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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.