STRAW
for Being: A Presence behind the Lens
By
Nicholas C. Hlobeczy
Chapter I
The
Discovery
I find
myself here
I was asked to put down my
ideas about experiences and feelings in photography. This will be difficult for
me because I am not a writer. I am a photographer with some experience in
writing essays, and I have written a few poems. How it moves will depend on a
few things. In particular is this feeling that there is a need to experience
inspiration—a kind of impulse from within. This impulse seems to have a force
that drives me on. It has been true of all the creative fields I have worked
in. This project will be a view of my situation of the moment in photography,
and in this writing as well.
There seems to be a materiality
to inspiration—in the experiencing of it, or perhaps better said: It demands—of
me—a certain materiality. It is daunting. How else can ideas push me into
action unless they have a materiality all their own? So I feel a push from within, but why? I don’t quite understand.
It is perhaps suspicious, and ego no doubt plays its part. One step taken
demands another follow, and perhaps this is not ego, but simply the need to
stay upright, and to be as clear as possible. No ambition is actually involved
in the ordinary sense. I have to keep up and stay on track. When I fall from
grace, I’m sure you’ll notice. I wish not to fall that far.
For me it does not
necessarily follow that I am already human just because I’m here, and am a
two-legged animal. I am not all that sure that being human comes with the
territory, nor without work. To go beyond my talents is my wish—in order to
expand. That attitude helps make me potentially human. A capability is felt; a
potentiality for being more human can be sensed. This would even be more
desirable for me than being a photographer, or a poet. It may even be that in
crafts we have a tool for developing this trait of being human. It relates in
some way to bringing myself into balance. For every push there is a pull, resistance
at each turn, and in-between, a truth. No compromise here—at least this is what
I experience. Returning to this realization often is most important, and in the
mix there is a chance of remembering that it is my humanness I wish to be in
touch with—to express.
This wish cannot be hatched
by dreams. There are form and reason to be considered. It must be nourished
through sustained intent. But what do I actually know about intention? Is it
possible to even be sincere? Just because I walk upright is no reason to
consider myself better than other creatures. Even these creatures show some
development, but for those like myself something more is possible. There could
be something more in being human through the experiencing of art. I would like
to speak about these things. I hope to make it possible for you to come along
with me.
When I was young I had a
calling to express myself and considered myself to be an artist. Now that I am
older there are many questions. It is true that I have managed to make some
strong photographs, and in this way I have felt called to search more deeply.
Inspiration comes to the ill-prepared as well as the well-prepared, and lately
there has arrived for me this additional struggle—to write. It is wonderful and
exciting, like the time when I was learning photography, with all its problems
and frustrations. For reasons not fully understood, I appear to have been taken
by this task of writing, as I was—and am—by photography. All art is about being
able, at whatever level of balance we are at, and about the turbulent waters
crossed to receive that experience. Some people say art is about healing. In
any event it is not art that heals us, but rather what is revealed through the
experiencing of art. All embraces a skill of mind—hand, and the willing heart,
to take it on. Best to think of it as a mystery, which brings a breath that
develops my being. Learning about this is my intent.
Though art does reveal, and
makes known what is seen, it does not always bring regeneration. There is something
additional needed—understanding. There can be confusion on this point when I
hold what I have seen too closely to the vest, not sharing. In that
circumstance, understanding cannot grow. It may well turn into a virus that can
harm me, and those near me. Not sharing is the very Devil. There can be a
receptive moment when we are able to share. Any attempt to appear better than
my peers can often involve a silence on my part that can be taken as a knowing.
. . . It seems to me that there is a magic and truth that can be brought into
the world when we speak out, though it is a great risk. In anyone’s
ill-considered actions can be danger. With this in mind, my intent is to write
about the photographer in me. An ordinary sense of “me” brings a second character
in. There are these two, but additionally, during my growing up, I saw that
there is a third entity. This presence inside is so filled with light and life.
I am compelled to write about that being as well. I believe it is from this
third being that all good and worth originates, but its purpose cannot be
carried out without some kind of new balance within. Writing about this third
part is skating on thin ice, and grave danger lurks in including it, but I
must.
Much was simpler when I was
learning as a young man. In photography, directions were found on the box for
the contents within. The only place I had to look for help then was to follow
that yellow box, “the yellow brick road.’’ (Eastman Kodak boxes were always
yellow.) Everyone understood this expression in those days. Just as today
people say, “Read the directions, dummy.” In working with computers we have
such helps as Windows for Dummies and many other similar works. It may not be
too different in writing, as there also are books on writing. The important
things I bring to the task are inspiration, former training, and myself. How
and what is done with them is up to me. There are many difficulties in
expression. I am fortunate to have the time and the capacity to address these
troubles; I may even have the skill.
