A few years ago, I attended a management training course at work, which was all about problem-solving and efficiency.  It was common for group business training to be delivered to people in roles like mine, and I learned a great deal from some of them.  They were never a riot, though.  One of the challenges for those presenting material to these kinds of sessions, was to keep it upbeat and light-hearted.  If the presentation was straight after lunch in what was known as the ‘graveyard shift’, it became more important to add humour and interaction to make sure everyone was awake.  On this particular day, a senior manager was giving their presentation during ‘the shift’ while we all awaited the arrival of the fresh coffee; that a tough crowd for sure.  Lethargy wasn’t what was bothering me about the material on the screen, however.  The slides were littered with Dilbert cartoons.  Now, you must have been in a cave for the past 25 years if you haven’t seen or heard of Dilbert, the long-suffering engineer in a company surrounded by incompetent management, narrow-minded colleagues, and daft corporate processes.  The cartoon, by Scott Adams has made us laugh, albeit uncomfortably at times, because the situations the eponymous character finds himself in are often very familiar to those who work in corporate office jobs.  The slides that I was looking at were trying to inform as to ‘how not to motivate the team etc’ and used Adams’ humour to achieve their objective.   During the welcome coffee break, I said to the presenter that I didn’t know our business had a licence to use Dilbert. What I received in response was a blank look.   Eventually they said “it doesn’t matter, it’s public domain”.  Therein lay the problem.  Adams’ licences the cartoons to publications like newspapers and magazines, but he also has a licence for commercial use.   If there isn’t a licence in place, the cartoons could not be used by a company like ours for any kind of commercial gain.  Now, in fairness my employer was a huge business and I’m sure that licence existed somewhere in the vast structure of the organisation, but that’s not the point.  The point is that if you look closely at social media or small online businesses, you’ll become aware of how many times people share photographs without considering the owner or creator.   They are found on Google Images, so they must be ok, right? Well, no.  Like the Dilbert episode, it’s most likely an infringement of copyright to use a picture you find while wandering the internet, if you don’t have permission to do so.

Copyright Claim, by Markus Winkler (via Unsplash) https://markuswinkler.de

It doesn’t take a great deal of thought or expertise to recognise that the internet is a huge ‘place’ and as such, is very difficult to police in terms of copyright.  There are also other aspects to consider, like how the image is being used.  For example, in academic study in the UK, there is an exception in place that covers research and criticism.  In my degree course, I analyse and write essays about famous photographs, and I reference them properly in the writing to make it clear that the source doesn’t belong to me.  If I wanted to include them in my commercial work, I would need permission, which is the reason why I only include my own photographs in these blog posts for example.   I’m not sitting in judgement of people who accidentally breach copyright, but I am acutely aware of how I would feel if someone nicked one of my pictures for their Instagram (I had a couple of instances of that last year) or other purposes without my permission.   The reason for writing about copyright this week, is that I was accused of copyright infringement myself, falsely I might add.   I had just finished my photographic series for the current module of my course, called Modern Monsters, which is ironically about online trolling.  I chose to present the series as a video, hosted on YouTube, as I felt like this was the right context to set the project within.  Over the slideshow of my photographs, I used the famous piano piece Gnossiennes No.1, by Erik Satie.   As soon as the work was published, I was hit with a copyright infringement claim.  Here’s the thing, there is an expiry date for copyright that is 70 years after the death of the creator, so Satie’s sheet music for Gnossiennes is no longer covered as he died in 1925.  However, recordings of his work are covered by their own copyright as they were an interpretation of the original.  The musician uses their own style to perform it, perhaps creates a variation or includes other instruments or even a full-blown orchestra.  The moment they did that, they create something new, which is subject to copyright.  In my case, someone believed that I had used their work as part of Modern Monsters.  In fact, I’d carefully selected a recording that was subject to what is known as a Creative Commons licence, which means that the creator wishes it to be truly public domain.  This claim should be resolved pretty easily on the basis that I have the proof that it’s baseless.  However, the key learning from this was actually something else.   The claim was made literally seconds after the video went live, which to me suggests that there are content creators using automatic web bots to look for potential uses of their property.   Either that, or they were super-human or psychic.  If bots are being used to scour the internet, then we should all be careful where copyright of online material is concerned.   

