On Labels and Limitations

The Importance of Creative Freedom

You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish. I have no responsibility to be like they expect me to be. It’s their mistake, not my failing. — Richard Feynman

We are like shop windows in which we are continually arranging, concealing or illuminating the supposed qualities others ascribe to us — in order to deceive ourselves. — Friedrich Nietzsche

For the longest time, I have forced upon myself a label, a classification, specifically revolving around the type of art I create. Even calling what I make “art” places a name upon my creations and differentiates my work from photography, writing, etc. Through the use of a label, we distance ourselves from some while becoming closer to others. This is something we do in every aspect of life, not just creative outlets. Take gender, for example. Already a hot-button topic, the labels of male and female are, at their very core, just that: names we give ourselves to differentiate us from them. Normally, this doesn’t lead to much issue, but when the waters get muddy, people begin to raise concerns.¹

What is Landscape (Photography)?

Let us consider the label of landscape photographer, a classification which many freely embrace. When you think of this genre, what comes to mind? Perhaps you picture a scenic vista, like the Grand Canyon or a mountain range at sunset. Maybe you think of a waterfall, tucked deep in the forest, illuminated by the soft light of blue hour. What I bet you didn’t imagine, however, was a scene including manmade elements, nor did you place an animal as the primary subject, though both subject types appear semi-regularly. Why is this?

If we look at the etymology of the word “landscape,” a strong starting point, we see that the term derives “from the Dutch word landschap, which originally meant ‘region, tract of land.’”² This lead us to the artistic connotation, “a picture depicting scenery on land,” which began in the early 1500s, and it is here where we see the rise of landscape painting and, eventually, landscape photography.

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Originally, landscapes were a setting for biblical, mythological, or historical scenes—not at all what we are used to, today. This is not to say painters in the past were apathetic regarding landscape, rather, “it had been frowned upon as an indulgence, not serious enough to be the prime subject of a painting.”³ It wasn’t until the 17th century that we see the birth of what is deemed the “classical landscape,” where subjects were carefully placed throughout the scene in order to convey balance, harmony, and timelessness.

Around this same time, as the hold religion had on art dwindled, the orientation of paintings changed; while most used to be vertically-oriented, which fit with the intended spaces of church walls and manuscript pages, artists began to play with the horizontal orientation,⁴ as the intentions for art changed. Even still, the landscape genre of painting struggled to be accepted by the world of art until nearly the 19th century. Around this same time, plein air painting began, with artists taking inspiration directly from nature. The birth of landscape photography also marked a pivotal time for painters, as they began taking influence from the new medium, particularly regarding compositional choices.

In the second half of the 20th century, thanks largely to photographers such as Ansel Adams, Edward Weston, and Robert Adams, the definition of landscape was challenged. Introductions of the urban, cultural, and industrial landscapes were just the start. Eliot Porter’s Intimate Landscapes exhibition at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, in 1979 — the first one - person show of color photography — introduced what has been coined the “intimate landscape,” further diversifying the genre.

Most interesting of all is the idea that it was not until photography came along that we began seeing less depictions of buildings and the human element within the landscape. Take a look at the three following paintings, all created by prominent Dutch artists in the 17th century, and you will see an obvious inclusion of windmills, animals, people, and other “human” elements.

Compare these paintings to those made in the late 19th century, after landscape photography began rising in prominence.

Notice the lessening of importance of humanity and the grandiosity of natural elements, much in the same vein as what is seen today, by landscape photographers.

Why is it that photography seemingly altered the course of an entire genre? While this perhaps has to do with the continued separation of art and religion, there is a case to be made that, through photography, exploration of more distant places was now feasible, particularly once sheet film came to the market, replacing the fragile glass plates used in the early 19th century. No longer did you need to carefully protect your works of art, nor bring with you a wagon filled with supplies. You could, with comparative ease, hike into the backcountry of Yosemite National Park and photograph landscapes that few others could imagine, let alone access, in the past. This would explain, at least in part, why the landscape genre became synonymous with nature: photographers, in particular, were able to showcase what had previously been unseen and, therefore, were not as interested in the manmade.

Again, this is all speculation, as there’s no firm reasoning behind the shift in definition. The landscape originated as background fodder for biblical paintings as commissioned by the church — not as the primary subject matter. Even as the church’s grip on art began to fade, painters continued to include the human element in the frame.⁵ Nowhere in history, or in any original definition, are we told that landscape is nature - exclusive in it’s artistic depiction. So, what does this mean for modern-day landscape artists? At it’s most basic, it means that definitions are constantly changing and that the labels we give ourselves contain within them a degree of power, both negative and positive.

The (Negative) Powers of Labels

I mentioned earlier how, upon hearing the phrase “landscape photographer,” people get an image in their head of grand vistas or woodland waterfalls. They sooner think of Ansel Adams’ The Tetons and the Snake River, 1942 than they do Robert Adams’ Frontier Gas Station & Pikes Peak, Colorado Springs, 1969, yet both depict a mountain range in the background—only the mid- and foreground elements change.⁶ This begins the primary issue with adopting labels, especially for something as fluid as art. If you call yourself a landscape photographer and someone visits your website expecting to see work like Ansel Adams, only to instead see work like Robert Adams, they may become confused, if not downright disappointed. Some may claim you should call yourself an “urban landscape” photographer or a “cityscape” photographer instead, to mitigate this confusion. Though this may be okay for some, what happens when your interests change and you wish to work with subjects other than cities or urban environments?

