Learning to See, Part 2

Several readers of last week's post indicated that they would like to know more about the training I received that led to my passion for photography. In life, and especially in training, feedback is a gift, so I will try to honor that request today.

As I stated last week, I studied photography at the Hartford Art School, during four of the most challenging and rewarding years of my life. I've reflected quite a bit on this time since, and realized that the most valuable training I received there focused more on the creative mindset than on technical ability.

First, let me say that if you are interested in photography or would like to sharpen your skills, bravo to you. That is a truly wonderful place to be in, and there have never been more resources available to help you in your journey. You do need an understanding of the basics: composition, exposure, light, and processing technique. Any photograph, even a snapshot, is the product of a series of decisions you'll arrive at by asking questions. My inner monologue often goes something like this: "How would I describe this light? Will this make a better color image than black and white? What's the most interesting angle to see this from? Do I have enough light to shoot this without a flash?..." and so on, and so on.

Of course, you don't always have time to ask those questions. Sometimes you have react to the photograph that appears before you, and you've got to trust your gut instinct that you're making the right decisions. People who have to react, people in the military, in law enforcement, in sports, etc. train to the point that their reactions are reliable. The same applies to photography.

I began to learn these lessons in school, and I am still learning them, with every photo I take. The most valuable training tool I've found along the way has been feedback. In school, every project would end with a critique, a formal review of your work amidst professors and peers. At first, this was frankly terrifying. Having foregone food, sleep, friends, and sanity in the process of producing a series of work, sometimes all I wanted was for someone to say "That's clearly the best thing you've ever done. Take the night off". I still crave that sometimes, and have yet to hear it. What I learned was that the critiques were there for a positive reason - not so you could hear what you did wrong, but so you could learn from people with far more experience and varied backgrounds, what you might have done better. The most valuable thing you could do was listen to the advice, learn from your mistakes, and apply a new perspective to your next project.

You don't need to go to art school to do this. I've been out of school for almost four years, and I still crave that dialogue. Social networking communities are great for achieving this. Post your work on Flickr or another photo community and I guarantee people will talk to you about your work. More importantly, I learn more from looking at other people's photos, asking them questions, and seeing through their eyes, and their lenses, than I ever will from looking at my own. Blogs are another great way to engage in continual learning. The mission of Strobist, "Learn How to Light", is one example of a really valuable learning tool. There are easy-to-understand tutorials for everyone, no matter what your experience level is, no matter what camera you use or what kind of gear you have (or don't have yet, but lust over, in my case). Nikon's new Learn and Explore site is also marvelous. Spend a few hours here and you'll be getting training from today's top commercial photographers.

There are more resources, far more than I could ever describe here. All you have to do is look, and you'll find something that works for you. The trick is to push yourself to keep looking, keep learning, keep seeing. It's a wonderfully rewarding process, so don't wait to start - get out there with whatever camera you have on you, and happy photographing!

"I have often thought that if photography were difficult in the true sense of the term -- meaning that the creation of a simple photograph would entail as much time and effort as the production of a good watercolor or etching -- there would be a vast improvement in total output. The sheer ease with which we can produce a superficial image often leads to creative disaster." Ansel Adams (1902 - 1984)

Learning to See, Pt. 1

My first camera was a used Olympus OM-1. First introduced in 1972, it was known as a "compact SLR", or Single Lens Reflex camera, although far heavier at 24oz than what we are accustomed to today. It shot 35mm film and didn't have a single automatic feature. Not one. In order to produce a decent photograph, I had to learn how to focus (manually), adjust the depth of field and shutter speed to compensate for available light (manually) and correctly set the ISO to the film speed that was currently in my camera (you guessed it...manually). I was 14 years old and in order to use my new camera, I had to learn how to make quick, educated, critical decisions.

In case I'm starting to sound like a luddite, let me offer some proof that I'm not one. I eventually went to art school, got a degree in Photography, and invested in my first digital camera three months after graduating. Four years later, I use my Nikon D200 every day and I'm still learning, and marveling, at what it's capable of. I work in marketing for a technology consulting firm. I'm very hopeful that someone in my lifetime will actually invent the Heisenberg Compensator and clear the way for a transporter. I'm a geek, a gadget-freak, and I love technology.