Next time you see that  photograph that you like or a cartoon that makes you laugh, think about whether you can, or even should, share it.  Chances are the idea of going viral would be appealing to an artist, but there will be people who rely on their work for an income who object and, if proven right, might consider legal action.  The good news is that there are plenty of providers of imagery and music for content creators where copyright is handled by licencing or exemptions.  I’m certainly going to be using them more in 2023 as I pursue some content creation of my own, but more on that in the coming weeks. 

For my series Modern Monsters, please visit https://youtu.be/OCouCCUDXog

I was recently talking to a friend of mine about a job they were working on, when they told me a story that made us both laugh.  He’d asked someone for a profile picture to include in an upcoming article and the image they sent back was, frankly awful.  We couldn’t understand how anyone interested in creating an impression would knowingly offer a bad likeness, and not expect some sort of allergic reaction to it.  The obvious answer might be found at the heart of the popular portrait style that we are surrounded by in our everyday lives, the ubiquitous ‘selfie’.  I’m not a fan of this type of portraiture, principally because I’m really bad at taking them.  There’s something about the dexterity required to frame and trigger the phone’s camera that I struggle with.  If I’m with other people, to be fair the only time I bother to take them, my relatively short arms (for a big lad), means that my face always looks massive in the picture.  Even if I successfully navigate all of that without dropping my phone, I never look particularly happy in the finished image. 

Never knowing what to do with my face

Those who know me well, know that I have a ‘resting angry face’, which essentially means that I look incredibly grumpy when my expression is neutral, even if I’m not.  If I’m unhappy about something, my face doesn’t really change, hence my propensity for pulling silly faces during selfies as a way of introducing something different.  During the conversation with my friend, it occurred to me that something had changed in the past decade or so that resulted in the selfie becoming some form of social currency, and that in some cases we don’t seem to care greatly about how accurately they represent our likeness.   This, and concept of the self-portrait, aren’t new of course.  For centuries painters from all genres have, on occasion created portraits of themselves, either as a reflection of their status or a demonstration of their skill for ‘advertising’ purposes.  People were much more likely to pay attention to you if they thought you could paint a good nose.  Portrait paintings were popular with royalty and the aristocracy, because of the considerable expense that went into creating them.  To have a portrait commissioned, you needed money, so naturally the finished product was a way of showing off your wealth to others.  Another reason for its popularity was the creative licence that could be taken through the ‘collaboration’ between subject and artist.  The painting didn’t need to be accurate but instead needed to represent the client as they wished to be seen.  The story of how King Henry VIII accused Hans Holbein of embellishing a portrait of Anne of Cleves to make her prettier is legendary, even though unlikely to be true.  In fact, the King was presented by an idealised portrait of Anne, which was an elegant, dignified portrayal of a potential English Queen, but that masked the other information known about her being dull, bad mannered and apparently lacking in personal hygiene.  The portrait then, is a representation of a person how they wish to be seen combined with the intention of the artist or their commission.  

In the early days of photography, the idea of a technical process that captured light and shadow in a repeatable way, meant that its initial uses were primarily scientific.  The two men credited with its ‘invention’, William Henry Fox Talbot and Louis Daguerre, were said to be frustrated by their inability to draw, so wanted a way of ‘capturing’ the natural world.  Their processes for making photographs were seen by them to be a faithful representation of the subject, which led to the widely-accepted notion that ‘the camera doesn’t lie’.  When photography started to be used for portraiture in the mid 19th Century, people believed that the picture was a factual representation of the subject.  However, this was total nonsense, because although the process was technically repeatable, the subject could still present a persona and the photographer could choose the precise moment that the picture should be made; the habits of the portrait painters were alive and well in this new medium.  Their complicity made it apparent that the camera actually lies all the time.  The advances in camera technology (lenses, films, flash strobes etc) made it possible for the photographer to represent the subject however they chose to and, with the public’s unshakable belief of the medium being honest, got away with some proper corkers.  Everything from 19th Century ‘ghost’ photography, achieved by double exposure but convincing enough to fool many intelligent people (including one Sir Arthur Conan Doyle), to the Farm Securities Administration which yielded Lange’s infamous Migrant Mother in the 1930s, caused photography’s ‘objectivity’ to be continuously challenged.  That’s not to say this is bad thing, as it made it possible for photography to be seen as a creative tool.   Like many photographers, I wouldn’t have bothered with the medium if it was purely aimed at science rather than being creative.  

