmical phrase. However, the eye and mind
are naturally adept at extending what they see (the
Gestalt Law of Good Continuation), and—in a
photograph such as that of the row of soldiers on
page 183— readily assume the continuation of the
rhythm. In this way, a repeating flow of images is
perceived as being longer than can actually be seen.
Rhythm is a feature of the way the eye scans the
picture as much as of the repetition. It is strongest
when each cycle in the beat encourages the eye
to move (just as in the example to the right). The
natural tendency of the eye to move from side to
side (see pages 12-15) is particularly evident here, as
rhythm needs direction and flow in order to come
alive. The rhythmical movement is therefore usually
up and down, as vertical rhythm is much less easily
perceived. Rhythm produces considerable strength
in an image, as it does in music. It has momentum,
and because of this, a sense of continuation. Once
the eye has recognized the repetition, the viewer
assumes that the repetition will continue beyond
the frame.
Rhythm is also a feature of repetitive
action, and this has real practical significance in
photographing work and similar activity. In the
main picture opposite, of Indian farmers in the
countryside near Madras winnowing rice, the
potential soon became apparent. The first picture
in the sequence is uninteresting but shows the
situation. The individual action was to scoop rice
into the basket and hold it high, tipping it gently
so that the breeze would separate the rice from
the chaff. Each person worked independently,
but inevitably two or more would be in the same
position at the same time. It was then a matter of
waiting for the moment in which three were in
unison, and finding a viewpoint that would align
them so that the rhythm has maximum graphic
effect. These things are never certain—someone
could simply stop work—but the possibility in a
situation like this is high.
FIGURE AND GROUND
we are conditioned to accepting the idea
of a background. In other words, from
our normal visual experience, we assume that
in most scenes that is something that we look at
(the subject), and there is a setting against which
it stands or lies (the background). One stands
forward, the other recedes. One is important, and
the reason for taking a photograph; the other is
just there because something has to occupy the
rest of the frame. As we saw, this is an essential
principle of Gestalt theory.
In most picture situations, that is essentially
true. We select something as the purpose of the
image, and it is more often than not a discrete
object or group of objects. It may be a person,
a still-life, a group of buildings, a part of
something. What is behind the focus of interest
is the background, and in many well-designed
and satisfying images, it complements the subject.
Often, we already know what the subject is
before the photography begins. The main point
of interest has been decided on: a human figure,
perhaps, or a horse, or a car. If it is possible to
control the circumstances of the picture, the
next decision may well be to choose the
background: that is, to decide which of the
locally available settings will show off the
subject to its best advantage. This occurs so
often, as you can see from a casual glance at
most of the pictures in this book, that it
scarcely even merits mention.
There are, however, circumstances when
the photographer can choose which of two
components in a view is to be the figure and
which is to be the ground against which the
figure is seen. This opportunity occurs when
there is some ambiguity in the image, and it helps
to have a minimum of realistic detail. In this
respect, photography is at an initial disadvantage
to illustration, because it is hard to remove the
inherent realism in a photograph. In particular,
the viewer knows that the image is of something
real, and so the eye searches for clues.
Some of the purest examples of ambiguous
figure/ground relationships are in Japanese and
Chinese calligraphy, in which the white spaces
between the brush strokes are just as active
and coherent as the black characters. When
the ambiguity is greatest, an alternation of
perception occurs. At one moment the dark tones
advance, at another they recede. Two interlinked
images fluctuate backwards and forwards. The
preconditions for this are fairly simple. There
should be two tones in the image, and they should
contrast as much as possible. The two areas
should be as equal as possible. Finally, there
should be limited clues in the content of
the picture as to what is in front of what.
The point of importance here is not how to
make illusory photographs, but how to use or
remove ambiguity in the relationship between
subject and background. The two examples
shown here, both silhouettes, use the same
technique as the calligraphy: the real background
is lighter than the real subject, which tends to
make it move forward; the areas are nearly equal;
the shapes are not completely obvious at first
glance. The shapes are, however, recognizable,
even if only after a moment’s study. The figure/
ground ambiguity is used, not as an attempt to
create and abstract illusion, but to add some
optical tension and interest to the images.
of a background. In other words, from
our normal visual experience, we assume that
in most scenes that is something that we look at
(the subject), and there is a setting against which
it stands or lies (the background). One stands
forward, the other recedes. One is important, and
the reason for taking a photograph; the other is
just there because something has to occupy the
rest of the frame. As we saw, this is an essential
principle of Gestalt theory.
In most picture situations, that is essentially
true. We select something as the purpose of the
image, and it is more often than not a discrete
object or group of objects. It may be a person,
a still-life, a group of buildings, a part of
something. What is behind the focus of interest
is the background, and in many well-designed
and satisfying images, it complements the subject.
Often, we already know what the subject is
before the photography begins. The main point
of interest has been decided on: a human figure,
perhaps, or a horse, or a car. If it is possible to
control the circumstances of the picture, the
next decision may well be to choose the
background: that is, to decide which of the
locally available settings will show off the
subject to its best advantage. This occurs so
often, as you can see from a casual glance at
most of the pictures in this book, that it
scarcely even merits mention.
There are, however, circumstances when
the photographer can choose which of two
components in a view is to be the figure and
which is to be the ground against which the
figure is seen. This opportunity occurs when
there is some ambiguity in the image, and it helps
to have a minimum of realistic detail. In this
respect, photography is at an initial disadvantage
to illustration, because it is hard to remove the
inherent realism in a photograph. In particular,
the viewer knows that the image is of something
real, and so the eye searches for clues.
Some of the purest examples of ambiguous
figure/ground relationships are in Japanese and
Chinese calligraphy, in which the white spaces
between the brush strokes are just as active
and coherent as the black characters. When
the ambiguity is greatest, an alternation of
perception occurs. At one moment the dark tones
advance, at another they recede. Two interlinked
images fluctuate backwards and forwards. The
preconditions for this are fairly simple. There
should be two tones in the image, and they should
contrast as much as possible. The two areas
should be as equal as possible. Finally, there
should be limited clues in the content of
the picture as to what is in front of what.
The point of importance here is not how to
make illusory photographs, but how to use or
remove ambiguity in the relationship between
subject and background. The two examples
shown here, both silhouettes, use the same
technique as the calligraphy: the real background
is lighter than the real subject, which tends to
make it move forward; the areas are nearly equal;
the shapes are not completely obvious at first
glance. The shapes are, however, recognizable,
even if only after a moment’s study. The figure/
ground ambiguity is used, not as an attempt to
create and abstract illusion, but to add some
optical tension and interest to the images.
DYNAMIC TENSION
e have already seen how certain of the
basic graphic elements have more energy
than others: diagonals, for instance. Some design
constructions are also more dynamic; rhythm
creates momentum and activity, and eccentric
placement of objects induces tension as the eye
attempts to create its own balance. However,
rather than think of an image as balanced or
unbalanced, we can consider it in terms of its
dynamic tension. This is essentially making use
of the energy inherent in various structures, and
using it to keep the eye alert and moving outward
from the center of the picture. It is the opposite of
the static character of formal compositions.
Some caution is necessary, simply because
introducing dynamic tension into a picture seems
such an easy and immediate way of attracting
attention. Just as the use of rich, vibrant colors
is instantly effective in an individual photograph
but can become mannered if used constantly, so
this kind of activation can also become wearing
after a while. As with any design technique that
is strong and obvious when first seen, it tends to
lack staying power. Its effect is usually spent very
quickly, and the eye moves on to the next image.
The techniques for achieving dynamic
tension are, however, fairly straightforward, as
the examples here show. While not trying to
reduce it to a formula, the ideal combination
is a variety of diagonals in different directions,
opposed lines, and any structural device
that leads the eye outward, preferably in
competing directions.
basic graphic elements have more energy
than others: diagonals, for instance. Some design
constructions are also more dynamic; rhythm
creates momentum and activity, and eccentric
placement of objects induces tension as the eye
attempts to create its own balance. However,
rather than think of an image as balanced or
unbalanced, we can consider it in terms of its
dynamic tension. This is essentially making use
of the energy inherent in various structures, and
using it to keep the eye alert and moving outward
from the center of the picture. It is the opposite of
the static character of formal compositions.
Some caution is necessary, simply because
introducing dynamic tension into a picture seems
such an easy and immediate way of attracting
attention. Just as the use of rich, vibrant colors
is instantly effective in an individual photograph
but can become mannered if used constantly, so
this kind of activation can also become wearing
after a while. As with any design technique that
is strong and obvious when first seen, it tends to
lack staying power. Its effect is usually spent very
quickly, and the eye moves on to the next image.
The techniques for achieving dynamic
tension are, however, fairly straightforward, as
the examples here show. While not trying to
reduce it to a formula, the ideal combination
is a variety of diagonals in different directions,
opposed lines, and any structural device
that leads the eye outward, preferably in
competing directions.
BALANCE
t the heart of composition lies the concept
of balance. Balance is the resolution of
tension, opposing forces that are matched to
provide equilibrium and a sense of harmony. It is
a fundamental principle of visual perception that
the eye seeks to balance one force with another.
Balance is harmony, resolution, a condition that
intuitively seems aesthetically pleasing. In this
context, balance can refer to any of the graphic
elements in a picture (in Chapter 3 we will review
each of these in turn).
If we consider two strong points in a picture,
for example, the center of the frame becomes
a reference against which we see their position.
If one diagonal line in another image creates a
strong sense of movement in one direction, the
eye is aware of the need for an opposite sense of
movement. In color relationships, successive and
simultaneous contrasts demonstrate that the eye
will seek to provide its own complementary hues.
When talking about the balance of forces
in a picture, the usual analogies tend to be ones
drawn from the physical world: gravity, levers,
weights, and fulcrums. These are quite reasonable
analogies to use, because the eye and mind have
a real, objective response to balance that works in
a very similar way to the laws of mechanics. We
can develop the physical analogies more literally
by thinking of an image as a surface balanced at
one point, rather like a weighing scale. If we add
anything to one side of the image—that is, offcenter—
it becomes unbalanced, and we feel the
need to correct this. It does not matter whether
we are talking about masses of tone, color, an
arrangement of points, or whatever. The aim is
to find the visual “center of gravity.”
Considered in this way, there are two distinct
kinds of balance. One is symmetrical or static;
the other is dynamic. In symmetrical balance, the
arrangement of forces is centered—everything
falls equally away from the middle of the picture.
We can create this by placing the subject of a
photograph right in the middle of the frame. In
our weighing-scale analogy, it sits right over the
fulcrum, the point of balance. Another way of
achieving the same static balance is to place two
equal weights on either side of the center, at equal
distances. Adding a dimension to this, several
graphic elements equally arranged around the
center have the same effect.