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Some
parallels with another craft ... and other reasoning’s of the heart
Rainer Maria Rilke writes:
Silent friend of many distances, feel
How your breath enlarges all of space.
Let your presence ring out like a bell
into the night. What feeds upon your face
grows mightily from the nourishment thus
offered.
Move through transformation, out and in.
What is the deepest loss that you have
suffered?
If drinking is bitter, change yourself to
wine.
In this immeasurable darkness, be the power
that rounds your senses in their ring,
the sense of their mysterious encounter.
And if
the earthly no longer know your name,
whisper to the silent earth: I’m flowing.
To the flashing water say: I am..1
Life is a taste that needs
to be cultivated. This cultivation cannot take place without intent on my part.
I wish—strive—to be a student, as I engage in my work. Through this a taste of
life can begin to appear. The wish is in me, but I need to work to find it. It
is not easily found. It is not experienced as desire, and it does not arrive
like the sun, the rain, or the wind, which come through the mechanics of
nature. With this wish we can become apprentices at any age. It is necessary to
again become students. Here we can meet a sense of awe—a sense of joy, even
fear. All these parts breathe together, and in this way discoveries arrive.
Many things can unfold.
Numerous points of
departure are available in art. What lies beyond methods might take us further.
To seriously look at questions helps. In following my interest I discover that
I have not arrived here to do what has already been done, but to make my own
road. So writing inspires me and brings the courage to stand up. I wish to
convey more than the technique of photography.
Photography—all art
forms—reflects their practitioners. In each person can be found unique
expression. Artwork done from borrowed experience would be a worthless waste of
time. That would be in opposition to the reality of an individual’s natural
worth. Most of my life has been illusion. I have lived long enough to reflect
well on this fact. There have been few moments that have had the taste, and
intensity of a fully balanced experiencing, unfettered by the dreams of time. I
have seen my foolishness in following the influences of others. My knowledge is
not flawless, but what I do know is mine through experience—hard fought and
paid for. This brings strength and enables me to find what is true. To see this
requires me to be honest and to see my poverty as well. It becomes obvious that
copying the photography of another is an empty game. There is something that
works in secret for the growth of my own being. There are impressions that are
available, which could find expression through me. There is a note I need to
write to myself as a reminder: Am I
here to trace lines, shapes, and tones already made? It takes strength to be on
my own—searching. What do I support and what supports me?
There are times when it’s
good to be cautious; this may be such a time for you, the reader. In teaching I
have been guided by a principle that I am not in this world to teach what I
know—we cannot actually. So I attempt to excite students into learning what is
already known within them. This allows their essential nature to speak out.
There is, of course, a truth that when stepping-stones are available it makes
sense to use them. At issue is the ability to proceed, rather than move in the
interests of accident, or imitation—not to vacillate. So I have a few tricks to
share.
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Hopefully, I, as presented
in these pages, can be a mirror for others to look into—even a door through
which to enter into a new life. We all have work to pursue. The trouble is in
finding it. Then one must stand up for it once it has been found.
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Obstacles
urge me to make efforts
There are issues in talking
about creativity. If you speak to others about such subtle subjects, then you
need to speak about all that makes it possible. Resistance is certainly an
important aspect to speak of. I talk about resistance to indicate how we can
weave a different fabric out of resistance—to somehow use that resistance as a
measure, and to arrive at something affirmative. In fact if you do take an
affirmative action, resistance is not far behind. It becomes a means of
locomotion. Of course people don’t want to hear that. It is thought that all
art is beauty and that it happens like breathing.. Still I don’t know how you
can explain art without sincere questioning, without noticing the movement of
things, but resistance is also a necessary and natural part of it all. People
want the experience but at the same time they’re reluctant to go beyond their
usual boundaries. What can be done is to be an example, which is what I have
tried to do. Not all will recognize the example or find value in it, but one
can only make the attempt to communicate.
I
expressed some obstacles I had in writing about creativity in this note to a
former student:
Birthday
Impression, 9/9/99
I am the
clapper; you are the bell: when the bell is struck the resultant sound can be
clear and sonorous. You have said clearly what I need to hear, that I need to
know to whom I speak. It is the same no matter where we go in the world; I need
to be a proper clapper and the bell needs to be of the right stuff to resonate.
There is a need to know how to include both; it requires a sure openness. To
arrange this possibility takes real craftsmen, sensitive persons with vision. None
quite lives up to the mark but together there seems to be some chance.
Each of
us can make sounds. It may even become music. But in everyday life there are
creators of dumb dissonant noise as well. The possibility of tuning responses
to one another nevertheless does exist. It comes out of learning to listen,
simply being what I can be—an observer, not changing what I hear. We might respond to the clapper, or be the clapper. We
may never hear the music of the spheres. In the end an artist needs an audience
and the artist needs to know what the audience will respond to.