Within the portraiture photography genre, the variety of combinations where the artist and subject collaborate, don’t collaborate, are aware of each other, are not aware etc., make it an ever-evolving art form.  For example, In 1968 American photographer Tony Vaccaro plotted to capture an image of ‘the real’ Pablo Picasso.   He already knew famous artist, so his plan was straightforward enough; spend time relaxing with him and choose the right moment.  His problem was that Picasso was known to adopt conventional portrait poses whenever a camera was pointed at him, which generally frustrated photographers of the time.   Vaccaro pretended to be uninterested in taking a picture as they drank champagne together at Picasso’s apartment, even pretending at times that his camera was broken.  When Picasso lost interest and lowered his guard, Vaccaro shot his picture.  The result was a picture of a man who wasn’t portraying the persona that everyone might recognise and was more how Vaccaro saw him.  The famous image has since become a representation of Picasso that is adopted by the public, still seemingly believing in the honesty of the photograph.  

If we consider the original points about the selfie in this context, this idea of idealistic representation on the part of the subject and photographer makes sense.  We take selfies to show something, whether it’s ourselves, the people we are with or where we are at the time.  They often celebrate moment our lives, a night out or a holiday, and if we don’t like the result we can simply retake or delete them.  We are both photographer and subject, meaning we have complete control over how the image comes out, self-editing before we show them to other people.  It occurred to me that it doesn’t explain why someone would send my friend an image without caring about how they looked, though.  Perhaps the answer to that question could have something to do with how photography has been democratised in recent years.  Nearly everyone in the developed world has a smartphone with a camera and nearly everyone takes photographs with it.  The proliferation of images on the many social media platforms and their continual refreshing, has led to them having a very short shelf life.  For example, when Snapchat was launched in 2011 it was inconceivable that we would share pictures that were only available for a short time before being automatically deleted.  However, now we have the social media ‘story’ which exploits this temporary existence with the purpose of enticing people to ‘stay tuned’ for more content arriving soon.  Perhaps then, the selfie that isn’t perfect is just one in a long line that may or may not eventually be the likeness we crave; the less-than-perfect versions being discarded eventually because, well, they just don’t matter.  If they don’t matter, perhaps our standards have dropped too because of that throw-away mentality.  Whatever the reason, I now wonder what the great classical portrait painters would have made of this progression.  Perhaps the right collection of Anne selfies would have changed the course of history and let Holbein off the hook.  What I do know is that for now, I think I’ll stay behind the camera. 

They say that inspiration comes from the most unusual of places, and how this post came about is no different.  I had just returned from the supermarket with a load of shopping and was in the process of unpacking the chilled items and putting them into the fridge.  Our fridge is one of those massive American-style side-by-side models that is completely over the top and way too big for two people’s groceries.  It’s a brilliant machine, but while it has some great qualities, there is a function that always bothers me even though I appreciate it being there. When either of doors is open for a while, an alarm sounds warning me to close them immediately.  It’s not particularly loud, nor is it a particularly annoying sound, but as I was unpacking my shopping, and it started to go off, I wondered why it bothered me so much.  The answer turned out to be a simple matter of time, or rather it being about to run out.  While I do not suffer from OCD, which I understand to be a very debilitating condition, I do find these micro-deadlines rather stressful.  The reality is that the interior of the fridge merely drops a couple of degrees while the door is open, but somehow with the current cost of energy and the desire not to waste it for the sake of the environment, that little alarm signals something more than “your food is gonna get warm”.  It suggests that we I need to be more organised, pack my groceries with a view to better unloading, and not to waste time leaving the door open.  We all have these ‘helpful’ warnings which are produced by modern technology, whose purpose is to make our lives easier by preventing us from forgetting something that might be important.  However, what they actually do is present us with a logical condition; if we don’t act, there will be consequences.  Those, however minor, might mean that we cannot achieve something that we want in the short term and potentially prevent us from revisiting it in the future.  The effect is to frighten us into action, rather than act as a simple reminder.  A more significant one than the fridge alarm that I’ve received from time to time, comes from the university that I’m studying with.  The course is hugely flexible within each module, but each one cannot take more than 12 months to complete.  As it’s a creative degree, most of us take advantage of the time available to learn more, which is how I explain the length of the course to people who say “couldn’t you just knock it out in 3 years?”  I feel like the length of the study is making me a more knowledgeable artist than I would be if I did a full-time course at a traditional university.   The difficulty is that with each increasingly challenging project, it takes more time to come up with an idea, explore how to shoot it and produce a body of work at the end.  Therein lies the problem, which the university is quick to be helpful about.  They continually monitor the elapsed time between coursework submissions, and if there is a longer period than expected, they send a reminder.  It takes the form of an email asking if everything is ok, because they are naturally worried about missing the deadline for the unit…etc…etc.  This has the effect of piling on the pressure, which is a good thing if you’re an engineer or accountant, but not if you’re trying to be a creative.   Worse still, the email comes from an automated mailbox, so there isn’t even anyone on the line to reassure or vent at.  Over the years, I’ve got used to them and am also acutely aware that getting stressed about it, makes me less creative and consumes more time.  I’ve mentioned before that I cannot force the idea into fruition, and this has been evident in some of the work I’ve produced in the past.  What it means these days is that every waking moment is consumed with some thought about what I’m working on, running in the background like a Windows Update.  Sometimes ideas flow freely as my wife pointed out recently.  We were out with friends and Jayne told of how she’d walk into the room and say “hello”, only to be greeted in reply with a torrent of ideas and thoughts about the current assignment.  “I only said hello”, she added.  On other occasions I’d have to console myself by knowing that even if I wasn’t shooting, researching or writing, at least I was using the available time to think, which goes some way to easing the pressure. 