The second kind of visual balance opposes
weights and forces that are unequal, and in doing
so enlivens the image. On the weighing scale, a
large object can be balanced by a small one, as
long as the latter is placed far enough away from
the fulcrum. Similarly, a small graphic element
can successfully oppose a dominant one, as long
as it is placed toward the edge of the frame.
Mutual opposition is the mechanism by which
most balance is achieved. It is, of course, a type
of contrast (see Contrast, on pages 34-37).
These are the ground rules of visual balance,
but they need to be treated with some caution.
All we have done so far is to describe the way
the balance works in simple circumstances. In
many pictures, a variety of elements interact,
and the question of balance can only be resolved
intuitively, according to what feels right. The
weighing scale analogy is fine as far as it goes—
to explain the fundamentals—but I would
certainly not recommend actually using it as
an aid to composition.
Apart from this, a more crucial consideration
is whether or not balance is even desirable.
Certainly, the eye and brain need equilibrium,
but providing it is not necessarily the job of
art or photography. Georges Seurat, the neo-
Impressionist painter, claimed that “Art is
harmony,” but as Itten pointed out, he was
mistaking a means of art for its end. If we
accepted a definition of good photography as
the creation of images that produce a calm,
satisfying sensation, the results would be very
dull indeed. An expressive picture is by no means
always harmonious, as you can see time and again
throughout this book. We will keep returning
to this issue, and it underlines many design
decisions, not just in an obvious way—where to
place the center of interest, for example—but in
the sense of how much tension or harmony to
create. Ultimately, the choice is a personal one,
and not determined by the view or the subject.
In composing the image, the poles are
symmetry and eccentricity. Symmetry is a
special, perfect case of balance, not necessarily
satisfying, and very rigid. In the natural run of
views that a photographer is likely to come across,
it is not particularly common. You would have
to specialize in a group of things that embody
symmetrical principles, such as architecture or
seashells, to make much use of it. For this reason,
it can be appealing if used occasionally. On the
subject of a mirrored composition in Sequoia
National Park, the landscape photographer Galen
Rowell wrote, “When I photographed Big Bird
Lake with a fine reflective surface on the water,
I intuitively broke traditional rules of composition
and split my image 50-50 to strengthen the patterns
and emphasize the similarity between the two
halves of my image.” To succeed, symmetrical
composition must be absolutely precise. Few
images look sloppier than an almost symmetrical
view that did not quite make it.
We ought now to consider how tension
actually works in an unbalanced composition.
The mechanics are considerably more subtle
than the balancing-scale analogy can show.
While the eye and brain search for balance, it
would be wrong to assume that it is satisfying
to have it handed on a plate. Interest in any
image is in direct proportion to the amount
of work the viewer has to do, and too perfect
a balance leaves less for the eye to work at.
Hence, dynamic balance tends to be more
interesting than static balance. Not only this,
but in the absence of equilibrium, the eye tries
to produce it independently. What happens is
that the eye and brain want to find something
closer to the center to balance the figure in the
top-right corner, and so keep coming back to the
lower-left center of the frame. Of course, the only
thing there is the mass of rice, so that the setting in
fact gains extra attention. The green stalks of rice
would be less dominant if the figure were centrally
placed. As it is, it would be difficult to say whether
the photograph is of a worker in a rice field or
of a rice field with, incidentally, a figure working
in it. This process of trying to compensate for an
obvious asymmetry in an image is what creates
visual tension, and it can be very useful indeed
in making a picture more dynamic. It can help
draw attention to an area of a scene that would
normally be too bland to be noticed.
A second factor involved in eccentrically
composed images is that of logic. The more
extreme the asymmetry, the more the viewer
expects a reason for it. Theoretically, at least,
someone looking at such an image will be
more prepared to examine it carefully for the
justification. Be warned, however, that eccentric
composition can as easily be seen as contrived.
Finally, all considerations of balance must
take into account the sheer graphic complexity
of many images. In order to study the design
of photographs, we are doing our best in this
book to isolate each of the graphic elements we
look at. Many of the examples, such as the rice
field picture, are deliberately uncomplicated. In
reality, most photographs contain several layers
of graphic effect.
of balance. Balance is the resolution of
tension, opposing forces that are matched to
provide equilibrium and a sense of harmony. It is
a fundamental principle of visual perception that
the eye seeks to balance one force with another.
Balance is harmony, resolution, a condition that
intuitively seems aesthetically pleasing. In this
context, balance can refer to any of the graphic
elements in a picture (in Chapter 3 we will review
each of these in turn).
If we consider two strong points in a picture,
for example, the center of the frame becomes
a reference against which we see their position.
If one diagonal line in another image creates a
strong sense of movement in one direction, the
eye is aware of the need for an opposite sense of
movement. In color relationships, successive and
simultaneous contrasts demonstrate that the eye
will seek to provide its own complementary hues.
When talking about the balance of forces
in a picture, the usual analogies tend to be ones
drawn from the physical world: gravity, levers,
weights, and fulcrums. These are quite reasonable
analogies to use, because the eye and mind have
a real, objective response to balance that works in
a very similar way to the laws of mechanics. We
can develop the physical analogies more literally
by thinking of an image as a surface balanced at
one point, rather like a weighing scale. If we add
anything to one side of the image—that is, offcenter—
it becomes unbalanced, and we feel the
need to correct this. It does not matter whether
we are talking about masses of tone, color, an
arrangement of points, or whatever. The aim is
to find the visual “center of gravity.”
Considered in this way, there are two distinct
kinds of balance. One is symmetrical or static;
the other is dynamic. In symmetrical balance, the
arrangement of forces is centered—everything
falls equally away from the middle of the picture.
We can create this by placing the subject of a
photograph right in the middle of the frame. In
our weighing-scale analogy, it sits right over the
fulcrum, the point of balance. Another way of
achieving the same static balance is to place two
equal weights on either side of the center, at equal
distances. Adding a dimension to this, several
graphic elements equally arranged around the
center have the same effect.
The second kind of visual balance opposes
weights and forces that are unequal, and in doing
so enlivens the image. On the weighing scale, a
large object can be balanced by a small one, as
long as the latter is placed far enough away from
the fulcrum. Similarly, a small graphic element
can successfully oppose a dominant one, as long
as it is placed toward the edge of the frame.
Mutual opposition is the mechanism by which
most balance is achieved. It is, of course, a type
of contrast (see Contrast, on pages 34-37).
These are the ground rules of visual balance,
but they need to be treated with some caution.
All we have done so far is to describe the way
the balance works in simple circumstances. In
many pictures, a variety of elements interact,
and the question of balance can only be resolved
intuitively, according to what feels right. The
weighing scale analogy is fine as far as it goes—
to explain the fundamentals—but I would
certainly not recommend actually using it as
an aid to composition.
Apart from this, a more crucial consideration
is whether or not balance is even desirable.
Certainly, the eye and brain need equilibrium,
but providing it is not necessarily the job of
art or photography. Georges Seurat, the neo-
Impressionist painter, claimed that “Art is
harmony,” but as Itten pointed out, he was
mistaking a means of art for its end. If we
accepted a definition of good photography as
the creation of images that produce a calm,
satisfying sensation, the results would be very
dull indeed. An expressive picture is by no means
always harmonious, as you can see time and again
throughout this book. We will keep returning
to this issue, and it underlines many design
decisions, not just in an obvious way—where to
place the center of interest, for example—but in
the sense of how much tension or harmony to
create. Ultimately, the choice is a personal one,
and not determined by the view or the subject.
In composing the image, the poles are
symmetry and eccentricity. Symmetry is a
special, perfect case of balance, not necessarily
satisfying, and very rigid. In the natural run of
views that a photographer is likely to come across,
it is not particularly common. You would have
to specialize in a group of things that embody
symmetrical principles, such as architecture or
seashells, to make much use of it. For this reason,
it can be appealing if used occasionally. On the
subject of a mirrored composition in Sequoia
National Park, the landscape photographer Galen
Rowell wrote, “When I photographed Big Bird
Lake with a fine reflective surface on the water,
I intuitively broke traditional rules of composition
and split my image 50-50 to strengthen the patterns
and emphasize the similarity between the two
halves of my image.” To succeed, symmetrical
composition must be absolutely precise. Few
images look sloppier than an almost symmetrical
view that did not quite make it.
We ought now to consider how tension
actually works in an unbalanced composition.
The mechanics are considerably more subtle
than the balancing-scale analogy can show.
While the eye and brain search for balance, it
would be wrong to assume that it is satisfying
to have it handed on a plate. Interest in any
image is in direct proportion to the amount
of work the viewer has to do, and too perfect
a balance leaves less for the eye to work at.
Hence, dynamic balance tends to be more
interesting than static balance. Not only this,
but in the absence of equilibrium, the eye tries
to produce it independently. What happens is
that the eye and brain want to find something
closer to the center to balance the figure in the
top-right corner, and so keep coming back to the
lower-left center of the frame. Of course, the only
thing there is the mass of rice, so that the setting in
fact gains extra attention. The green stalks of rice
would be less dominant if the figure were centrally
placed. As it is, it would be difficult to say whether
the photograph is of a worker in a rice field or
of a rice field with, incidentally, a figure working
in it. This process of trying to compensate for an
obvious asymmetry in an image is what creates
visual tension, and it can be very useful indeed
in making a picture more dynamic. It can help
draw attention to an area of a scene that would
normally be too bland to be noticed.
A second factor involved in eccentrically
composed images is that of logic. The more
extreme the asymmetry, the more the viewer
expects a reason for it. Theoretically, at least,
someone looking at such an image will be
more prepared to examine it carefully for the
justification. Be warned, however, that eccentric
composition can as easily be seen as contrived.
Finally, all considerations of balance must
take into account the sheer graphic complexity
of many images. In order to study the design
of photographs, we are doing our best in this
book to isolate each of the graphic elements we
look at. Many of the examples, such as the rice
field picture, are deliberately uncomplicated. In
reality, most photographs contain several layers
of graphic effect.
GESTALT PERCEPTION
Gestalt psychology was founded in Austria
and Germany in the early 20th century, and
while some of its ideas (such as that objects seen
form similarly shaped traces in the brain) have
long been abandoned, it has had an important
revival in its approach to visual recognition.
