The way I practice photography, the process starts well before I start using the equipment. It can be days, even months, before. It is usually when I find a confident animal and see the possibility of working with it because of how daring it is, not reacting to being exposed by my equipment (flashes, lights, cameras, etc.). Then, there — right there — the photo begins to be taken.
Once it starts, I can’t stop thinking about it. I might be driving to work, imagining what that photo would be like and how I would light it. At what time would I have to take it? Should I be there or shoot with a remote control from a hiding place? Do I need to use a barrier to prevent the subject from being scared?
I create the image in my head, I argue with myself, I think, I reflect. A whole series of questions that are going around in my head begin to form what is going to be the final image.
That’s why I say that the photo is born at that moment, in the “before,” and not when I click the camera or even when the day to take the photo arrives. No, the photo already started from the moment — first moment — of that first meeting.
What I am trying to say is: the image begins when my enthusiasm ignites.
And when that happens, photography is neither more nor less than being there, taking the photo, without thinking about anything else. Time stops where I’m taking the photo. I don’t feel the cold or the heat, because the temperature of enthusiasm surrounds me. The problems of my daily life disappear because I am immersed in the photo that I am conceiving and creating.
I once heard that the word enthusiasm comes from Greek and means “who carries a God with him.” Although I’m not a believer, what I feel when a photo idea excites me is that uncontrollable desire to think about it, imagine it, dream about it, make it. When that happens, I get up in the early morning and start thinking about what the final image would be like and cannot fall back asleep. I find that this God, energy, or however you want to define it, is guiding me to the final image.
I know that if the idea excites me, then I’m on the right track.
In general, it is the night when I best design my images with my canvas pure, clean, and completely black. Whatever I want can be done and I don’t feel limited by the imperious presence of the sun and its light.
The fact that the sensor does not expose any light for several seconds (sometimes minutes) allows me to be the painter, the creator, the artist (if you want to call it that), able to add light where I want and where I don’t, painting details with more or less force or softness. I add brushstrokes of light to one area and let the night do it for others. Sometimes the stars, moon, or small houses provide soft light; other times there is the intense light of the cities. Each one giving the image a different nuance, contributing to its colors and magic.
When the image begins to take shape, enthusiasm appears again. And this time, it makes me want to get my hands on the image, personalize it, give it my touch. So, at first, I start using my tools.
The flash is my first ally. Its ability to freeze movement allows me to gain clarity and quiet the animals that appear in my images. That’s why I consider flash to be my most common brush.
I’m very careful that where the light from my flash falls other lights don’t, thus not allowing one brushstroke to “overlay” another. This way, where I painted the flash, the lights from the city, moon, or other sources don’t fall.
Over time, I have defined the space where the flash hits as “negative space.” I define it like this because if I turned off the flash, the resulting image would be a night landscape with black where the flash would illuminate.
One of the most complex challenges is getting the subjects that I want to portray in that landscape to be in that dark sector where the flash will illuminate. When they are insects or small animals (amphibians or reptiles), it is not difficult since I can create the frame, leaving the subject in that darkness. But with more active mammals or birds, the challenge is more complex and I often use barriers for those cases.
It is important to clarify that if other lights are incident in the place where the animal will be and the flash will illuminate, the image will begin to present “transparencies.” For example, if I fire my flash, my animal (let’s say a fox) will light up in the place where it is at the moment the flash flashes. But this fox will surely move from place to place since it will continue walking. So, if I continue exposing for several seconds, it is likely that what is behind where the fox was will begin to appear illuminated. Thus, making the first “brushstroke” begin to build on the other brushstrokes (moonlight, stars, or city lights). For this reason, it is key that the dark space (negative space) has no lights except for the flash.
Returning to the metaphor of brushes, there are countless of these, so everything will depend on our imagination. Flashlights are one of my favorites. I usually accompany the animal’s path with a beam of a flashlight while I am exhibiting. When I cut the exposure, I fire the flash on the second curtain and it freezes the animal in its walk. The result is an abstract line that ends with the animal that froze in the flash, showing its movement.
To finalize the concept of the photo, I simply expose the time I want so that the stars complete the picture. The result is the image that was born when I saw the animal that ignited my enthusiasm.
Everything would indicate that my photo ended there. But no, at that moment, something again imposed itself on me. It scolds me! It interrogates me! Are you always going to do the same thing? And at that point, I notice how the enthusiasm for that first finished image fades, to give way to a new one. Then new ideas arise, such as creating halos, intentionally moving the camera, light painting, etc.
The process begins again, becoming more and more complex, but it is still the flame of enthusiasm that guides my steps, again and again. And that is what remains of me, in each of my photos.
