Pictorialist photography was a turn-of-the-20th-century movement where some photographers wanted to be in more museums, to be taken more seriously, and to be seen as artists in and of themselves, up there with painters, sculptors, printmakers, etc., using very soft focus and adding colors to the black and whites to express emotion and mood. It was a thing for a while.
It was a thing for a while with me too, using an old Brownie camera with a softening plastic lens in the early 2000's, printing black and white negs on color paper. Also in the 2010's, I used a painterly add-on in my Photoshop to make images look old and painterly.
And a week ago while hiking in the Sierra Anchas Mountains, it became a thing again, with my SLR and my killer 70-200mm lens. I saw, in my mind's eye, images with soft focus and exaggerated colors, not razor sharp but dreamy like those old Brownies of mine. Lucking I remembered a thing I can do in the RAW image section of Photoshop to make this happen. And a couple of other tricks I have too.
Three days ago, I was up at the Grand Canyon shooting stock. Again, in my mind's eye, looking into that great big hole in the ground I imagined a softer image, with lots of color that wasn't there, lots of feeling that wasn't in my initial gaze, a mystery I would like to see outside of my head and away from the Canyon.
And I thought of the Hudson River School.
That was a nineteenth-century movement in American painting that featured the landscape as a pastoral setting, a place where man and nature lived in harmony. It was a fantasy, but a nice dream, using extreme colors and fine composition to create a mood of peace. Thomas Cole is seen as its founder but other painters like Frederic Church, Albert Bierstadt, Asher Durand, and Susie Barstow were also prominent. Cole's work at the National Gallery in Washington has moved me often in my journeys there, particularly his Voyage of Life. These artists were not plein air artists, painting outdoors, using nature as a firm template. They mixed and matched ideas, creating landscapes out of whole cloth, taking a little of this mountain and a little of that river, then maybe throwing in a house or a human. They were not painting what was exactly in front of them. They were trying to make a point but also trying to make magic. When I've seen these enormous canvases in real life, they've awed me, made me speechless, which for those of you know know me, is not any easy thing to do.
So staring at the Grand Canyon, I saw a loose template for me to create something emotional, soft, colorful and new, or at least new to me.
[Art Critique: I looked up Hudson River School of Photography on the internet and found a group of dudes. Bros really. They were taking their landscape shots, sharpening the shit of them with HDR and who knows fucking what and they all seemed very proud of themselves. That's a bit unfair, and for those of you photogs who see yourself in this artistic vane and are humble about it I apologize. But these guys really like what they are doing, which is nothing new or meaning at all in my eyes. Sharp as a razor images with slighted popped color and no soul. BFD. You see this a lot in photography these days. Bottom line: This ain't Hudson River School. This is Bro River School. End of critique.]
However...
I like the idea of the true old intention of the Hudson River School (and if you ain't got intention in your art making, you ain't making art. Sorry bro.) But I can't use Hudson River School in the names of my photographs because of these guys. So I thought Santa Cruz River School, named after the mostly-dry river in Tucson. Nah. Don't feel right.
Then I remembered what I thought at the Canyon. I was standing, shooting and praying at Lipan Point, one of my most powerful spiritual and artistic spots on the planet, which I've visited dozens of times over the decades. I looked down at the Colorado River as it made the big turn, coming down from the north then flowing west and I thought, "Colorado River School. I like that. But it's a bit pretentious."
Two days later, I got over that. It's a nice name.
Colorado River School it is.
So off we go. Hope you dig the magic I'm trying to make here. Often times I fail, but from time to time, it works.
One thing I learned in Art School at Carolina from Mike Cindric is we need to keep making stuff, throwing pots, making sculpture, painting paintings, shooting photographs, weaving tapestries, writing books, singing songs, etc.. Keep at it. Don't stop. If you're going to be a successful artist, you make stuff everyday. It's the job. A good job emotionally and spiritually, perhaps financially not so much at times, but it's good work. Really good work. And from the work comes results. Just like from any other kind of committed effort. Eventually you make The Good Shit.
When in art critiques at Carolina, when I made something that was successful, Cindric and the other students would say, "It works."
True in 1977. True in 2020.
I pray these pieces work too. Sometimes they will. Sometimes they won't. But I'll keep making the stuff. Everyday.
And hoping to make for The Good Shit.
"Lipan Point, Grand Canyon, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.
"The Colorado River, Grand Canyon, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.
"The Kaibab Trail, Grand Canyon, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.
"Vishnu Temple, Grand Canyon, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.
"Montezuma Pass, Arizona/Sonora, USA/Mexico Border: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.
"Sierra Ancha Mountains, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.