Modern Gestalt theory takes a holistic
approach to perception, on the basic principle
that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,
and that in viewing an entire scene or image, the
mind takes a sudden leap from recognizing the
individual elements to understanding the scene in
its entirety. These two concepts—appreciating the
greater meaning of the entire image and grasping
it suddenly and intuitively—may at first seem at
odds with what is known about how we look at
images. (The principle that we build up a picture
from a series of rapid eye movements to points of
interest is explored more thoroughly on pages
80-81.) However, in reality, Gestalt theory has
adapted to experimental research, and, despite
its sometimes vague assertions, offers some
valid explanations about the complex process
of perception. Its importance for photography
lies mainly in its laws of organization, which
underpin most of the principles of composing
images, particularly in this and the next chapter.
The word “Gestalt” has no perfect English
translation, but refers to the way in which
something has been gestellt, that is, “placed”
or “put together,” with obvious relevance
to composition. As a way of understanding
perception, it offers an alternative to the
atomistic, iterative way in which computers
and digital imaging work, step-by-step, and
stresses the value of insight. Another principle
from Gestalt is “optimization,” favoring clarity
and simplicity. Allied to this is the concept of
pragnanz (precision), which states that when
understanding takes place as a whole (“grasping
the image”), it involves minimal effort.
The Gestalt laws of organization, listed in the
box, go a long way toward explaining the ways
in which graphic elements in photographs, such
as potential lines, points, shapes, and vectors, are
“completed” in viewers’ minds and understood
to animate and give balance to an image. One of
the most important and easy-to-grasp laws is that
of Closure, usually illustrated by the well-known
Kanizsa triangle (illustrated opposite). We can
see this principle time and again in photography,
where certain parts of a composition suggest a
shape, and this perceived shape then helps to
give structure to the image. In other words, an
implied shape tends to strengthen a composition.
It helps the viewer make sense of it. Triangles
are among the most potent of “closure-induced”
shapes in photography, but the example
illustrated opposite is the somewhat more
unusual one of a double circle.
As we’ll see in more detail when we come to
the process of shooting (in Chapter 6), creating
and reading a photograph heavily involves the
principle of making sense of a scene or an image,
of taking the visual input and attempting to fit
it to some hypothesis that explains the way it
looks. Gestalt theory introduces the idea of
regrouping and restructuring the visual elements
so that they make sense as an entire image—also
known as the “phi-phenomenon.” However,
whereas Gestalt theory is used in instructional
design—for example, to eliminate confusion
and speed up recognition (diagrams, keyboards,
plans, and so on)— in photography it can play
an equally valuable opposite role.
As we’ll see when we come to Chapter 6,
Intent, there are many advantages in slowing
down the way people view a photograph, so as
to deliver a surprise or to involve them more
deeply in the image (Gombrich’s “beholder’s
share”, page 140). For example, the principle of
Emergence (see box) is valuable in explaining
how, in a sudden moment, the mind comprehends
something in a photograph that was visually
“hidden” (pages 144-145, Delay, go into this
in more detail). Normally, in presenting
information, making the viewer’s mind work
harder is not considered a good thing, but in
photography and other arts it becomes part of
the reward for viewing.
and Germany in the early 20th century, and
while some of its ideas (such as that objects seen
form similarly shaped traces in the brain) have
long been abandoned, it has had an important
revival in its approach to visual recognition.
Modern Gestalt theory takes a holistic
approach to perception, on the basic principle
that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts,
and that in viewing an entire scene or image, the
mind takes a sudden leap from recognizing the
individual elements to understanding the scene in
its entirety. These two concepts—appreciating the
greater meaning of the entire image and grasping
it suddenly and intuitively—may at first seem at
odds with what is known about how we look at
images. (The principle that we build up a picture
from a series of rapid eye movements to points of
interest is explored more thoroughly on pages
80-81.) However, in reality, Gestalt theory has
adapted to experimental research, and, despite
its sometimes vague assertions, offers some
valid explanations about the complex process
of perception. Its importance for photography
lies mainly in its laws of organization, which
underpin most of the principles of composing
images, particularly in this and the next chapter.
The word “Gestalt” has no perfect English
translation, but refers to the way in which
something has been gestellt, that is, “placed”
or “put together,” with obvious relevance
to composition. As a way of understanding
perception, it offers an alternative to the
atomistic, iterative way in which computers
and digital imaging work, step-by-step, and
stresses the value of insight. Another principle
from Gestalt is “optimization,” favoring clarity
and simplicity. Allied to this is the concept of
pragnanz (precision), which states that when
understanding takes place as a whole (“grasping
the image”), it involves minimal effort.
The Gestalt laws of organization, listed in the
box, go a long way toward explaining the ways
in which graphic elements in photographs, such
as potential lines, points, shapes, and vectors, are
“completed” in viewers’ minds and understood
to animate and give balance to an image. One of
the most important and easy-to-grasp laws is that
of Closure, usually illustrated by the well-known
Kanizsa triangle (illustrated opposite). We can
see this principle time and again in photography,
where certain parts of a composition suggest a
shape, and this perceived shape then helps to
give structure to the image. In other words, an
implied shape tends to strengthen a composition.
It helps the viewer make sense of it. Triangles
are among the most potent of “closure-induced”
shapes in photography, but the example
illustrated opposite is the somewhat more
unusual one of a double circle.
As we’ll see in more detail when we come to
the process of shooting (in Chapter 6), creating
and reading a photograph heavily involves the
principle of making sense of a scene or an image,
of taking the visual input and attempting to fit
it to some hypothesis that explains the way it
looks. Gestalt theory introduces the idea of
regrouping and restructuring the visual elements
so that they make sense as an entire image—also
known as the “phi-phenomenon.” However,
whereas Gestalt theory is used in instructional
design—for example, to eliminate confusion
and speed up recognition (diagrams, keyboards,
plans, and so on)— in photography it can play
an equally valuable opposite role.
As we’ll see when we come to Chapter 6,
Intent, there are many advantages in slowing
down the way people view a photograph, so as
to deliver a surprise or to involve them more
deeply in the image (Gombrich’s “beholder’s
share”, page 140). For example, the principle of
Emergence (see box) is valuable in explaining
how, in a sudden moment, the mind comprehends
something in a photograph that was visually
“hidden” (pages 144-145, Delay, go into this
in more detail). Normally, in presenting
information, making the viewer’s mind work
harder is not considered a good thing, but in
photography and other arts it becomes part of
the reward for viewing.
CONTRAST
The most fundamental overhaul of design
theory in the 20th century took place in
Germany in the 1920s and its focus was the
Bauhaus. Founded in 1919 in Dessau, this school
of art, design, and architecture was a major
influence because of its experimental, questioning
approach to the principles of design. Johannes
Itten ran the Basic Course at the Bauhaus. His
theory of composition was rooted in one simple
concept: contrasts. Contrast between light and
dark (chiaroscuro), between shapes, colors, and
even sensations, was the basis for composing an
image. One of the first exercises that Itten set the
Bauhaus students was to discover and illustrate
the different possibilities of contrast. These
included, among many others, large/small, long/
short, smooth/rough, transparent/opaque, and so
on. These were intended as art exercises, but they
translate very comfortably into photography.
Itten’s intention was “to awaken a vital feeling
for the subject through a personal observation,”
and his exercise was a vehicle for plunging in
and exploring the nature of design. Here is an
adaptation of his exercises for photography.
The project is in two parts. The first is rather
easier—producing pairs of photographs that
contrast with each other. The easiest way to do this
is to make a selection from pictures you’ve already
taken, choosing those that best show a certain
contrast. More demanding but more valuable is
to go out and look for images that illustrate a preplanned
type of contrast—executing shots to order.
The second part of the project is to combine
the two poles of the contrast in one photograph,
an exercise that calls for a bit more imagination.
There are no restrictions to the kind of contrast,
and it can be to do with form (bright/dark,
blurred/sharp) or with any aspect of content. For
example, it could be contrast in a concept, such as
continuous/intermittent, or something non-visual,
like loud/quiet. The list in the box below is from
Itten’s original Bauhaus exercise.
A passionate educator, Itten wanted his
students to approach these contrasts from three
directions; “they had to experience them with their
senses, objectivize them intellectually, and realize
them synthetically.” That is, each student had first
to try to get a feeling for each contrast without
immediately thinking of it as an image, then list the
ways of putting this sensation across, and finally
make a picture. For example, for “much/little,” one
first impression might be of a large group of things
with one of them standing out because it is in
some way different. On the other hand, it could be
treated as a group of things with an identical object
standing a little apart, and so isolated. These are
just two approaches out of several alternatives.
theory in the 20th century took place in
Germany in the 1920s and its focus was the
Bauhaus. Founded in 1919 in Dessau, this school
of art, design, and architecture was a major
influence because of its experimental, questioning
approach to the principles of design. Johannes
Itten ran the Basic Course at the Bauhaus. His
theory of composition was rooted in one simple
concept: contrasts. Contrast between light and
dark (chiaroscuro), between shapes, colors, and
even sensations, was the basis for composing an
image. One of the first exercises that Itten set the
Bauhaus students was to discover and illustrate
the different possibilities of contrast. These
included, among many others, large/small, long/
short, smooth/rough, transparent/opaque, and so
on. These were intended as art exercises, but they
translate very comfortably into photography.
Itten’s intention was “to awaken a vital feeling
for the subject through a personal observation,”
and his exercise was a vehicle for plunging in
and exploring the nature of design. Here is an
adaptation of his exercises for photography.
The project is in two parts. The first is rather
easier—producing pairs of photographs that
contrast with each other. The easiest way to do this
is to make a selection from pictures you’ve already
taken, choosing those that best show a certain
contrast. More demanding but more valuable is
to go out and look for images that illustrate a preplanned
type of contrast—executing shots to order.
The second part of the project is to combine
the two poles of the contrast in one photograph,
an exercise that calls for a bit more imagination.
There are no restrictions to the kind of contrast,
and it can be to do with form (bright/dark,
blurred/sharp) or with any aspect of content. For
example, it could be contrast in a concept, such as
continuous/intermittent, or something non-visual,
like loud/quiet. The list in the box below is from
Itten’s original Bauhaus exercise.
A passionate educator, Itten wanted his
students to approach these contrasts from three
directions; “they had to experience them with their
senses, objectivize them intellectually, and realize
them synthetically.” That is, each student had first
to try to get a feeling for each contrast without
immediately thinking of it as an image, then list the
ways of putting this sensation across, and finally
make a picture. For example, for “much/little,” one
first impression might be of a large group of things
with one of them standing out because it is in
some way different. On the other hand, it could be
treated as a group of things with an identical object
standing a little apart, and so isolated. These are
just two approaches out of several alternatives.
FRAMES WITHIN FRAMES
One of the most predictably successful of all
photographic design constructions is an
internal frame. As with any established design
formula, it contains real risks of overuse, and has
the makings of a cliché, but these dangers are only
evidence of the fact that it does work. It simply
needs a little more care and imagination when it
is being applied.
