By MICHAEL PERKINS

JOE McNALLY, WHOSE ASTOUNDING IMAGES HAVE GRACED THE PAGES of Life and National Geographic, along with far too many other to be mentioned here, has, in recent decades, developed quite a roadshow as an ambassador for Nikon products. What began as a few simple tips and tricks eventually blossomed into a grand presentation of his greatest hits and a hilarious TedTalk-type chat about the many mishaps and near-death experiences he as accumulated in Getting The Shot. His results “in spite” were always astonishing, but the takeaway for me was knowing that there was at least one other super-talented shooter out there who was also something of a doofus. I needed, really needed to know that everyone gets their share of gasp-inducing smash-ups.

I have littered the cloudscape of Camera Heaven over my lifetime with all the devices I have dented, dashed, dropped and dinged. These include my Kodak Instamatic M12 movie camera, which I lost hold of only to watch its battery gate smashed to bits (I finished the film roll by rubber-banding it back on), a Polaroid Colorpack II which disintegrated in my hands during a wintry shoot, and two recent face-plantings followed by bad bounces for both my Nikon P900 and Z5 (both survived, to varying degrees). In most cases, the so-called “ruined” cameras continued to function after the mishaps, leaving mostly my pride or dignity as casualties. Some of my favorite shots of downtown Los Angeles, for example, were taken just minutes after the shutter on my camera froze from old-age, allowing me to nurse it through a few more crucial frames before it finally seized up for good. One such image, of the majestic Eastern Columbia building, is seen here.

Cameras live and then cameras die and we grieve and we move on. Seeing something physically damage your favorite tool is a great way to be reminded that it is merely a tool, that you take the picture to a much greater degree than any bit of gear you use to help you do it. But I still love to hear the Joe McNallys of the world admit, in front of witnesses, that they have almost dropped a flash bulb from the top of the Empire State Building or have watched multi-thousand-dollar equipment cases bubble beneath the surface of a bog in Eastern God-Knows-Where. Weirdly, it helps Little Me soldier on.

By MICHAEL PERKINS

AS A PHOTOGRAPHER MARRIED TO A BIRDWATCHER, I WAS PRETTY MUCH DESTINED to eventually cross over into her world, especially given the natural affinity which has always existed between the two hobbies. Like the making of pictures, the science of spotting and organizing data on the world’s winged wonders is based on the thrill of discovery, a unique mix of surprise and wonder.

Eureka moments.

The sound made by a birder who’s just checked a pileated woodpecker off his “life list” is similar to the cry of joy/relief a photog makes when the plan for the image comes real. And when both kinds of people occupy the same space, it’s inevitable that the photographer will be tempted to try to capture, not merely the birds on hand, but those who get emotionally supercharged when they spot a beauty.

I have captured many manifestations of pure joy among birders over the years, since, due to my inability to see even half of what the experts see, I have lots of time to troll about looking at everything else, including the local scenery and the gleeful faces of those whose knowledge occasionally affords them a major payoff. The frame seen here encapsulates that feeling, the moment when Nature grants you The Big Reveal.

A Eureka moment.

Birding is also like photography in that there is a definite learning curve, an apprenticeship which encourages humility. Being good at anything means slowing down and waiting on the process of learning. It is never immediate, and there are no real shortcuts. Either you put in the time or you fail.

But, God, the joy if you hang in….

By MICHAEL PERKINS

YOU MAY REMEMBER THE BRIEF 70’s-ERA FLING MANY OF US HAD with the wooden cases that were originally designed to carry the metal type used in composing newspapers and magazines. We stored them vertically on walls and stuck cute little knickknacks in the compartments, re-purposing something that once had been so universal as to be invisible to most of us into something we paid fresh attention to, now that it was charmingly obsolete.

Photography, being at least part reportage, is uniquely equipped to take note when everyday items become rare curiosities. You can take measure of this process poring through the tons of articles listing the common objects from earlier generations that later generations can no longer identify, like Rolodexes or rotary phones. Antique stores, which are mostly resale forums for other people’s old junk, are replete with things that were once essential and are now peripheral. Sometimes, the shocking distance between eras can produce good grist for images.

When the everyday becomes the vanished, like this old library card catalog, we are removed enough from them to note individual elements of them, like materials, design, patterns….all the practical aspects that their inventors had to balance to make the things. You realize that there were once several support industries just for these catalogs. Someone had to make the file cards. Cabinet makers were engaged; there were special varnishes to seal the wood, metal rods to anchor the cards in place, brassworks to make the pull handles. There were people who could sit you down and spend an evening just discussing the finer points of this catalog company versus another. Expertise was gained. Factories were engaged; people hired.