This is an issue I ran into rather recently, after years of considering myself to be a nature photographer (a label I adopted when my interests expanded to include wildlife photography during a family trip to Wyoming and Montana). I began finding deeper interest in the dichotomy of man and nature, largely influenced by the photography of Chuck Kimmerle and Nick Carver. Although I had no plans of leaving behind the local woodlands for abandoned buildings and grain silos, there resided within me a conflict of interest. Can I rightfully call myself a nature photographer, if I am also photographing manmade subjects, even if nature is still present in its own way? Should I shift back to the title “landscape photographer,” feeling it better encompasses my interests? Or, maybe I should call myself an artist or photographer, rather generalized categorizations, and forget worrying about something that, ultimately, means little. Stop (over-)thinking and get back to making pretty pictures.

While that may be the end goal, the labels we accept can drastically alter not only the world’s view of us but, much more importantly, how we view ourselves. And in a world where far too many people struggle with their mental health, this becomes all the more significant.

In the New York Times bestseller Atomic Habits, author James Clear describes the importance of thinking more deeply about our identity. “Once you have adopted an identity, it can be easy to let your allegiance to it impact your ability to change. Many people walk through life in a cognitive slumber, blindly following the norms attached to their identity,” he states.

When you have repeated a story to yourself for years, it is easy to slide into these mental grooves and accept them as a fact. In time, you begin to resist certain actions because “that’s not who I am.” There is internal pressure to maintain your self-image and behave in a way that is consistent with your beliefs. You find whatever way you can to avoid contradicting yourself.

From this alone, we begin to witness the power of labels. If you constantly present yourself as, say, a landscape photographer, people will begin to think of your name as being synonymous with that genre, exclusively. Given the aforementioned correlations, people will believe you create a specific type of photograph. As time goes on, however, our interests may shift or expand toward different subjects. We may wish to include animals in our landscapes, or perhaps we train our lens toward an abandoned mineshaft in the woods. While we remain fluid, the label we have adopted — and which society has correlated with our name — stagnates. This is where we begin to witness a limitation in (creative) growth.

Free Yourself

When singer-songwriter Bob Dylan came onto the scene, he accepted, and embraced, the label of “folk artist,” finding the genre to be more serious and filled with deeper feelings than the rock-and-roll music he was previously covering. For the first eight years of his career, he made a name for himself as his songs, such as The Times They Are a-Changin’, became anthems for the civil rights and antiwar movements. His lyrics often incorporated a mixture of political, social, and philosophical influences, leading to heavy appeal to the burgeoning counterculture of the 1960s. But by 1963, Dylan began to feel constrained by the folk genre and the protest movements which had placed upon him the role of a political spokesman.

In 1965, Dylan headlined the Newport Folk Festival for what would be his third performance, having previously had successful sets in ’63 and ’64. This time, however, he was met with boos from fans, ultimately leaving the stage after only three songs. The difference? Dylan appeared on stage with an electric guitar.⁷ His fans in the audience, who expected from him a specific sound and style, were outraged and felt alienated by the artist. Hostility from the folk music establishment was swift, bashing Dylan for his seeming abandonment of his fans and the genre.

Instead of allowing this performance to put an end to his desired new direction, and revert back to what was expected of him, he chose to double down, recording three of the most influential rock albums of the 1960s in the space of only fifteen months. In other words, he chose to free himself from the limitations of his previous label and focus on being a self-expressive artist.

Photographer and philosopher Guy Tal, in his latest book, Be Extraordinary, says this about self-expression in art:

If your goal is to be a self-expressive artist, don’t limit yourself arbitrarily to any style, genre, objective realism, or anyone else’s idea of purism or tradition unless you have a good reason to do so, no matter who may be offended by it.

The reality is that society places enough labels on us, from birth, without our needlessly adding to the pile. By being overly specific about the art we create, we place upon ourselves limitations we otherwise wouldn’t — and rightfully shouldn’t — have to deal with. This is a realization which didn’t come to me until after a portfolio review with Chuck Kimmerle, at which point I noticed how I was limiting my artistic expression all in the name of a superficial label. Rather than allowing myself to create freely, I held myself back; every time I thought about photographing something that didn’t fit within the label of “nature photographer,” I paused. Even if I did make the photograph, I struggled to reveal it to anyone, feeling as though I would face some sort of backlash akin to Bob Dylan at the folk festival. After that call with Kimmerle, however, I permitted myself a bit more freedom, which resulted in the creation of a series around Americana as found in the small towns of the Palouse. A series, in truth, that I would have struggled to share, let alone pursue, if I continued to force upon myself this needless label.

I will leave you with this quote, from T.S. Eliot, in hopes you will feel inspired to let go of the labels you have adopted and, instead, to free yourself creatively:

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.