The appeal of frames within frames is partly to
do with composition, but at a deeper level it relates
to perception. Frames like those shown here and
on the next few pages enhance the dimensionality
of a photograph by emphasizing that the viewer
is looking through from one plane to another. As
we’ll see at other points in this book, one of the
recurrent issues in photography is what happens
in converting a fully three-dimensional scene
into a two-dimensional picture. It is more central
to photography than to painting or illustration
because of photography’s essentially realistic roots.
Frames within the picture have the effect of pulling
the viewer through; in other words, they are a
kind of window. There is a relationship between
the frame of the photograph and an initial step
in which the viewer’s attention is drawn inward
(the corners are particularly important in this).
Thereafter, there is an implied momentum forward
through the frame. Walker Evans, for example,
often made deliberate use of this device. As his
biographer, Belinda Rathbone, writes, “That his
photographs saw through windows and porches
and around corners gave them a new dimension
and power and even an aura of revelation.”
Another part of the appeal is that by drawing a
boundary around the principal image, an internal
frame is evidence of organization. A measure of
control has been imposed on the scene. Limits
have been set, and the image held back from
flowing over the edges. Some feelings of stability
and even rigidity enter into this, and this type
of photograph lacks the casual, freewheeling
associations that you can see in, for example, classic
journalistic or reportage photography. As a result,
frames within frames appeal to a certain aspect
of our personalities. It is a fundamental part of
human nature to want to impose control on the
environment, and this has an immediate corollary
in placing a structure on images. It feels satisfying
to see that the elements of a picture have been
defined and placed under a kind of control.
On a purely graphic level, frames focus the
attention of the viewer because they establish
a diminishing direction from the outer picture
frame. The internal frame draws the eye in by
one step, particularly if it is similar in shape to
the picture format. This momentum is then
easily continued further into the picture. Another
important design opportunity to note is the
shape relationship between the two frames. As
we saw when we looked at the dynamics of the
basic frame, the angles and shapes that are set up
between the boundary of the picture and lines
inside the image are important. This is especially
so with a continuous edge inside the picture. The
graphic relationship between the two frames is
strongest when the gap between them is narrow.
photographic design constructions is an
internal frame. As with any established design
formula, it contains real risks of overuse, and has
the makings of a cliché, but these dangers are only
evidence of the fact that it does work. It simply
needs a little more care and imagination when it
is being applied.
The appeal of frames within frames is partly to
do with composition, but at a deeper level it relates
to perception. Frames like those shown here and
on the next few pages enhance the dimensionality
of a photograph by emphasizing that the viewer
is looking through from one plane to another. As
we’ll see at other points in this book, one of the
recurrent issues in photography is what happens
in converting a fully three-dimensional scene
into a two-dimensional picture. It is more central
to photography than to painting or illustration
because of photography’s essentially realistic roots.
Frames within the picture have the effect of pulling
the viewer through; in other words, they are a
kind of window. There is a relationship between
the frame of the photograph and an initial step
in which the viewer’s attention is drawn inward
(the corners are particularly important in this).
Thereafter, there is an implied momentum forward
through the frame. Walker Evans, for example,
often made deliberate use of this device. As his
biographer, Belinda Rathbone, writes, “That his
photographs saw through windows and porches
and around corners gave them a new dimension
and power and even an aura of revelation.”
Another part of the appeal is that by drawing a
boundary around the principal image, an internal
frame is evidence of organization. A measure of
control has been imposed on the scene. Limits
have been set, and the image held back from
flowing over the edges. Some feelings of stability
and even rigidity enter into this, and this type
of photograph lacks the casual, freewheeling
associations that you can see in, for example, classic
journalistic or reportage photography. As a result,
frames within frames appeal to a certain aspect
of our personalities. It is a fundamental part of
human nature to want to impose control on the
environment, and this has an immediate corollary
in placing a structure on images. It feels satisfying
to see that the elements of a picture have been
defined and placed under a kind of control.
On a purely graphic level, frames focus the
attention of the viewer because they establish
a diminishing direction from the outer picture
frame. The internal frame draws the eye in by
one step, particularly if it is similar in shape to
the picture format. This momentum is then
easily continued further into the picture. Another
important design opportunity to note is the
shape relationship between the two frames. As
we saw when we looked at the dynamics of the
basic frame, the angles and shapes that are set up
between the boundary of the picture and lines
inside the image are important. This is especially
so with a continuous edge inside the picture. The
graphic relationship between the two frames is
strongest when the gap between them is narrow.
HORIZON
Probably the most common photographic
situation in which the frame must be divided
cleanly and precisely is the one that includes the
horizon line. In landscapes of the type shown
on these pages it becomes the dominant graphic
element, the more so if there are no outstanding
points of interest in the scene.
Plainly, if the line of the horizon is the only
significant graphic element, placing it becomes
a matter of some importance, and the simple
case is when it is actually horizontal (no hilly
contours). There is a natural tendency to place
the line lower in the frame than higher, related to
the association of the bottom of the picture frame
with a base. We explore this later, on pages 40-43
(Balance), but a low placement for most things
in principle gives a greater sense of stability.
This apart, the question of the exact position
remains open. One method is to use the linear
relationships described on the preceding pages.
Another is to balance the tones or colors (see
pages 118-121 for the principles of combining
colors according to their relative brightness).
Yet another method is to divide the frame
according to what you see as the intrinsic
importance of the ground and sky. For instance,
the foreground may be uninteresting, distracting,
or in some other way unwanted, while the skyscape
is dynamic, and this might argue for a very low
horizon, almost to the edge of the frame. There are
examples of this here and elsewhere in this book
(cropping, as discussed on pages 20-21, is another
opportunity to explore these considerations). In
the shot of Lake Inle, the form of the clouds is
definitely worth making part of the image, but
the clouds are too delicate in tone simply to use a
wider angle of lens and include more of the dark
foreground. They can register properly only if the
proportion of the ground is severely reduced so
that it does not overwhelm the picture.
If, on the other hand, there is some distinct
feature of interest in the foreground, this will
encourage a higher position for the horizon.
Indeed, if the sky has no graphic value and the
foreground has plenty of interest, it may make
more sense to reverse whatever subdivision you
choose, and place the horizon much closer to
the top of the frame.
There is, needless to say, no ideal position
even for any one particular scene and angle
of view. Given this, and the kind of decisions
just mentioned, there may be good reasons
for experimenting with different positions.
There is little point, however, in simply starting
low and moving progressively higher without
considering the influences and reasons. As the
pair of photographs shot in Monument Valley
illustrates, different horizon positions can have
equal validity, depending on the circumstances
of the picture, and also on personal taste.
situation in which the frame must be divided
cleanly and precisely is the one that includes the
horizon line. In landscapes of the type shown
on these pages it becomes the dominant graphic
element, the more so if there are no outstanding
points of interest in the scene.
Plainly, if the line of the horizon is the only
significant graphic element, placing it becomes
a matter of some importance, and the simple
case is when it is actually horizontal (no hilly
contours). There is a natural tendency to place
the line lower in the frame than higher, related to
the association of the bottom of the picture frame
with a base. We explore this later, on pages 40-43
(Balance), but a low placement for most things
in principle gives a greater sense of stability.
This apart, the question of the exact position
remains open. One method is to use the linear
relationships described on the preceding pages.
Another is to balance the tones or colors (see
pages 118-121 for the principles of combining
colors according to their relative brightness).
Yet another method is to divide the frame
according to what you see as the intrinsic
importance of the ground and sky. For instance,
the foreground may be uninteresting, distracting,
or in some other way unwanted, while the skyscape
is dynamic, and this might argue for a very low
horizon, almost to the edge of the frame. There are
examples of this here and elsewhere in this book
(cropping, as discussed on pages 20-21, is another
opportunity to explore these considerations). In
the shot of Lake Inle, the form of the clouds is
definitely worth making part of the image, but
the clouds are too delicate in tone simply to use a
wider angle of lens and include more of the dark
foreground. They can register properly only if the
proportion of the ground is severely reduced so
that it does not overwhelm the picture.
If, on the other hand, there is some distinct
feature of interest in the foreground, this will
encourage a higher position for the horizon.
Indeed, if the sky has no graphic value and the
foreground has plenty of interest, it may make
more sense to reverse whatever subdivision you
choose, and place the horizon much closer to
the top of the frame.
There is, needless to say, no ideal position
even for any one particular scene and angle
of view. Given this, and the kind of decisions
just mentioned, there may be good reasons
for experimenting with different positions.
There is little point, however, in simply starting
low and moving progressively higher without
considering the influences and reasons. As the
pair of photographs shot in Monument Valley
illustrates, different horizon positions can have
equal validity, depending on the circumstances
of the picture, and also on personal taste.
DIVIDING THE FRAME
Any image, of any kind, automatically creates
a division of the picture frame. Something
like a prominent horizon line does this very
obviously, but even a small object against a bland
background (a point, in other words) makes an
implied division. Look at any of the pictures in
this book which comprise a single small subject—
shifting the position of the subject changes the
areas into which the frame is divided.
There are, naturally, an infinite number of
possible divisions, but the most interesting ones
are those that bear a definable relationship to
each other. Division is essentially a matter of
proportion, and this has preoccupied artists
in different periods of history. During the
Renaissance, in particular, considerable attention
was given to dividing the picture frame by
geometry. This has interesting implications
for photography, for while a painter creates
the structure of a picture from nothing, a
photographer usually has little such opportunity,
so much less reason to worry about exact
proportions. Nevertheless, different proportions
evoke certain responses in the viewer, whether
they were calculated exactly or not.
During the Renaissance, a number of painters
realized that proportions of division based on
simple numbers (like 1:1, 2:1, or 3:2) produced an
essentially static division. By contrast, a dynamic
division could be made by constructing more
interesting ratios. The Golden Section, which
was known to the Greeks, is the best known
“harmonious” division. As outlined below, the
Golden Section is based on pure geometry, and
photographers almost never have either the need
or the opportunity to construct it. Its importance
lies in the fact that all the areas are integrally
related; the ratio of the small section to the large
one is the same as that of the large section to the
complete frame. They are tied together, hence the
idea that they give a sense of harmony.
The logic of this may not seem completely
obvious at first, but it underlies more than just
the subdivision of a picture frame. The argument
is that there are objective physical principles
that underlie harmony. In this case, they are
geometric, and while we may not be aware of
them in operation, they still produce a predictable
effect. The subdivision of a standard 3:2 frame
according to the Golden Section is shown
opposite. Precision is not of major importance,
as the photographs show.