Can a photograph of an obsolete library tool evoke any or all of this? Depends. There are no guarantees that either a snapshot or a deliberately composed picture can or will do the job. But, at the very least, our understanding of earlier versions of ourselves begins with a physical document of what those people lived with, and around. And that narrative is always a potential treasure.

By MICHAEL PERKINS

I WAS NOT YET DEEPLY INVOLVED IN PHOTOGRAPHY in 1968, the first time I heard Jimmy Webb’s song Watermark, which he wrote when he was collaborating with the actor Richard Harris, who, owing to his role as King Arthur in Camelot, was briefly celebrated as an intriguing, if unconventional, singer. The lyrics of the song try to capture the essence of things that are not destined to be preserved, to rail against the fading and impermanence of memory. A half century had to pass before a song that I really enjoyed at first hearing became the very definition of the magic trick we attempt in making a photograph.

But enough talking. First, an image:

And now, the words that make all such images so, as Webb writes “draped with my regret…”

How delicate the tracery of her fine lines
Like the moonlight lacetops of the evening pines
Like a song half heard through a closed door
Like an old book when you cannot read the writing anymore

How innocent her visage as my child lover lies
Pressed against the rainswept windy windows of my eyes
Like an antique etching glass design that somehow turned out wrong
I keep looking through old varnish
At my late lover’s body
Caught on ancient canvas
Decaying, disappearing
Even as I sing this song

How tenderly the tapestry is draped with my regret
And the bittersweet inbroidery that hasn’t faded yet
But I see the details dying in that distant soft design
Like the taste of summer fading like from a dusty winter wine

How secretly and silently my sorrow disappears
You can’t see it with your eyes or hear it with your ears
It’s like a watermark that’s never there and never really gone
I keep looking through old varnish
At my late lover’s body
Caught on ancient canvas
Decaying, disappearing
Even as I sing this song

By MICHAEL PERKINS

MUCH OF COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY IS DEPENDENT ON THE SPECIFIC SURFACES captured in its field of vision. We don’t just record light in a frame; we also record the particular properties of that light as it plays on a given subject. The dynamics of contract, reflection, texture and the way a surface sends light back to our eyes all weigh in the results. In broad terms, we can just simplify this to high light/normal light/low light, but in fact the results are far more nuanced.

In the two shots shown here for comparison, the metal distillery tanks at a microbrewery bear the distinctive stamp of the kind of light they are reflecting back to the camera. One is taken with natural sunlight pouring through the room’s skylight, while the other is lit completely by ceiling fluorescents after nightfall. Both were taken on the same white balance setting, i.e., “natural light auto”, making the two exposures at least neutral in how the camera processed what it saw. But what a contrast in the color registration of the two.

The daylight shot shows highlights in the steel of the tanks that runs to pale redness in some patches, while the night shot reads very dark blue with hints of green here and there. The results are certainly no big surprise to those who take multiple exposures of the same surface, say, a mountain lake, under changing light conditions. The dominant hues are dictated by how the surface of what you’re shooting decides to bounce back light. It’s not merely the difference between “light” and “dark” but, specifically, between the changes in tonal registration creates by the surfaces themselves. If these tanks were made of cardboard, for example, their light-bouncing properties would be drastically different than those seen here. Why does this matter? Well, it goes to the intended result. You have some control over how you visualize a scene with a camera, but Nature often has the final say. Understand light better, and you shoot smarter. And perhaps smile more at the end.

By MICHAEL PERKINS

INSIDE EVERY PERFORMER, THERE LIES a little kid dying to get his mother’s’ attention. teetering on tiptoe atop a picket fence against every rule of grace or gravity, just to hear a weary, “that’s nice, dear.” This urge to, basically, not be ignored follows us through every social situation, from religion to politics, but never so fundamentally as when we are putting our very personality up for sale. Here. Look here.

Look here NOW.

Like all too many human drives, the fine art of “doing anything to make someone glance in our direction” has undergone a change. Call it a refinement. Call it progress. Whatever the cause, the way we beg someone to please, please look here has become more sophisticated, more mechanized. Shouting fire in a theater used to be more than enough to make someone crank their head in your general direction. But in nearly the third century of mass advertising and media, the old sensation of, let’s say, being drawn into a tent by a carnival barker, has been replaced with multi-million dollar theme parks and scientifically-designed ad campaigns tuned to the finest mental and emotional bait. Merely reacting to someone acting loud and weird is just too simple, too slow.