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A new
freshness arrived in me today though it is quite dark outside; in fact there is
darkness all about me. There is a spark of something astonishing within—why
not? I am just giving attention to the
moment. The sense of a thing—its worth—is what human beings will lay down their
lives for. Some say, “On which people wager away their lives.” Do they? It may
be quite true; here is a question not to be answered too lightly. We need to
hang on to questioning our beliefs. Keep them open; new discoveries may arrive.
So, I am just enjoying my moment. No risk involved for me because even if all
goes wrong I will survive.
I don’t know about man as a whole; it’s
honest to say that. I still behave as though I know myself! It seems rather an
accident about to happen or that has already happened. There’s not much here by
intention, or conscience, in saying, “But don’t you see I am acting by my own
volition?” It is sad. Who, then, is trustworthy in the objective sense? Is
everything based on need or avarice and appetite? No reason to respond. The
word ‘need’ seems too abstract. In any event, you are precise in thinking there
must be a new direction by searching for a new basis. The fact that we see our
weaknesses shows that we can go beyond. The worst conditions may be the best
for my work now. I keep my eyes open because the real problem is that I don’t
know how thin the ice is. New beginnings are essential and I will keep at it. .
. . .
As to
the opening statement of my book, I must learn to make myself clear. There is a
somnambulist ‘I’ in me; and there is a photographer not as asleep as that
sleeper. The craftsman, knows how to search for image (photographs that have
meaning), while being secretly in contact with another, more hidden entity
inside—this secret sense of presence behind the lens of the camera and my own
eyes. This personage who plays hide and seek with me—he is never far off. This
can be realized only through working. Such a presence is much more aware and
conscious than the craftsman, or me. Could it be that I have made this more
confusing than it need be? For now it remains a mystery to me. The joy will be
the pursuit. As for God—I know nothing. I simply enjoy what little consciousness
I’m given and am grateful for that.
What I saw when I wrote the
note to my friend was that we all realize the great value of seeing questions.
What is more is that the seeing and looking includes seeing myself. With this
attitude much good can come, and a result which is honorable. The idea of
questions that give birth to genuine questioning began a long time ago with my
first photography teacher, Minor White, and his own peculiar inclination to
question everything. Without resistance and questioning the image on the
ground glass is virtually meaningless—empty and hollow.
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The Chinese sage Lao-tzu is
reported to have said, “The larger the island of knowledge, the longer the
shoreline of wonder.’’ Albert Einstein had astute insight as well in stating,
“The experiencing of the mysterious is the source of all true science’’ and I
would add, “All humans when searching in wonder and awe can find wisdom—that
possibility lies in all the arts—but without self knowledge all is empty.”
Another observation attributed to Einstein is: “Genius has its limits but
stupidity is endless.’’ So care needs to be taken for sure.
The title of this book is
linked with a practice of the Chinese. They bound straw tightly to use as fuel
for their fires (tinder to be exact). When I discovered this practice I saw
that works of art, and my own work, serve as kindling for the fire. The feel
for me is that pictures unearthed in the pursuit of truth are the materials
that feed and sustain the fire of being human; they kindle the faint embers
when they wane and all seems about to turn cold.
All this was not true about
my work when I began. Much was caught up in possession, pride and self-conceit,
where no freedom could be found, let alone kindling. Over the years this has
passed into remission, and now the images are more often a sacrifice
given for the growth of being human—toward connection with greater energy
source that lies within. My intent is that practical evidence might be found in
“Straw for Being.” It may even be kindling for the fire of others.
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You may wonder why I am
writing so much about learning to write rather than going directly to the
photography. The reason I do so is to show that you may have some of these same
problems in learning photography. I would like you to see that if I am able to
have some success, it means you might find your way as well in photography—it’s
staying power that counts. I am writing about resistance encountered no matter
what art form we may choose—that resistance is common to all. It is the measure
of my ability.
My approach to photography
is not conventional. It has been a long and twisting trail, and I am fairly
adjusted in my present role. There are many and varied experiences that add a
sense of rightness to my current work. Still there are many uncertainties
strongly rooted in experiences of childhood. It is connected quite strongly
with my art so I will tell some stories.
Many
years ago I was a child—living on a hill in a small town in western
Pennsylvania. There was an abandoned stone quarry that existed in those days on
the outskirts of town. It was filled with spring water and was called Rock
Bottom. In fact it was in a small valley behind my house; now only the house
still exists. It was the local swimming hole for all, both near and far. Most
of the boys in the neighborhood hung their bathing suits on a willow tree in my
back yard, because they were not allowed to swim at the quarry. They wanted to
keep this secret from their parents. My mom and dad evidently felt I was
responsible and a good swimmer so I was not prohibited this luxury. . . .