The Golden Section is not the only way of
making a harmonious division. It is not even the
only method in which the ratios are integrally
related. Another basis, also from the Renaissance,
is the Fibonacci series—a sequence of numbers
in which each is the sum of the previous two:
1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, and so on. In yet another method,
the frame is subdivided according to the ratio of
its own sides. There is, indeed, a massive variety
of subdivisions that obey some internal principle,
and they all have the potential to make workable
and interesting images.
This is all very well for a painter or illustrator,
but how can photography make sensible use of
it? Certainly, no-one is going to use a calculator
to plan the division of a photograph. Intuitive
composition is the only practical approach for
the majority of photographs. The most useful
approach to dividing a frame into areas is to
prime your eye by becoming familiar with the
nuances of harmony in different proportions.
If you know them well, intuitive composition
will naturally become more finely tuned. As
photographers, we may be able to ignore the
geometry, but we can not ignore the fact that
these proportions are fundamentally satisfying.
Notice also that, by dividing the frame in both
directions, an intersection is produced, and this
makes a generally satisfying location for a point,
or any other focus of attention.
a division of the picture frame. Something
like a prominent horizon line does this very
obviously, but even a small object against a bland
background (a point, in other words) makes an
implied division. Look at any of the pictures in
this book which comprise a single small subject—
shifting the position of the subject changes the
areas into which the frame is divided.
There are, naturally, an infinite number of
possible divisions, but the most interesting ones
are those that bear a definable relationship to
each other. Division is essentially a matter of
proportion, and this has preoccupied artists
in different periods of history. During the
Renaissance, in particular, considerable attention
was given to dividing the picture frame by
geometry. This has interesting implications
for photography, for while a painter creates
the structure of a picture from nothing, a
photographer usually has little such opportunity,
so much less reason to worry about exact
proportions. Nevertheless, different proportions
evoke certain responses in the viewer, whether
they were calculated exactly or not.
During the Renaissance, a number of painters
realized that proportions of division based on
simple numbers (like 1:1, 2:1, or 3:2) produced an
essentially static division. By contrast, a dynamic
division could be made by constructing more
interesting ratios. The Golden Section, which
was known to the Greeks, is the best known
“harmonious” division. As outlined below, the
Golden Section is based on pure geometry, and
photographers almost never have either the need
or the opportunity to construct it. Its importance
lies in the fact that all the areas are integrally
related; the ratio of the small section to the large
one is the same as that of the large section to the
complete frame. They are tied together, hence the
idea that they give a sense of harmony.
The logic of this may not seem completely
obvious at first, but it underlies more than just
the subdivision of a picture frame. The argument
is that there are objective physical principles
that underlie harmony. In this case, they are
geometric, and while we may not be aware of
them in operation, they still produce a predictable
effect. The subdivision of a standard 3:2 frame
according to the Golden Section is shown
opposite. Precision is not of major importance,
as the photographs show.
The Golden Section is not the only way of
making a harmonious division. It is not even the
only method in which the ratios are integrally
related. Another basis, also from the Renaissance,
is the Fibonacci series—a sequence of numbers
in which each is the sum of the previous two:
1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, and so on. In yet another method,
the frame is subdivided according to the ratio of
its own sides. There is, indeed, a massive variety
of subdivisions that obey some internal principle,
and they all have the potential to make workable
and interesting images.
This is all very well for a painter or illustrator,
but how can photography make sensible use of
it? Certainly, no-one is going to use a calculator
to plan the division of a photograph. Intuitive
composition is the only practical approach for
the majority of photographs. The most useful
approach to dividing a frame into areas is to
prime your eye by becoming familiar with the
nuances of harmony in different proportions.
If you know them well, intuitive composition
will naturally become more finely tuned. As
photographers, we may be able to ignore the
geometry, but we can not ignore the fact that
these proportions are fundamentally satisfying.
Notice also that, by dividing the frame in both
directions, an intersection is produced, and this
makes a generally satisfying location for a point,
or any other focus of attention.
PLACEMENT
In any construction involving one, obvious
subject, other than filling the frame with it,
there is always the decision of where to place it,
remaining sensitive to the proportions of the
space surrounding it. As soon as you allow free
space around the subject, its position becomes an
issue. It has to be placed, consciously, somewhere
within the frame. Logically, it might seem that
the natural position is right in the middle with
equal space around, and indeed, there are many
occasions when this holds true. If there are no
other elements in the picture, why not?
One compelling reason why not is that it is
very predictable—and, if repeated, boring. We are
faced with a conflicting choice. On the one hand,
there is a desire to do something interesting with
the design and escape the bull’s-eye method of
framing a subject. On the other hand, placing the
subject anywhere but in a natural position needs a
reason. If you place a subject right in the corner of
an otherwise empty frame, you need a justification,
or the design becomes simply perverse. Eccentric
composition can work extremely well, but as we
will see later in the book, its success depends on
there being some purpose behind it.
The importance of placement increases as
the subject becomes smaller in the frame. In
the photograph of the sentry on page 15, we are
not really conscious that the figure is actually in
any position in the frame. It is, in fact, centered
but with not so much space around it as to be
obvious. With the photograph of the waterbound
hamlet here, we are made very aware of
its position in the frame because it is obviously
isolated and surrounded by ocean. Some offcenteredness
is usually desirable simply in order
to set up a relationship between the subject and
its background. A position dead center is so
stable as to have no dynamic tension at all. If
slightly away from the middle, the subject tends
to appear to be more in context. There are also
considerations of harmony and balance, which
we’ll come to in the next chapter.
In practice, other elements do creep into
most images, and even a slight secondary point
of interest is usually enough to influence the
placement of the subject. In the case of the stilted
houses, we aware of the position of the sun above
and left; there is an inferred relationship here, one
that makes it natural to offset the houses slightly
in the opposite direction.
Vectors can also influence an off-center
position. For instance, if the subject is obviously
in motion, and its direction is plain, then the
natural tendency is to have it entering the frame
rather than leaving it. I emphasize the word
natural, however, because there may always be
special reasons for doing things differently—and
different usually gets more attention. In a more
general sense, subjects that “face” in one direction
(not necessarily literally) also often fit more
comfortably so that they are offset, so that
some of the direction they “see” is in the frame.
As a rule of thumb, when the setting
is significant—that is, when it can actually
contribute to the idea behind the picture—then
it is worth considering this kind of composition,
in which the subject occupies only a small area. In
the case of the houses in the sea, the whole point
of the picture is that people live in such unusual
circumstances: surrounded by water. Closing in
would miss the point. Unfortunately, moving
further back would only reduce the size of the
houses so much that they would be indecipherable,
although it would show still more ocean.
subject, other than filling the frame with it,
there is always the decision of where to place it,
remaining sensitive to the proportions of the
space surrounding it. As soon as you allow free
space around the subject, its position becomes an
issue. It has to be placed, consciously, somewhere
within the frame. Logically, it might seem that
the natural position is right in the middle with
equal space around, and indeed, there are many
occasions when this holds true. If there are no
other elements in the picture, why not?
One compelling reason why not is that it is
very predictable—and, if repeated, boring. We are
faced with a conflicting choice. On the one hand,
there is a desire to do something interesting with
the design and escape the bull’s-eye method of
framing a subject. On the other hand, placing the
subject anywhere but in a natural position needs a
reason. If you place a subject right in the corner of
an otherwise empty frame, you need a justification,
or the design becomes simply perverse. Eccentric
composition can work extremely well, but as we
will see later in the book, its success depends on
there being some purpose behind it.
The importance of placement increases as
the subject becomes smaller in the frame. In
the photograph of the sentry on page 15, we are
not really conscious that the figure is actually in
any position in the frame. It is, in fact, centered
but with not so much space around it as to be
obvious. With the photograph of the waterbound
hamlet here, we are made very aware of
its position in the frame because it is obviously
isolated and surrounded by ocean. Some offcenteredness
is usually desirable simply in order
to set up a relationship between the subject and
its background. A position dead center is so
stable as to have no dynamic tension at all. If
slightly away from the middle, the subject tends
to appear to be more in context. There are also
considerations of harmony and balance, which
we’ll come to in the next chapter.
In practice, other elements do creep into
most images, and even a slight secondary point
of interest is usually enough to influence the
placement of the subject. In the case of the stilted
houses, we aware of the position of the sun above
and left; there is an inferred relationship here, one
that makes it natural to offset the houses slightly
in the opposite direction.
Vectors can also influence an off-center
position. For instance, if the subject is obviously
in motion, and its direction is plain, then the
natural tendency is to have it entering the frame
rather than leaving it. I emphasize the word
natural, however, because there may always be
special reasons for doing things differently—and
different usually gets more attention. In a more
general sense, subjects that “face” in one direction
(not necessarily literally) also often fit more
comfortably so that they are offset, so that
some of the direction they “see” is in the frame.
As a rule of thumb, when the setting
is significant—that is, when it can actually
contribute to the idea behind the picture—then
it is worth considering this kind of composition,
in which the subject occupies only a small area. In
the case of the houses in the sea, the whole point
of the picture is that people live in such unusual
circumstances: surrounded by water. Closing in
would miss the point. Unfortunately, moving
further back would only reduce the size of the
houses so much that they would be indecipherable,
although it would show still more ocean.
FILLING THE FRAME
In order to be able to talk about the different
graphic elements in composition, and to
look at the way they interact, the first thing we
must do is to isolate them, choosing the most
basic situations for composing pictures. A little
caution is needed here, because in practice there
is usually a multitude of possibilities, and a single,
isolated subject is something of a special case. The
examples here may seem a little obvious, but at
this stage we need clear, uncluttered examples.
The most basic of all photographic situations
is one single, obvious subject in front of the
camera, but even this presents two options. We
have an immediate choice: whether to close
right in so that it fills up the picture frame, or
to pull back so that we can see something of its
surroundings. What would influence the choice?
One consideration is the information content of
the picture. Obviously, the larger the subject is
in the photograph, the more detail of it can be
shown. If it is something unusual and interesting,
this may be paramount; if very familiar, perhaps
not. For example, if a wildlife photographer has
tracked down a rare animal, we would reasonably
expect to see as much of it as possible.
Another consideration is the relationship
between the subject and its setting. Are the
surroundings important, either to the content of
the shot or to its design? In the studio, subjects
are often set against neutral backgrounds; then
the setting has nothing to tell the viewer, and
its only value is for composition. Outside the
studio, however, settings nearly always have some
relevance. They can show scale (a climber on a
rock-face) or something about the activity of
the subject.
