As a relatively new photographer, I continually ask myself what makes a great photo? Then, being the over-thinker and hyper-knothead that I often am, I wonder if the act of even recognizing a great photo is artistry in itself ... I mean ... it implies that you know and understand the ingredients of a great photo.
Then I see one.
My jaw goes slack ... my heart skips ... my eyes glaze over ... I kick whatever lies near my feet (because none of mine look like that) ... but most of all ... I stare. I step inside the photo. I walk through the portal. Like Alice, I climb every tree and lift every rock. I sigh with every turn of color and light. Each twist of form or substance tickles me as I play among them. I spy the whimsy and grimace at the grotesque.
And the difference between a good photo or a great one ...
Is that I finally lose interest in the good one. I move on. It's borders can't contain me. I get restless. I wander away.
But the great one ... that one becomes my refuge. My place to go when I need somewhere to go. My hiding place.
Make no mistake, the image above is not great. It is not a place that I need to visit often. But we know those places when we see them. And that is the first step toward making them ... it is loving them.
Peace and blessings,
Glen
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