My
street was at the edge of town and we ran the hills like wild colts. We, like
most young people, were impatient for the day when the weather would turn warm
enough to go swimming. One Spring Saturday we were running and raising general
hell on the side of the hill when all together we came to the same notion—Let’s
go see Rock Bottom! It was a beautiful day with clear wonderful sky, unusually
bright for this time of year, so off we went screaming down the hill. It was
quite a ruckus. When we arrived, the great body of water temptingly mesmerized
us—lying quietly with steam wafting from her surface. We all stood in awe,
hypnotized and silent.
An
argument arose as to whether the water was warm enough to go in; one of the
kids finally stuck his hand in to the wrist at the shoreline and said, ‘’A
little cool but should be fine.’’ Some of us were a bit dubious, but I was open
to going in. Someone said ‘’Last one in is a so and so.’’ So, off came our
clothes in a great jumble, with each trying to be first. For some odd reason, I
was first (that had never happened before). I ran to the low board with full
heart and dove in.
I was in
shock and all but blacked out. The wind was knocked out of me as I plunged
deep—deep into the ice-cold spring water. Turning in the water, clawing at it
with all my might—time was moving in slow motion—I regained the surface with
great gasping, grappling at the rocks, dragged myself up and out as though
burdened with great weights. All my buddies were standing there dressed,
laughing at me. I had been betrayed. Dressing silently, I thought, “we can only
see our trust gone when it‘s taken from us.’’
A few of my friends today
are just such tricksters as children are, which is not of concern and may be
very helpful—now that I understand a few things better. This is the nature of
my dilemma: I am capable yet skeptical. I am hoping not to fret too much on
this account, and I do feel reasonably sure of surviving, even though it may be
that I have been maneuvered into writing this book. This time will I see myself
basted and broiled rather than frozen in ice-cold quarry water?
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In
another note written to someone who had read an early draft of my work I find
again a note of caution.
The note:
I
appreciate your response. Glad you got so much from it. There is a thought I
have that the reader may want more from me than I can give, or something
completely different. Who can be sure that what is written is complete? What I
rather hoped for is that the reader’s own fires would begin smoldering and
would need tending. That would require attention. Attention is the reason
behind all that I do well, so why should it not serve them?
There is
a dream I will share with you. It is very related to a story I used to talk
about with students in class—about a conduit or stream that flows through
photographic history, and that many wish to be part of—to help carry that further.
Not everyone can be a part of that conduit but there is a need to see if I can
do so while not deceiving myself. It is
important not to follow false notions of myself.
So your
response has triggered something exciting and at the same time there appears a
sense of grave danger. It’s like seeing the grave digger walking across the
turf with shovel already in hand to bury me. So maybe I won’t find a publisher;
I’ll make a few copies for myself, and friends who have a taste for it.
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The dream:
I was
walking in one of those city parks that are often found in rather desperate
neighborhoods. In walking along I found a stream—a rather large stream, which
was crystal clear and had a reflective surface. In following it for some distance.
I saw under this glaring surface many dismembered pipes laying rather
haphazardly. All were more or less running the length of the flowing stream. In
zigzags they each carried the stream forward to its destination though somewhat
confusedly. . . .
The
stream seemed not to need the pipes at all. Trying to get to the source of that
logic to some intelligence, I hoped to arrive somewhere in the dream. I did not
go with the flow but walked against everything upstream. It was a tough neighborhood and I was aware
of feeling that everything was in the way, which at another time would have
held me back. In this dream though I felt strong and confident.
The
dream suddenly ended!
It’s like that. I wish to
carry this sacred water to its destination. I even feel I can, but something is
missing so often in my observation. I know the goodness of a thing, but am
usually indirectly connected to the source. I am not connected in a firm way.
This may be the point. Yes, I may carry the waters of life, but for the most
part I am oblivious and disconnected in any useful way with this source. Am I
one of those disconnected pipes—enjoying the flow through me—or could I be
connected in a better way with the source? Here are the possibilities. I may
never find the source or all the connections, but I continue to look, and the
search itself is very exciting. This does not mean I have found something as
yet. One has to be very careful not to make bold assumptions.
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Both letters and the
childhood stories are examples of how insecure I can get about venturing forth,
but I must express them or burst. It seems that in reaching out to others—to
past experience as well—that time and again I am looking to be comforted. In
truth that is not what I am doing—at least in my better moments, as courage
does not come from that action. It comes from deep in my inner world, and is
born of the moment—in a flash strength is felt. It is what is needed to meet
resistance. A sense of presence seems at times to be watching my actions. It is
the best of all measures. This can be explored, along with its relationship to
my craft of photography, and the why of everything that gets in the way. At the
same time it can be encouraging to have a sounding board in others.
1. From The
Sonnets of Orpheus — XXIX. Translated by Stephen Mitchell
A Touchstone Book
Published by Simon and Schuster, Inc. New
York Chapter I