A third factor is the subjective relationship
that the photographer wants to create between
the viewer and the subject. If presence is
important, and the subject needs to be imposing,
then taking the viewer right up to it by filling
the frame is a reasonable option. There are
some mechanical matters involved, such as the
ultimate size of the picture when displayed, the
focal length of lens, and the scale of the subject
to begin with. Nevertheless, a big subject filling
the frame of a big picture usually acquires force
and impact. Moreover, as the examples here show,
there can also be a satisfying precision in just
matching subject to frame—particularly if the
image has to be composed rapidly.
The shape of the subject in relation to the
format of the frame clearly has an effect. In the
sequence of the Hong Kong ferry on the right,
the main picture shows a very satisfactory fit:
the boat from this angle just reaches the edges all
round. In the majority of single-subject pictures,
however, the focus of attention does not fill the
frame. The shape may not coincide with the
format of the picture (cropping is always possible,
but it is not necessarily elegant, and it may not
suit the intended display method). Another
possible risk with running the edges of the subject
right up to the borders of the picture is that the
eye may feel uncomfortable concentrating on
points falling very near the edges of the picture.
It often needs—or at least benefits from—a little
free area around a subject to be able to move
without feeling constricted.
graphic elements in composition, and to
look at the way they interact, the first thing we
must do is to isolate them, choosing the most
basic situations for composing pictures. A little
caution is needed here, because in practice there
is usually a multitude of possibilities, and a single,
isolated subject is something of a special case. The
examples here may seem a little obvious, but at
this stage we need clear, uncluttered examples.
The most basic of all photographic situations
is one single, obvious subject in front of the
camera, but even this presents two options. We
have an immediate choice: whether to close
right in so that it fills up the picture frame, or
to pull back so that we can see something of its
surroundings. What would influence the choice?
One consideration is the information content of
the picture. Obviously, the larger the subject is
in the photograph, the more detail of it can be
shown. If it is something unusual and interesting,
this may be paramount; if very familiar, perhaps
not. For example, if a wildlife photographer has
tracked down a rare animal, we would reasonably
expect to see as much of it as possible.
Another consideration is the relationship
between the subject and its setting. Are the
surroundings important, either to the content of
the shot or to its design? In the studio, subjects
are often set against neutral backgrounds; then
the setting has nothing to tell the viewer, and
its only value is for composition. Outside the
studio, however, settings nearly always have some
relevance. They can show scale (a climber on a
rock-face) or something about the activity of
the subject.
A third factor is the subjective relationship
that the photographer wants to create between
the viewer and the subject. If presence is
important, and the subject needs to be imposing,
then taking the viewer right up to it by filling
the frame is a reasonable option. There are
some mechanical matters involved, such as the
ultimate size of the picture when displayed, the
focal length of lens, and the scale of the subject
to begin with. Nevertheless, a big subject filling
the frame of a big picture usually acquires force
and impact. Moreover, as the examples here show,
there can also be a satisfying precision in just
matching subject to frame—particularly if the
image has to be composed rapidly.
The shape of the subject in relation to the
format of the frame clearly has an effect. In the
sequence of the Hong Kong ferry on the right,
the main picture shows a very satisfactory fit:
the boat from this angle just reaches the edges all
round. In the majority of single-subject pictures,
however, the focus of attention does not fill the
frame. The shape may not coincide with the
format of the picture (cropping is always possible,
but it is not necessarily elegant, and it may not
suit the intended display method). Another
possible risk with running the edges of the subject
right up to the borders of the picture is that the
eye may feel uncomfortable concentrating on
points falling very near the edges of the picture.
It often needs—or at least benefits from—a little
free area around a subject to be able to move
without feeling constricted.
CROPPING
Cropping is an editing skill that was highly
developed during the days of black-andwhite
photography, lapsed somewhat in the color
slide era, and is now revived fully as an integral
part of preparing the final digital image. Even
when the framing as shot is judged to be fine,
technical adjustments such as lens distortion
correction will demand it.
Cropping is one way of reworking the image
well after it has been shot; an option for deferring
design decisions, and even of exploring new ways
of organizing an image. Unlike stitching, however,
it reduces the size of the image, so demands a
high resolution to begin with. In traditional
enlarger printing, the enlarging easel itself acts
as a cropping guide, but it may be easier to
experiment first with L-shaped cropping masks
on film (on a light box) or a contact sheet. With
digital images (or scanned film), the process
is infinitely easier and clearer, using software
cropping tools.
It is important not to think of cropping as
a design panacea or as an excuse for not being
decisive at the time of shooting. The danger of
having the opportunity to alter and manipulate
a frame after it is shot is that it can lull you into
imagining that you can perform a significant
proportion of photography on the computer.
Cropping introduces an interruption in the
process of making a photograph, and most
images benefit from continuity of vision.
developed during the days of black-andwhite
photography, lapsed somewhat in the color
slide era, and is now revived fully as an integral
part of preparing the final digital image. Even
when the framing as shot is judged to be fine,
technical adjustments such as lens distortion
correction will demand it.
Cropping is one way of reworking the image
well after it has been shot; an option for deferring
design decisions, and even of exploring new ways
of organizing an image. Unlike stitching, however,
it reduces the size of the image, so demands a
high resolution to begin with. In traditional
enlarger printing, the enlarging easel itself acts
as a cropping guide, but it may be easier to
experiment first with L-shaped cropping masks
on film (on a light box) or a contact sheet. With
digital images (or scanned film), the process
is infinitely easier and clearer, using software
cropping tools.
It is important not to think of cropping as
a design panacea or as an excuse for not being
decisive at the time of shooting. The danger of
having the opportunity to alter and manipulate
a frame after it is shot is that it can lull you into
imagining that you can perform a significant
proportion of photography on the computer.
Cropping introduces an interruption in the
process of making a photograph, and most
images benefit from continuity of vision.
STITCHING AND EXTENDING
Digital stitching software has evolved into
a widely used tool for creating images
that are larger and wider. These are actually
two separate functions. Shooting a scene with
a longer focal length in overlapping frames is
one technique for achieving higher resolution
and so larger printed images—an equivalent
of large-format photography. From the point
of view of this book, however, the interest is in
changing the shape of the final image. This tends
to be panoramic, as long horizontal images have
an enduring appeal for reasons we’ll go into
shortly, but there is also complete freedom, as the
examples here show. What is often overlooked
is the effect this stitching has on the process
of shooting, because it demands anticipation
of how the final image will look. There is no
preview at the time, and this is a situation new
to photography—that of having to imagine what
the final image and frame shape will be. It gives
stitched, extended images an unpredictability
which can be refreshing.
Panoramas have a special place in photography.
Even though proportions that exceed 2:1 seem to
be extreme, for landscapes and other scenic views,
they are actually very satisfying. To understand
why, we have to look again at the way human
vision works. We see by scanning, not by taking in
a scene in a single, frozen instant. The eye’s focus
of attention roams around the view, usually very
quickly, and the brain builds up the information.
All of the standard photographic formats—and
most painting formats, for that matter—are
areas that can be absorbed in one rapid scanning
sequence. The normal process of looking at the
picture is to take in as much as possible in one
prolonged glance, and then to return to details that
seem interesting. A panorama, however, allows the
eye to consider only a part of the image at a time,
but this is by no means a disadvantage, because it
replicates the way we look at any real scene. Apart
from adding an element of realism to the picture,
this slows down the viewing process, and, in
theory at least, prolongs the interest of exploring
the image. All of this depends, however, on the
photograph being reproduced fairly large and
viewed from sufficiently close.
This virtue of the panorama—to draw the
viewer in and present some of the image only to
the peripheral vision—is regularly exploited in
the cinema, where an elongated screen is normal.
Special projection systems, such as Cinerama
and IMAX, are premised on the realistic effect
of wrapping the image around the viewer. Still
panoramic images have a similar effect.
The frame can also be extended in postproduction
in other ways, by stretching (using
warping, distortion, and other geometric software
tools, and even by cloning). Certain images lend
themselves to being extended in one or more
directions—for instance, extending the sky
upwards, or widening the background in a studio
still-life. Magazine layouts often suggest this,
although there are ethical considerations with this
kind of manipulation, in that the final image is
not necessarily as it was seen.
a widely used tool for creating images
that are larger and wider. These are actually
two separate functions. Shooting a scene with
a longer focal length in overlapping frames is
one technique for achieving higher resolution
and so larger printed images—an equivalent
of large-format photography. From the point
of view of this book, however, the interest is in
changing the shape of the final image. This tends
to be panoramic, as long horizontal images have
an enduring appeal for reasons we’ll go into
shortly, but there is also complete freedom, as the
examples here show. What is often overlooked
is the effect this stitching has on the process
of shooting, because it demands anticipation
of how the final image will look. There is no
preview at the time, and this is a situation new
to photography—that of having to imagine what
the final image and frame shape will be. It gives
stitched, extended images an unpredictability
which can be refreshing.
Panoramas have a special place in photography.
Even though proportions that exceed 2:1 seem to
be extreme, for landscapes and other scenic views,
they are actually very satisfying. To understand
why, we have to look again at the way human
vision works. We see by scanning, not by taking in
a scene in a single, frozen instant. The eye’s focus
of attention roams around the view, usually very
quickly, and the brain builds up the information.
All of the standard photographic formats—and
most painting formats, for that matter—are
areas that can be absorbed in one rapid scanning
sequence. The normal process of looking at the
picture is to take in as much as possible in one
prolonged glance, and then to return to details that
seem interesting. A panorama, however, allows the
eye to consider only a part of the image at a time,
but this is by no means a disadvantage, because it
replicates the way we look at any real scene. Apart
from adding an element of realism to the picture,
this slows down the viewing process, and, in
theory at least, prolongs the interest of exploring
the image. All of this depends, however, on the
photograph being reproduced fairly large and
viewed from sufficiently close.
This virtue of the panorama—to draw the
viewer in and present some of the image only to
the peripheral vision—is regularly exploited in
the cinema, where an elongated screen is normal.
Special projection systems, such as Cinerama
and IMAX, are premised on the realistic effect
of wrapping the image around the viewer. Still
panoramic images have a similar effect.
The frame can also be extended in postproduction
in other ways, by stretching (using
warping, distortion, and other geometric software
tools, and even by cloning). Certain images lend
themselves to being extended in one or more
directions—for instance, extending the sky
upwards, or widening the background in a studio
still-life. Magazine layouts often suggest this,
although there are ethical considerations with this
kind of manipulation, in that the final image is
not necessarily as it was seen.
FRAME SHAPE
The shape of the viewfinder frame (and LCD
screen) has a huge influence on the form that
the image takes. Despite the ease of cropping it
later, there exists a powerful intuitive pressure
at the time of shooting to compose right up to
the edges of the frame. Indeed, it takes years of
experience to ignore those parts of an image that
are not being used, and some photographers
never get used to this.
