Promiscuous Light

March 23 2016

The worst time for photography

is the middle of the day.

High noon,

when the eye is clear

the world unadorned.

Because the image, which depends on light

is flattered more by silhouette.

Inscrutable shade

tricks of depth

the moment stilled.

Contrast

and increment.

There is nothing natural

capturing life this way.

While the sameness

of the middle of the day

cuts too close,

flattened

in its pitiless gaze,

over-exposed

by promiscuous light.

We claim to believe

in illumination

but obscurity serves us well.

Best of all, a gathering storm.

The dark underbelly

of brooding cloud

looming over us,

the far horizon

in brilliant sun.

Black and white,

thrill, and deliverance.

We want drama, but also the lens;

the narrowed aperture

the mirrored glass.

Behind the camera

as if it were a blind,

safe

unseen

detached.

In the latest National Geographic (April 2016) there was an eye-stopping piece called 93 Days of Spring:  a photo-essay of a Minnesota spring, 93 pictures over 93 days. Early in the article, Jim Brandenburg – the writer and photographer – says this: “As photographers know, noon light is the worst light of the day – a time to put the camera away and take a nap.”

This sentence struck me. It illuminates the essence of photography:  that it’s not mere documentary, which would be best served in the strongest and most even light; it’s art, which means artful, constructed, heightened. And it made me think of the nuance, excitement and mystery that’s to be found in the shadows, the liminal edges, the illusions of depth.

The ending of the poem speaks to our aversion to objective truth (if there is such a thing), harsh reality, the cold light of day. Instead, our view is mediated and distorted, coloured by our delusions and biases and shying away. So it’s always only a version of truth: either cropped, as in close-up; or seen indirectly, as if reflected by mirrored glass.