Why am I telling you all this?  Well, because even my mitigation strategy isn’t effective all the time; if we constantly thought about everything we were trying to do, it would drive us crazy.  Instead, I wanted to highlight the importance of disconnecting from the modern world and its helpful reminders.  One of the best ways I’ve found as a photographer is to go out with a pinhole, or better still a large format camera.  I have 2 cameras in my collection that shoot 4x5 inch sheet film, one recent model made by Intrepid Camera and the other being an early 1960s Graflex Crown Graphic.   The Graflex is a camera that everyone will recognise if they watch a movie set during that period, as they were the ones used by the press corps, stereotypically wearing trench coats and fedora hats.  The camera is also well known in the world of Star Wars as their sidecar flashgun battery tubes were used as the prop for the original lightsabers in the first film in 1977.   Fans of the films tend to buy the flashguns in order to make their own lightsaber handles, which means they are becoming increasingly rare.  

My 1962 Graflex Crown Graphic 4x5 camera with its original box just before it was shipped from the US

The escapism provided by shooting the Graflex is twofold.  Firstly, the camera works like the old-fashioned box cameras of the early days of photography, with the image being composed and focussed on a ground glass screen and being upside down like with a camera obscura.  This requires concentration and some imagination to make sure that the elements being photographed actually fit into the frame.   Secondly, the camera has no electronics which means that metering with an external lightmeter is needed to determine exposure.  This isn’t uncommon with old cameras, but the high cost of each individual sheet of film (around £5 for a good black and white stock) means that determining exposure is a job that requires great care.  With all cameras, there is a single value of exposure, which is determined by a meter reading and the setting of aperture, shutter speed and ISO (sensitivity) accordingly.  Whatever value the photographer chooses from metering, becomes a single setting on the camera and it will yield different results depending on where that reading  was taken from and, in the case of film, the characteristics of the emulsion.  Most film photographers meter using Adams & Archer’s Zone System from 1940 if they want to weigh up the lighting conditions and select an average exposure value for the scene.  This involves looking for the middle tone of the scene, taking a reading and then determining the dynamic range by taking further readings of highlight and shadow.  Once the range the light is known, the photographer can choose how they want the picture to look and set exposure accordingly.  This all takes a fair amount of time, which when coupled with the operation of the camera, isn’t exactly a ‘point and shoot’ situation.  This is what I love about it.   I’ve been out with the Graflex and taken 4 sheets of film, all loaded and ready to go, and taken over 2 ½ hours to shoot them.  I’m not sure exactly what happens, but the concentration and lack of digital distractions, social media and other crap, means that the time just whizzes by.  That slow process is in itself relaxing and at the same time exciting, as the photographer is hopeful of getting everything right in the camera resulting in the perfect negative (we are a delusional bunch) 

Salvador Dali graffiti mural, shot on 4x5 slide film.  The resulting slide was so detailed that the client enlarged to a huge poster that was many feet high

Now I’m not suggesting that everyone takes up shooting large format film cameras, but I am saying that self-isolating from the pace of the technological world, with its micro deadlines and constant reminders, is a healthy thing.  I’ve found it to help calm my mind enough to overcome any creative roadblocks I might be having, which also means that I can meet the deadlines that are really important.  It’s definitely something to think about.  I’ll sign off there as my laptop is telling me I only have 10% battery life left before ‘computer armageddon’.  What fun.