Most photography is composed to a few
rigidly defined formats (aspect ratios), unlike
in other graphic arts. Until digital photography,
by far the most common format was 3:2—that
of the standard 35mm camera, measuring
36x24mm—but now that the physical width
of film is no longer a constraint, the majority
of low- and middle-end cameras have adopted
the less elongated, more “natural” 4:3 format that
fits more comfortably on printing papers and
monitor displays. The question of which aspect
ratios are perceived as the most comfortable
is a study in its own right, but in principle,
there seems to be a tendency toward longer
horizontally (the increasing popularity of widescreen
and letterbox formats for television), but
less elongated for vertically composed images.
THE 3:2 FRAME
This is the classic 35mm frame, which has been
transferred seamlessly to digital SLRs, creating
in the process a sort of class distinction between
professional and serious amateur photographers
on the one hand, and everyone else on the other.
The reason for these proportions is a matter
of historical accident; there are no compelling
aesthetic reasons why it should be so. Indeed,
more “natural” proportions would be less
elongated, as evidenced by the bulk of the ways in
which images are displayed—painting canvases,
computer monitors, photographic printing paper,
book and magazine formats, and so on. Part of
the historical reason was that 35mm film was
long considered too small for good enlargements,
and the elongated shape gave more area.
Nevertheless, its popularity demonstrates how
easily our sense of intuitive composition adapts.
Overwhelmingly, this format is shot
horizontally, and there are three reasons for this.
The first is pure ergonomics. It is difficult to
design a camera used at eye level so that it is just as
easy to photograph vertically as horizontally, and
few manufacturers have even bothered. SLRs are
made to be used for horizontal pictures. Turning
them on their side is just not as comfortable, and
most photographers tend to avoid it. The second
reason is more fundamental. Our binocular
vision means that we see horizontally. There is no
frame as such, as human vision involves paying
attention to local detail and scanning a scene
rapidly, rather than taking in a sharp overall view
all at once.
The net result is that a horizontal frame
is natural and unremarkable. It influences the
composition of an image, but not in an insistent,
outstanding way. It conforms to the horizon,
and so to most overall landscapes and general
views. The horizontal component to the frame
encourages a horizontal arrangement of elements,
naturally enough. It is marginally more natural to
place an image lower in the frame than higher—
this tends to enhance the sensation of stability—
but in any particular photograph there are likely
to be many other influences. Placing a subject
or horizon high in the frame produces a slight
downward-looking, head-lowered sensation,
which can have mildly negative associations.
For naturally vertical subjects, however, the
elongation of a 2:3 frame is an advantage, and the
human figure, standing, is the most commonly
found vertical subject—a fortunate coincidence,
as in most other respects the 2:3 proportions are
rarely completely satisfactory.
Human vision
Our natural view of the world is in
the form of a vague-edged, horizontal oval, and
a standard horizontal film frame is a reasonable
approximation. The final reason is that 3:2
proportions are often perceptually too elongated
to work comfortably in portrait composition.
4:3 AND SIMILAR FRAMES
Traditionally, and once again with digital
photography and on-screen presentations, these
“fatter” frames are the most “natural” image
formats. In other words, they are the least insistent
and most accommodating to the eye. In the days
when there was a rich variety of large-format film,
formats included 5×4-inch, 10×8-inch, 14×11-
inch, and 8½×6½-inch. There is now a reduced
choice, but the proportions all work in much the
same way, and equally for rollfilm formats, digital
backs, and lower-end digital cameras.
In terms of composition, the frame dynamics
impose less on the image, because there is less of
a dominant direction than with 3:2. At the same
time, that there is a distinction between height
and width is important in helping the eye settle
into the view, with the understanding that the
view is horizontal or vertical. Compare this with
the difficulties of a square format, which often
suffers from lack of direction. As noted opposite,
these proportions are very comfortable for most
vertically composed images.
SQUARE
While all other photographic frames are
rectangular, with varying proportions, one is
fixed: the square. A few film cameras have this
unusual format—unusual in that very few images
lend themselves well to square composition. In
general, it is the most difficult format to work
with, and most design strategies for a square
frame are concerned with escaping the tyranny
of its perfect equilibrium.
We ought to look a little more closely at
why most subjects are ill-suited to a square
arrangement. In part, this has to do with the axis
of the subject. Few shapes are so compact that
they have no alignment. Most things are longer
in one direction than in another, and it is natural
to align the main axis of an image with the longer
sides of a rectangular picture frame. Hence, most
broad landscape views are generally handled as
horizontal pictures, and most standing figures
as verticals.
The square, however, has absolutely no bias.
Its sides are in perfect 1:1 proportions, and its
influence is a very precise and stable division
of space. Here lies the second reason for the
unsympathetic nature of square proportions: they
impose a formal rigidity on the image. It is hard
to escape the feeling of geometry when working
with a square frame, and the symmetry of the
sides and corners keeps reminding the eye of
the center.
Occasionally a precise symmetrical image is
interesting; it makes a change from the normally
imprecise design of most photographs. However,
a few such images quickly become a surfeit. It
is fairly normal for photographers who work
consistently with a square-format camera to
imagine a vertical or horizontal direction to the
picture, and to crop the resulting image later.
Practically, this means composing fairly loosely in
the viewfinder, to allow a certain amount of free
space either at the sides or at the top and bottom.
screen) has a huge influence on the form that
the image takes. Despite the ease of cropping it
later, there exists a powerful intuitive pressure
at the time of shooting to compose right up to
the edges of the frame. Indeed, it takes years of
experience to ignore those parts of an image that
are not being used, and some photographers
never get used to this.
Most photography is composed to a few
rigidly defined formats (aspect ratios), unlike
in other graphic arts. Until digital photography,
by far the most common format was 3:2—that
of the standard 35mm camera, measuring
36x24mm—but now that the physical width
of film is no longer a constraint, the majority
of low- and middle-end cameras have adopted
the less elongated, more “natural” 4:3 format that
fits more comfortably on printing papers and
monitor displays. The question of which aspect
ratios are perceived as the most comfortable
is a study in its own right, but in principle,
there seems to be a tendency toward longer
horizontally (the increasing popularity of widescreen
and letterbox formats for television), but
less elongated for vertically composed images.
THE 3:2 FRAME
This is the classic 35mm frame, which has been
transferred seamlessly to digital SLRs, creating
in the process a sort of class distinction between
professional and serious amateur photographers
on the one hand, and everyone else on the other.
The reason for these proportions is a matter
of historical accident; there are no compelling
aesthetic reasons why it should be so. Indeed,
more “natural” proportions would be less
elongated, as evidenced by the bulk of the ways in
which images are displayed—painting canvases,
computer monitors, photographic printing paper,
book and magazine formats, and so on. Part of
the historical reason was that 35mm film was
long considered too small for good enlargements,
and the elongated shape gave more area.
Nevertheless, its popularity demonstrates how
easily our sense of intuitive composition adapts.
Overwhelmingly, this format is shot
horizontally, and there are three reasons for this.
The first is pure ergonomics. It is difficult to
design a camera used at eye level so that it is just as
easy to photograph vertically as horizontally, and
few manufacturers have even bothered. SLRs are
made to be used for horizontal pictures. Turning
them on their side is just not as comfortable, and
most photographers tend to avoid it. The second
reason is more fundamental. Our binocular
vision means that we see horizontally. There is no
frame as such, as human vision involves paying
attention to local detail and scanning a scene
rapidly, rather than taking in a sharp overall view
all at once.
The net result is that a horizontal frame
is natural and unremarkable. It influences the
composition of an image, but not in an insistent,
outstanding way. It conforms to the horizon,
and so to most overall landscapes and general
views. The horizontal component to the frame
encourages a horizontal arrangement of elements,
naturally enough. It is marginally more natural to
place an image lower in the frame than higher—
this tends to enhance the sensation of stability—
but in any particular photograph there are likely
to be many other influences. Placing a subject
or horizon high in the frame produces a slight
downward-looking, head-lowered sensation,
which can have mildly negative associations.
For naturally vertical subjects, however, the
elongation of a 2:3 frame is an advantage, and the
human figure, standing, is the most commonly
found vertical subject—a fortunate coincidence,
as in most other respects the 2:3 proportions are
rarely completely satisfactory.
Human vision
Our natural view of the world is in
the form of a vague-edged, horizontal oval, and
a standard horizontal film frame is a reasonable
approximation. The final reason is that 3:2
proportions are often perceptually too elongated
to work comfortably in portrait composition.
4:3 AND SIMILAR FRAMES
Traditionally, and once again with digital
photography and on-screen presentations, these
“fatter” frames are the most “natural” image
formats. In other words, they are the least insistent
and most accommodating to the eye. In the days
when there was a rich variety of large-format film,
formats included 5×4-inch, 10×8-inch, 14×11-
inch, and 8½×6½-inch. There is now a reduced
choice, but the proportions all work in much the
same way, and equally for rollfilm formats, digital
backs, and lower-end digital cameras.
In terms of composition, the frame dynamics
impose less on the image, because there is less of
a dominant direction than with 3:2. At the same
time, that there is a distinction between height
and width is important in helping the eye settle
into the view, with the understanding that the
view is horizontal or vertical. Compare this with
the difficulties of a square format, which often
suffers from lack of direction. As noted opposite,
these proportions are very comfortable for most
vertically composed images.
SQUARE
While all other photographic frames are
rectangular, with varying proportions, one is
fixed: the square. A few film cameras have this
unusual format—unusual in that very few images
lend themselves well to square composition. In
general, it is the most difficult format to work
with, and most design strategies for a square
frame are concerned with escaping the tyranny
of its perfect equilibrium.
We ought to look a little more closely at
why most subjects are ill-suited to a square
arrangement. In part, this has to do with the axis
of the subject. Few shapes are so compact that
they have no alignment. Most things are longer
in one direction than in another, and it is natural
to align the main axis of an image with the longer
sides of a rectangular picture frame. Hence, most
broad landscape views are generally handled as
horizontal pictures, and most standing figures
as verticals.
The square, however, has absolutely no bias.
Its sides are in perfect 1:1 proportions, and its
influence is a very precise and stable division
of space. Here lies the second reason for the
unsympathetic nature of square proportions: they
impose a formal rigidity on the image. It is hard
to escape the feeling of geometry when working
with a square frame, and the symmetry of the
sides and corners keeps reminding the eye of
the center.
Occasionally a precise symmetrical image is
interesting; it makes a change from the normally
imprecise design of most photographs. However,
a few such images quickly become a surfeit. It
is fairly normal for photographers who work
consistently with a square-format camera to
imagine a vertical or horizontal direction to the
picture, and to crop the resulting image later.