That being said, I'm increasingly and almost profoundly disturbed by the direction that digital cameras have taken in recent years, which seems to be along the path of eliminating the need for any thought, critical or otherwise, decision, or actual knowledge of the workings of a camera prior to the making of a photograph. I said "making" instead of "taking" deliberately, as I've always thought of the photographic image as something that is constructed, as the human eye and brain works in conjunction with a tool, the camera. That is starting to change. For less than $400, you can buy a camera that not only recognizes when people in your shot are smiling, but can actually be programmed to wait until all people are smiling, or until a child - specifically a child - is smiling, before it takes the shot. Furthermore, if you somehow manage to take a photograph in which some members of your party are not smiling, you can simply switch to a playback mode and use the camera's face-recognition technology and retouch menu to add smiles to the faces of your uncooperative models.

These features eliminate more than the need for critical thought; on the surface, they would seem to eliminate the need for training, whether self-taught or formal, that leads to a solid understanding of the tool in one's hand. I'm not arguing that cameras should be so complex that non-professionals can't use them, or that everyone needs to get a degree to be a photographer. In fact, I'm arguing for a return to a far simpler approach, more universal approach, something like Kodak employed when they released the popular Brownie, (shown in the image above) a camera intended to be one that virtually anybody could use. "You push the button, we do the rest", was the slogan. But by "the rest", Kodak meant the 3 variables I referred to earlier - depth of field, shutter speed, and ISO. People who used the Kodak Brownie still had the chance to construct their image. To wait for children to smile. To watch, and listen, and see.

So many of the world's most well-known photographs would not exist if it weren't for photographers making their own decisions, instead of relying on the tool to do it for them. Next week we'll see some examples of those, and try to explore the concept of training through this particular lens. In the meantime, I'll leave you with a quote I love, and respectfully ask for your thoughts on the topic.

“You put your camera around your neck in the morning along with putting on your shoes, and there it is, an appendage of the body that shares your life with you. The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera”. - Dorthea Lange

What We Know?

When I first opened my cabinet shop, I had an Open House to let friends and family share in what we were about to begin. An elderly man from our church came to the Open House. He introduced himself, and then walked past my display on his way to one of the 14” chestnut timbers supporting the old mill building my shop was in. He rubbed his hand on the 1” wide chamfered corner and said “this takes me back”. Then he explained that when he began his apprenticeship in the early 1900’s, his first job was to cut these chamfers with a drawknife.

I illustrated my ignorance by saying that I couldn’t imagine even having apprentices spend their time putting a decorative edge on a support column in a mill building. He looked at me and said “you don’t know much about these buildings, do you?” He went on to explain that the chamfers weren’t for decoration, they were for fire prevention. There were no sprinklers back then and the chamfered edge was to slow the spread of fire. As my visitor put it: “fire will lick right up the sharp corner of a beam, so you have to cut these to prevent that.” Humbled, I also admitted to not being very good with a drawknife. I told him that I enjoy using what I consider a sister tool, the spokeshave, but the two tools are really very different. A spokeshave is more like a plane and is easy to control. A drawknife requires a serious skill to control. My elderly friend laughed and asked me for a drawknife and a piece of scrap. He quickly gave me a few lessons and I realized just how much I still had to learn.

This man spent well over an hour telling me about woodworking in his day, explaining how they would make the intricate joints, and both functional and decorative edges, long before any of the machines I had installed were available. I got the clear sense that this man could out-build me, armed only with the contents of my hand tool cabinet. He urged me to use hand tools often, suggesting that using hand tools “lets you feel the wood’s reaction to what you’re doing” – something my father had also told me. Recently, as my daughter was making the Letter Box pictured at the top, I introduced her to these tools. In addition to learning to understand what the wood is telling you, using the hand tools helps you better understand their modern powered replacements.

Next week, we’re going to begin a series on photography. This is a bit of a flip-flop, as it is my daughter who is teaching me many of these skills. Faith will be taking over Training Debate for a few weeks; I’m looking forward to her thoughts.

Timeless Lessons

The previous post may have brought back some memories for readers around my age, but it probably doesn’t resonate with too many of today’s high school students; most school systems dismantled wood and metal shops years ago. Our town was fortunate for a while to have a Tech-Ed instructor who understood the value those classes offered when students were encouraged to work through problems first hand. I had the privilege of serving on the Career and Technical Education (CTE) Committee with this man, and I was able to learn of two remarkable ideas he put into motion.