That’s why it’s great for experience, and for photography, when some of the oldest tricks somehow still do work, when someone with a crude banner, loud colors, tinny music and a snappy, weird line of gab manages to cut through the clutter. A little miracle. Months ago, I found myself on a carnival midway for the first time in more than twenty years, and I was amazed to find how much my inner eight-year-old still enjoyed being conned, cajoled, begged for attention. Somehow, even in a world where a single roller coaster can take ten million dollars and ten years’ research to create, one guy in loud clothes and stupid wigs can make us, however briefly, replay to the old invitation hurry, hurry, hurry, step right this way. And maybe snap a picture of the vanishing art of “looka here”.

And, now, if you’ll all come in a little closer, just a bit closer to the stage….

By MICHAEL PERKINS

FORMAL SHOOTS BY WORK BY PHOTOGRAPHERS, both in studio and on location, walk a strange tightrope, hybridizing the feeling of having captured “real life” in mid-step alongside the craft of making it look just a little better than real. We accept, for example, that the portrait shooter, with his bounce lights and backdrops, renders a more balanced or idealized version of us than truly exists in nature. In fact, we count on it, making comments like “make me look good!” during the process.

So deeply entrenched is this sense of formal, commercialized composition that, in our own work, we can’t help but see after-images of all that photographic salesmanship, no matter how bold or visionary we believe our stuff to be. I’ve now been around long enough to see re-runs of themes or techniques from many other sources creeping into my own, whether or not I’m trying to do a tribute or homage. My mind just has such a vast file of visual reference points from films, magazines, or culturally key moments that hints of at least some of them can’t help bleeding into my own, “original” pictures.

Often this happens without my recognizing it, at least at the instant I’m making an image, as the influence of an earlier photo informs something that I assume I’m creating wholly out of the moment. The seemingly random snap you see up top, of fun-seekers on the coastline of La Jolla, California is both of the moment and an echo of moments past, back whenever I first formed a mental diagram of what “a day at the ocean” should look like. Three weeks after I shot it, a snatch of an old Nat King Cole song brought up the memory of the album cover that was used to market that tune. The staging of that studio shoot’s “caught in the moment” ambience makes even a “candid” shot go through some sort of filter in my head. The gestures should look like this; the bodies should be arranged thus; The frame should be here.

In photography, there is no such thing as a “good” or “bad” influence, only influence itself. We make believe that we are stopping time inside a box in a way that is truly random, but it is actually experience which decides on which terms that randomness is applied.

“We had the TOOLS, we had the TALENT!”——Ghostbusters (1984)

By MICHAEL PERKINS

THE CRY OF VICTORY BY EGON AND COMPANY when the dreaded Sta-Puf Marshmallow Man was defeated could easily be the enthusiastic “Yes!” uttered by many a photographer, once a stubborn technical problem has finally been solved and something like a usable picture results. The struggle is real, and it’s often just as sloppy and gooey as slaying a giant s’more. Being unable to nail an image through a failure of either ability or gear(or both) is as haunting as, dare I say it, a ghost, and exorcising the little sucker can be a true thrill.

One of the personal ghosts inhabiting my brain since 2011 was born the first time I stepped inside the legendary Hotel del Coronado, the lush 1880’s vacation spot in San Diego that stood in for a Florida resort in Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot (1959). The brilliant sunshine found just outside, on the joint’s sun porch, becomes a dim memory as soon as you step inside the lobby’s dark, wooded depths, a real catacomb of deeeeep shadow where light (and far too many photographs) goes to die. One look at my first attempt to extract something out of the murk, way back then, tells it all. The camera was a Nikon D60, a basic entry-level DSLR with a 10mp crop sensor and a fairly low ceiling for ISO. Exhibit “A”:

2011: Hotel del Coronado, San Diego, CA. f/2.2, 75mm, 1/60s., ISO 400. Shot on full auto.

Yeah, painful, innit? Now, jump forward about four cameras and fourteen years to my Nikon Z5 full-frame mirrorless, and, well, we almost have a fighting chance. Exhibit “B”:

Returning to the scene of the crime in 2025, and shooting manually. f/2.8, 28mm, 1/250s., ISO 2500.

Certainly, to extend the Ghostbuster metaphor, the “tools” are different; technology marches on. But the “talent”, if that’s not too obnoxious a word, has moved forward a bit as well. I am quite literally not the same photographer I was then, which makes sense, because I only had one direction I could go. If I still couldn’t make this picture by now, I should be spending my time planting zinnia seeds in the back yard or something. So what’s the pitch here? Something on the order of the old saw “never stop shooting”. It’s a musty, dusty, hackneyed slogan, but it just happens to be true. Make it til you make it right.