Practically, this means composing fairly loosely in
the viewfinder, to allow a certain amount of free
space either at the sides or at the top and bottom.
FRAME DYNAMICS
he setting for the image is the picture frame.
In photography, the format of this frame
is fixed at the time of shooting, although it is
always possible later to adjust the shape of the
frame to the picture you have taken. Nevertheless,
whatever opportunities exist for later changes
(see pages 58-61), do not underestimate the
influence of the viewfinder on composition.
Most cameras offer a view of the world as a
bright rectangle surrounded by blackness, and
the presence of the frame is usually strongly felt.
Even though experience may help you to ignore
the dimensions of the viewfinder frame in order
to shoot to a different format, intuition will work
against this, encouraging you to make a design
that feels satisfying at the time of shooting.
The most common picture area is the one
shown at the top of this page: that of a horizontal
frame in the proportions 3:2. Professionally, this is
the most widely used camera format, and holding
it horizontally is the easiest method. As an empty
frame it has certain dynamic influences, as the
diagram shows, although these tend to be felt
only in very minimal and delicately toned images.
More often, the dynamics of lines, shapes, and
colors in the photograph take over completely.
Depending on the subject and on the
treatment the photographer chooses, the
edges of the frame can have a strong or weak
influence on the image. The examples shown
here are all ones in which the horizontal and
vertical borders, and the corners, contribute
strongly to the design of the photographs.
They have been used as references for diagonal
lines within the pictures, and the angles that
have been created are important features.
What these photographs demonstrate is that
the frame can be made to interact strongly with
the lines of the image, but that this depends on
the photographer’s intention. If you choose to
shoot more loosely, in a casual snapshot fashion,
the frame will not seem so important.
In photography, the format of this frame
is fixed at the time of shooting, although it is
always possible later to adjust the shape of the
frame to the picture you have taken. Nevertheless,
whatever opportunities exist for later changes
(see pages 58-61), do not underestimate the
influence of the viewfinder on composition.
Most cameras offer a view of the world as a
bright rectangle surrounded by blackness, and
the presence of the frame is usually strongly felt.
Even though experience may help you to ignore
the dimensions of the viewfinder frame in order
to shoot to a different format, intuition will work
against this, encouraging you to make a design
that feels satisfying at the time of shooting.
The most common picture area is the one
shown at the top of this page: that of a horizontal
frame in the proportions 3:2. Professionally, this is
the most widely used camera format, and holding
it horizontally is the easiest method. As an empty
frame it has certain dynamic influences, as the
diagram shows, although these tend to be felt
only in very minimal and delicately toned images.
More often, the dynamics of lines, shapes, and
colors in the photograph take over completely.
Depending on the subject and on the
treatment the photographer chooses, the
edges of the frame can have a strong or weak
influence on the image. The examples shown
here are all ones in which the horizontal and
vertical borders, and the corners, contribute
strongly to the design of the photographs.
They have been used as references for diagonal
lines within the pictures, and the angles that
have been created are important features.
What these photographs demonstrate is that
the frame can be made to interact strongly with
the lines of the image, but that this depends on
the photographer’s intention. If you choose to
shoot more loosely, in a casual snapshot fashion,
the frame will not seem so important.
INTRODUCTION
hilosophical, lyrical, sometimes obscure
commentaries on how photographs are made
and what they mean are thick on the ground,
usually by non-photographers. Not that there
is anything at all wrong with the perceptive
outsider’s view; indeed, the distance of this kind
of objectivity brings new, valuable insights.
Roland Barthes even held his non-understanding
of photographic processes (“I could not join the
troupe of those…who deal with Photographyaccording-
to-the-Photographer”) as an advantage
in investigating the subject (“I resolved to start
my inquiry with no more than a few photographs,
the ones I was sure existed for me. Nothing to do
with a corpus...”).
This book, however, is intended to be
different, to explore the actual process of taking
photographs. I think I’d like to call it an insider’s
view, though that smacks of hubris, because I’m
drawing on the experience of photographers,
myself included, at the time of shooting. A
great deal goes on in the process of making an
exposure that is not at all obvious to someone
else seeing the result later. This will never prevent
art critics and historians from supplying their
own interpretations, which may be extremely
interesting but not necessarily have anything to
do with the circumstances and intentions of the
photographer. What I will attempt to do here is to
show how photographers compose their images,
according to their intentions, moods, and abilities,
and how the many skills of organizing an image
in the viewfinder can be improved and shared.
The important decisions in photography,
digital or otherwise, are those concerned with
the image itself: the reasons for taking it, and
the way it looks. The technology, of course, is
vital, but the best it can do is to help realize ideas
and perception. Photographers have always had
a complex and shifting relationship with their
equipment. In part there is the fascination with
the new, with gadgets, with bright, shiny toys.
At the same time there is, at least among those
who are reasonably self-confident, a belief that
their innate ability overrides the mere mechanics
of cameras. We need the equipment and yet are
cautious, sometimes even dismissive about it.
One of the things that is clearly needed for
successful photography is a proper balance in this
conflict. Nevertheless, there have been very few
attempts in publishing to deal comprehensively
with composition in photography, as opposed to
the technical issues. This is a rich and demanding
subject, too often trivialized even when not
ignored outright. Most people using a camera
for the first time try to master the controls but
ignore the ideas. They photograph intuitively,
liking or disliking what they see without stopping
to think why, and framing the view in the
same way. Anyone who does it well is a natural
photographer. But knowing in advance why some
compositions or certain combinations of colors
seem to work better than others, better equips
any photographer.
One important reason why intuitive rather
than informed photography is so common is
that shooting is such an easy, immediate process.
Whatever the level of thought and planning
that goes into a photograph, from none to
considerable, the image is created in an instant,
as soon as the shutter release is pressed. This
means that a picture can always be taken casually
and without thought, and because it can, it often
is. Johannes Itten, the great Bauhaus teacher in
Germany in the 1920s, talking about color in art,
told his students: “If you, unknowing, are able to
create masterpieces in color, then unknowledge
is your way. But if you are unable to create
masterpieces in color out of your unknowledge,
then you ought to look for knowledge.” This
applies to art in general, including photography.
In shooting, you can rely on natural ability or on
a good knowledge of the principles of design. In
other graphic arts, design is taught as a matter
of course. In photography it has received less
attention than it deserves, and here I set out to
redress some of this lack.
A relatively new element is the rapid shift
from film-based photography to digital, and
this, at least in my opinion, has the potential
to revitalize design. Because so much of the
image workflow between shooting and printing
is now placed on the computer in the hands of
the photographer, most of us now spend much
more time looking at and doing things to images.
This alone encourages more study, more analysis
of images and their qualities. Moreover, digital
post-production, with all its many possible
adjustments of brightness, contrast, and color,
restores to photographers the control over the
final image that was inherent in black-and-white
film photography but extremely difficult in color.
This comprehensive control inevitably affects
composition, and the simple fact that so much
can be done with an image in post-production
increases the need to consider the image and its
possibilities ever more carefully.
commentaries on how photographs are made
and what they mean are thick on the ground,
usually by non-photographers. Not that there
is anything at all wrong with the perceptive
outsider’s view; indeed, the distance of this kind
of objectivity brings new, valuable insights.
Roland Barthes even held his non-understanding
of photographic processes (“I could not join the
troupe of those…who deal with Photographyaccording-
to-the-Photographer”) as an advantage
in investigating the subject (“I resolved to start
my inquiry with no more than a few photographs,
the ones I was sure existed for me. Nothing to do
with a corpus...”).
This book, however, is intended to be
different, to explore the actual process of taking
photographs. I think I’d like to call it an insider’s
view, though that smacks of hubris, because I’m
drawing on the experience of photographers,
myself included, at the time of shooting. A
great deal goes on in the process of making an
exposure that is not at all obvious to someone
else seeing the result later. This will never prevent
art critics and historians from supplying their
own interpretations, which may be extremely
interesting but not necessarily have anything to
do with the circumstances and intentions of the
photographer. What I will attempt to do here is to
show how photographers compose their images,
according to their intentions, moods, and abilities,
and how the many skills of organizing an image
in the viewfinder can be improved and shared.
The important decisions in photography,
digital or otherwise, are those concerned with
the image itself: the reasons for taking it, and
the way it looks. The technology, of course, is
vital, but the best it can do is to help realize ideas
and perception. Photographers have always had
a complex and shifting relationship with their
equipment. In part there is the fascination with
the new, with gadgets, with bright, shiny toys.
At the same time there is, at least among those
who are reasonably self-confident, a belief that
their innate ability overrides the mere mechanics
of cameras. We need the equipment and yet are
cautious, sometimes even dismissive about it.
One of the things that is clearly needed for
successful photography is a proper balance in this
conflict. Nevertheless, there have been very few
attempts in publishing to deal comprehensively
with composition in photography, as opposed to
the technical issues. This is a rich and demanding
subject, too often trivialized even when not
ignored outright. Most people using a camera
for the first time try to master the controls but
ignore the ideas. They photograph intuitively,
liking or disliking what they see without stopping
to think why, and framing the view in the
same way. Anyone who does it well is a natural
photographer. But knowing in advance why some
compositions or certain combinations of colors
seem to work better than others, better equips
any photographer.
One important reason why intuitive rather
than informed photography is so common is
that shooting is such an easy, immediate process.
Whatever the level of thought and planning
that goes into a photograph, from none to
considerable, the image is created in an instant,
as soon as the shutter release is pressed. This
means that a picture can always be taken casually
and without thought, and because it can, it often
is. Johannes Itten, the great Bauhaus teacher in
Germany in the 1920s, talking about color in art,
told his students: “If you, unknowing, are able to
create masterpieces in color, then unknowledge
is your way. But if you are unable to create
masterpieces in color out of your unknowledge,
then you ought to look for knowledge.” This
applies to art in general, including photography.
In shooting, you can rely on natural ability or on
a good knowledge of the principles of design. In
other graphic arts, design is taught as a matter
of course. In photography it has received less
attention than it deserves, and here I set out to
redress some of this lack.
A relatively new element is the rapid shift
from film-based photography to digital, and
this, at least in my opinion, has the potential
to revitalize design. Because so much of the
image workflow between shooting and printing
is now placed on the computer in the hands of
the photographer, most of us now spend much
more time looking at and doing things to images.
This alone encourages more study, more analysis
of images and their qualities. Moreover, digital
post-production, with all its many possible
adjustments of brightness, contrast, and color,
restores to photographers the control over the
final image that was inherent in black-and-white
film photography but extremely difficult in color.
This comprehensive control inevitably affects
composition, and the simple fact that so much
can be done with an image in post-production
increases the need to consider the image and its
possibilities ever more carefully.
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