The first began when several students wanted to take Wood Shop even though the course was no longer offered. The shop still existed, but was mostly being used for storage. Some of the equipment had been removed and the machines that were left were in a sad state. Instead of abandoning the idea, the instructor turned it into a learning experience. He had the students clean the shop, and, he had them work with the school officials to relocate the items stored there so they could reclaim the space. He created a new Tech-Ed class around the recreation of Wood Shop and he spent most of the first year guiding those lucky students through the resurrection of the shop. He taught them how to repair the machines, reassemble the work benches and to clean, sharpen and tune the tools. They didn’t make anything but they learned more than most of them realized at the time.

Once reassembled, the shop was still missing the requisite tools to complete most furniture projects. The instructor changed the class again and began teaching kids the basics of home repair. They would build sections of wall, install wiring, outlets and switches, insulate stud bays and install drywall. Then, they would tear it all down. He collected construction debris from local contractors and used it to create new lessons. An abandoned panel box became a lesson in how circuit breakers work. A discarded window became an exercise in framing a header. An abandoned door became an opportunity to learn how to properly hang a door.

In addition to the shop class, this same instructor taught an Illustration class. Along with teaching the features of Adobe Illustrator and the mechanics of a small print operation, he added a critical element to this class. He volunteered his class to produce playbills and posters for the school play, handouts for the Fire Department fund raising effort and brochures for the Senior Center These projects saved the town a few dollars but, more importantly, they offered the students a chance to understand customer requirements, estimating and deadlines.

This instructor knew that while your parents may cherish the bird feeder you made and they may still have your first drawing hanging in the family room, you will move beyond those projects. He understood that training should be structured to make the most out of the time spent learning. The best lessons you can teach are the ones that transcend your subject, the lessons your students can apply over and over again.

Your Assignment Is…

Our high school was under construction the entire time I attended and to spread about 2,400 students around the construction site, school officials introduced a kind of flex-time to our schedule. I began my day early but instead of leaving early, I took the opportunity to add a second section of Wood Shop. There were only a couple of students with such a passion for wood working, but our shop teacher responded in a unique way. He offered to teach us production woodworking techniques. This was a good deal for him, because he ran a cabinet shop and we would essentially be working for free, but it was a great opportunity for us to learn something beyond the typical shop project skills.

He taught us about making jigs and fixtures, to facilitate reproducible results and he introduced us to the concept that saving time was more valuable than saving material (in a wood shop). One of the last projects he gave us combined both goals. He was making several hundred sets of ladder treads for a company that marketed an escape ladder. The ladder was a series of oak treads, supported by rope. The treads were identical and easily produced by automated operations in our instructor’s shop, except for the top tread. The top tread was deeper, designed to hold the rest of the ladder slightly away from the wall. Since each ladder only needed one such tread, the economies of scale didn’t exist to automate its production – that became our job.

Our teacher could have simply taken advantage of the free labor, but he challenged us to devise a jig and a process to complete this task. The goal was to create several hundred identical treads. The treads were simple, a rounded rectangle of oak with four holes for the rope and a slightly rounded over edge on the top and bottom.

Our first attempt was a series of jigs for cutting, drilling and shaping the edges; rejected! Our second attempt reduced the number of jigs to two, one for cutting and shaping and one for drilling; also rejected. As he struggled with young men who just wanted to power up a machine and start making sawdust, our teacher removed us from the shop and took us into a drafting classroom. We began to analyze the problem, the goals and the options and we began to draw prototypes. Eventually, with his guidance, we stumbled on the solution show at the right: a single jig that served to guide the blank through the cutting and shaping process, precisely locating the holes at the same time. The jig also accommodated handles to safely move the blank through the operations. Armed with that jig, we banged those treads out in no time.

Despite operating a cabinet shop of my own for a brief period, I’ve never had a need for production woodworking techniques, but my employer frequently benefits from this lesson. My day job is in IT; systems design, development and information services. Ask any programmer about frameworks, class libraries or functions and you will hear about the same benefits provided by that jig. Ask anyone associated with Content or Records Management about the importance of templates and workflows, and you will hear an analogous story. Being exposed to a physical problem in high school set these concepts forever in my mind. Hearing this information in a lecture would have never made the same impression as planning and then actually making the treads, proving the concept with wood and tools. In the time our instructor spent teaching us how to approach a problem, he could have produced the treads many times over. He understood how the value of the lesson exceeded the result of the process. He also understood the value of making us work through the problem until we discovered the answer.

