Composition

Creating Depth: Beyond the Wide-Angle Formula

Creating Depth: El Capitan and the Merced River, autumn, Yosemite NP, CA, USA

El Capitan and the Merced River, autumn, Yosemite NP, CA, USA



Depth can be a powerful tool in photography. Our medium is two-dimensional, but a sense of depth, an illusion of space and distance, can make the viewer feel like part of the scene, and literally and figuratively add another dimension to a photograph.

A Common Formula

This image of El Capitan follows a common formula for creating a three-dimensional effect in landscape photographs: find an interesting foreground (preferably with some leading lines), get the camera low and close to that foreground, and use a wide-angle lens.

A wide-angle lens by itself can’t create a sense of depth. Wide-angle lenses make things look smaller, and therefore more distant, but if everything looks small and distant there’s no sense of depth. The 3-D effect only happens when you put the wide-angle lens close to something in the foreground. That proximity makes the foreground look big, but things in the background still look small. The optics create an exaggerated size difference between near and far objects, and our brains interpret that as depth and distance.

This wide-angle, near-far look is common today, but it wasn’t always so. Though he wasn’t the first to use this perspective, master landscape photographer David Muench popularized this technique through his many beautiful books, and a lot of people have followed his lead.

But this look has become so popular that I think landscape photographers have stopped looking for other ways to create a sense of depth, and by doing that we’ve limited our options. We owe it to ourselves and our viewers to explore other paths, and create images with depth and meaning that go beyond this one formula.

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Photo Critique Series: Visual Flow in a Photograph of Half Dome

"Winter Mist Rising Beneath Half Dome," by Vaibhav Tripathi

“Winter Mist Rising Beneath Half Dome,” by Vaibhav Tripathi


Here’s another long-awaited installment in my photo critique series. This time we’ll look at a photograph by Vaibhav Tripathi called “Winter Mist Rising Beneath Half Dome,” from my home territory, Yosemite National Park. It’s an interesting study in composition, and directing the viewer’s eye.

Light and Weather

The light is soft — no direct sunlight anywhere. Soft light is great for intimate scenes, but big, sweeping landscapes like this usually need sunlight to create contrast and keep the photograph from looking flat. Yet there’s actually a beautiful quality to the light here. This was made at dusk, and there’s a hint of alpenglow illuminating Half Dome, some blue in the sky, and of course the mist in the middle ground. The upper half of the photograph in particular has a luminous quality, and there’s a quiet, misty, mystical mood to the image. I also like the subtle hues and the warm-cool color contrast.

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The Trouble With High Places

Last light on a granite ridge below Shuteye Peak

Last light on a granite thumb below Shuteye Peak


The Journey to Shuteye Peak

Last Thursday my wife Claudia and I—and our dog Rider—went to Shuteye Peak to photograph the moonrise. (Well Claudia and I went for the moonrise—Rider went to look for squirrels.)

Shuteye Peak is in the Sierra National Forest south of Yosemite, and from the fire lookout on top (8,351 feet) you can see a spectacular 360-degree view that includes the Clark Range, Mt. Lyell (both in Yosemite), Mount Ritter, the Minarets, Mammoth Mountain, Bear Creek Spire, the Kaiser Wilderness, and the deep gorge of the San Joaquin River 5000 feet below.

I had been to Shuteye Peak many years ago on a scouting trip. I didn’t take any photos, but remembered the amazing view and wanted to go back. Claudia and her friend Anne had tried hiking there last year, but hadn’t managed to navigate the maze of Forest Service roads approaching the mountain.

There’s a road to the summit of Shuteye Peak, and supposedly in the past you could drive a station wagon up it. Not any more. The road has deteriorated, to say the least, and now the last two-and-a-half miles from Little Shuteye Pass are a very difficult and rocky four-wheel-drive trail, suitable only for expert drivers in appropriate vehicles. We found the route to Little Shuteye Pass (even that road requires a high-clearance vehicle), but hiked that last stretch.

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Where Should You Place the Horizon in Landscape Photographs?

Clouds and reflections, Tenaya Lake, Yosemite

(A) Clouds and reflections, Tenaya Lake, Yosemite


At Tenaya Lake last week my workshop student and I watched and photographed a spectacular, constantly-changing cloud display for over two hours. I made many images, including the one at the top of this post (you can see two more here and here). With the lake in the foreground every composition included a prominent horizon line, so I was often thinking about where to place the horizon in the frame.

It’s not always an easy decision. If you’ve ever read any books on composition you probably learned about the rule of thirds. And when applied to horizons this means you should place the horizon a third of the way from the top or bottom of the photograph. And you probably also read that you should, at all costs, avoid putting the horizon in the center of the frame.

As many of you already know, I’m not a big fan of the rule of thirds. It’s too restrictive, too limiting when applied to the infinite number of possible subjects and situations a photographer can encounter. It’s useful sometimes, but shouldn’t be taken as dogma.

I think this applies to horizons as well. Sometimes putting the horizon a third of the way from the top or bottom works. Sometimes it’s better to ignore the rule and put the horizon right in the middle, or near the top or bottom of the frame.

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Does Cropping Have to Fit a Certain Aspect Ratio?

My preferred crop for this image of Bridalveil Fall doesn't fit any of the common aspect ratios.

My preferred crop for this image of Bridalveil Fall doesn't fit any of the common print sizes.


In the comments for my last critique, Michael Glover asked a question about cropping and aspect ratios. I get this question a lot, as many people feel that they must crop their images to a certain size—4×6, 8×10—for printing. So I thought I would expand on my answer to Michael and address this issue in more depth here.

The problem with cropping to fit a particular aspect ratio for printing is that you can compromise the photograph’s esthetics. The accompanying images of Bridalveil Fall show what I mean. Below you’ll find the uncropped version, with its original 2:3 (or 4×6 or 8×12) aspect ratio, and a version cropped to a 4:5 (or 8×10) ratio.

To me, the uncropped version leaves too much empty space on the right and left sides, while the 4:5 ratio is too square, and a bit static. I prefer the crop at the top of this post, which lies somewhere in between.

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The Third Dimension in Photography

Redwoods and rhododendrons—telephoto view

Redwoods and rhododendrons—telephoto view



A Tale of Two Photographs

Reading David duChemin’s eBook A Deeper Frame got me thinking about how we perceive depth and space in photographs, and how lens choice affects that perception.

David says that because photography turns “a world of three dimensions into two,” that “if we aim to create photographs that create within the reader a deeper, fuller, longer experience, it falls to us to recreate that depth.”

There’s no question that wide-angle lenses are better tools for creating a sense of depth in a photograph than telephoto lenses. Telephotos make objects appear closer together than they really are, compressing space and flattening the perspective. Wide-angle lenses make objects appear farther apart than they really are, expanding the sense of space, and, if used correctly, creating an illusion of depth.

These two photographs from my recent trip to the redwoods illustrate the difference. Both images include the same rhododendrons and redwoods.

In the top image I stepped back with a telephoto lens (130mm) and isolated part of the bush against two redwood trunks. It looks like the rhododendrons are only a few feet in front of the trees, but they’re not. They’re at least 20 feet away—illustrating the compression effect of the telephoto lens. The sense of depth is minimal.

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