By MICHAEL PERKINS

THE FUTURIST JOHN NESBITT, in his classic book 1982 Megatrends, made a solid point about how humans adapt to rapid progress; that is, how they maintain their equilibrium in the face of accelerating change. He coined the phrase “high tech, high touch”, a term that defined a kind of spring forward /fall back cadence in modern life. In Nesbitt’s analysis, people who become swamped by overwhelming “high tech” revert back to the comfort of more tactile experiences from previous times, embracing the comfort of “high touch”.

It’s still a good explanation for the tug of war in photography between the “hands on” warmth of analog and the “all things are possible” allure of digital. We find ourselves, with present tools, going all the way to perfection, and then back again. And then back again and then back again.

An early Technicolor camera, of the same typed used to film The Wizard Of Oz.

A recent video on cinematography in movies put forth the idea that today’s films don’t look as “cinematic” as features from pre-digital times, that the very idea of technically removing flaws or inconsistencies from the exposure and lighting of movies makes them look somewhat lifeless, so evenly perfect as to be sterile. The creators of the video drew an especially stark comparison between the lush, tonally rich look of 1939’s The Wizard Of Oz versus the somewhat desaturated, somewhat lifeless look of 2024’s Wicked. Are we merely suffering a fit of nostalgia, or is there actually something that today’s tech is over-polishing, over-supervising images for today’s market, whereas the “flaws” of earlier photographers somehow remain alluring, even beloved?

Before you struggle to answer those questions, a caution: your answers are only your answers. What digital offers for some can seem seem like the ultimate perfection of all past problems, while, for others of us, the problems themselves, from tonal balance to lighting for effect, contain a way to stamp your personal style on something that might otherwise be sterile. Everyone who makes an image decides where to plot their location on the line between “high tech” and “high touch”, deciding how much perfection is just enough, or too much. Photographs need a healthy mixture of “wizard” and “ahhhs”.

By MICHAEL PERKINS

ONE OF THE GREAT LIES OF OUR AGE is that being tethered to the internet via a phone constitutes something called “connectedness”. In fact, locking our gaze onto screens is a symptom of seeking connection, not necessarily finding it. Instead of focusing on the life within ourselves, we are now turned eternally outward, seeing what else is out there, or, worse yet, what might be happening without us.

This condition explains why our street images are now swamped with pictures of people staring into devices, wishing themselves somewhere else….or, worse yet, terrified that they might be in this life alone. Shooting on a street used to mean catching people staring off or fixating on something within their immediate world, in a way that often underscored their isolation. We couldn’t possibly know what was on their minds, but that was the point. In trying to make pictures that posited a theory about what that was all about, we imbued our informal candids with power, even mystery.

Fast forward to today, when using a camera to catch a person alone, in a moment of isolated contemplation, perhaps casting their gaze on something distant or illusory, is increasingly difficult. I sometimes think that the only truly honest street work is our depictions of just how isolated we really are, despite our instinctual gravitation toward the black hole of “connectedness”. I make a diligent search for the unguarded instant, the temporary snatches of complete “alone times”. That’s when the impassive mask of false engagement shows itself. And sometimes, the snap of a shutter reveals it before the screens beckon once more, and we again submerge.

By MICHAEL PERKINS

AS IT WRITE THIS, THE HIT TV SERIES SEVERANCE has, beyond its compelling depiction of a dystopian hellscape, sparked many conversations about what’s come to be called the “work-life balance”, that elusive equilibrium between what we find necessary and what we consider essential about our existence. Admittedly, it would be hard to find a single person alive in these days that has not actively worried about getting that teeter-totter equation correct, or at least close. One corrective force that we should always celebrate in doing so is creativity.

Photography, like any other creative enterprise, is an attempt by the inner spirit to exert some kind of control over our view of the world, or even to actively prescribe for it. Making an image is therefore an affirmation of the self, an insistence that we, as individuals, can order at least a small part of the universe in the way that we desire. To correct not only the work-life imbalance but the horror-delight imbalance. Art is a needed counterweight against despair, and the best thing about it is that adjusting that weight is within the means of anyone.

These are the times that try men’s souls, goes the saying. The phrase always sounds so fatalistic, but, in the work of creating art, we do “try”, and perfect, and refine our souls. We decide, purposefully, to shine, and to imbue other things or people with that selfsame glow. A photograph is a way of resetting the terms under which we engage life, no less than poetry, literature, or music. It is a way of viewing all the hardship, grief and trauma of being alive, in this or any age, and adding two words: yes, but……

It’s a priceless process.

Coordinating the hand and the eye is the way art is executed. Making a photograph concerts that two-way connection into a three-legged stool by incorporating the heart. That’s the solid foundation of art, for survival of any kind. Generate a picture and you generate hope.