Learning and Working

When I gathered a few trusted coworkers to preview my introduction of Transitions in our training class, one commented that he thought that considering “why we do things” made him more interested in learning “how to do them”. At the same time I received the best feedback of the year (for my other blog) when @jorgefusaro said on Twitter: “I like the why focus of your blog”.

In order to understand how things and perhaps how people work, we have to start by asking “why?” When we take the time to learn why things were made as well as how to make them, the lessons we learn can serve us beyond their original intent. I am reading Shop Class as Soulcraft by Matthew B. Crawford and I see this theme echoed in this book. In one example, he describes tracing a motorcycle valve problem back to a previous owner’s attempt to increase performance on the cheap. Having seen others motivated to achieve speed without spending, his mentor was lead to what he had come to know was a typical problem.

In Hollywood's Celebrity Gangster: The Incredible Life and Times of Mickey Cohen, author Bradley Lewis not only tells the story of Mickey’s life of crime, he explains Mickey’s motivation. As the book moves forward through time, we learn about Mickey’s exploits and we come to understand Mickey. The explanations offered by Crawford and Lewis come at the expense of experience and research, two things most people today aren’t interested in. Today, we settle for a quick peek at Wikipedia (that offers 1,200 words about Mickey Cohen) and say we understand something. Information is being packaged and consumed like the physical things in our life, with “no user serviceable parts inside”. One of my favorite TV shows, How It’s Made is great entertainment but in its short, made for consumption format, they show things like earthmovers being “made” from engines, transmissions and computer sub-assemblies. We simply accept that the engine must be more powerful than the engine in our car but we don’t care to know more than that. In the great children’s book The 20 Elephant Restaurant, the husband sets out to chop down a table-wood tree and some chair-wood trees. Sometimes, I think that’s what we want from the world.

Since starting this blog, I have wanted to tackle the subject of the lessons we learn from doing real work; from learning how to build things and then building them. Well, that is close to the heart of Mr. Crawford’s book and he makes the case better than I can. I may return to that topic, but for now I would recommend reading Shop Class as Soulcraft. In fact, I’d recommend reading all three books I mentioned as well as returning here in a few days. In this first series of 2010, I’m going to share three stories about learning, teaching and working with tools. I hope to illustrate how learning things at a greater level of detail, learning why and how things work, and experiencing work first-hand, broaden the effect of those lessons.

If you are interested in this topic, or if you have something to add to this, or any learning topic, see the box along the right side and consider joining the debate.

A Funny thing Happened…

I chickened out on my attempt to add transitions to our in-house training program. Maybe that’s a little harsh, I am still planning to add them, but I needed a test run before going live. I wanted to make sure that the technology I was planning to use for taking notes (my Tablet PC) and the type of transition I was planning to use (lead-in questions) were going to work. So, instead of a debut session, I opted for a dry run in front of a few trusted critics. I’m, convinced that the concept is a good one, but I’m glad I did the test.

One reason I’m glad has to do with the technology; it worked fine for recording input, but there were problems. I had practiced using my Tablet PC as a note taking device, and I knew that would work. I also knew that I would have to use the on-screen keyboard to enter data during the demonstration segment – I had practiced performing both tasks. I practiced, but I didn’t do a dress rehearsal. By that I mean I didn’t try it in the room connected to the projector. When I connected my Tablet to the projector, the screen resized (the Tablet is wide screen) and the access icon for the on screen keyboard disappeared. This left me fumbling to access the physical keyboard which is under the screen when the PC is used as a tablet.

The other reason I’m glad I did the test was that it generated so much valuable feedback about the training program in general. We’ve talked on this blog before about the importance of feedback, and I’ve mentioned how we use surveys and blogs to gather feedback, but this was special. I was live, in front of four coworkers who offered comments and advice on a wide range of subjects. We talked about the concept and technique of transitions. We talked about the topics selected for the training session. We talked about what topics should follow in the next session and when that session should be presented. What was planned to be a 30 minute demonstration turned into a 90 minute program critique and generated some very valuable comments.

Since that dry-run, I’ve figured out the on-screen keyboard issue and I’ve adjusted the program content and the schedule to reflect the input received. I am more confident than ever that we are moving the program in the right direction.

I want to end this entry with a special note of thanks to Faith Antion, Roger Brown, Vince Stevenson, Guila Muir and Mark Thompson. You guys were willing to get on board and support the idea of yet another blog about training and your efforts helped gain page views and followers. I look forward to more great posts, more guest bloggers and more comments in 2010. I hope each of you will join us again as we share the things we know about our shared passion.