New York City is a world crossroad, home of millions, throbbing center of commerce and industry, filled with promise for those searching fame. It was there and on a sidewalk in midtown Manhattan, that I found myself walking fast, part of a river of humanity.
Excited, I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket to check the address, eased my way toward the building, and pushed open a revolving door to enter a world of relative quiet. The receptionist ushered me first into an office, then into a workroom. There, I was introduced to the Art Director of Fortune, a prestigious magazine read by hundreds of thousands of business people.
A friend had paved the way for me to meet and shown him a portfolio of my photographs consisting of one hundred 35mm slides—the medium of choice soon to be replaced by digital technology.
Appearing to be in his late forties, he was instantly personable and engaging. I could tell, however, that he valued his time, and insisted others do likewise. So we moved quickly from chit-chat to the reason for my visit.
The process was simple and direct; he would look through the portfolio then make a quick judgement of my expertise as evidenced by what he had seen, and how closely that matched the wants and needs of the magazine.
The best art directors, honed by years of experience, can do that quickly. They know what to look for and instantly react when they believe they’ve seen it. That means occasionally stopping for a closer look with a magnifying glass and asking a question about the photograph or uttering a response such as “that’s nice” or “that’s a good one.”
When he reached the last slide I told him I had hoped he would comment on a particular picture I had made in the North Carolina mountains. He asked which one and I showed him. After a quick glance at the picture, he looked squarely at me and said “So?”
“Well,” I answered, “it took me almost a day to get that picture. I had to walk about two miles for the light and composition to be just right.”
His comeback was so quick it startled me.
“Look, it’s a helluva lousy picture, so what am I supposed to do, print a disclaimer underneath that explains all the trouble you had in getting it? All I know is what I see and this picture shows me nothing, and it’s not going to show anything to the reader.”
His words stung and it was all I could do to keep listening. He told me that yes, he was impressed by some of my work, but there was nothing they could use. He would, however, contact me if there was a possibility of that happening. With that and a handshake, our meeting was over.
Having expected a much more favorable response, I was teary-eyed and numb with disappointment. No one had ever said that to me before. As I made my way toward the outside doors, I considered three options. I could lean against a wall and have a good cry, angrily hit anything nearby with my fist, or be deliriously happy at having made a great discovery. Wisely, I chose the latter.
Since then, and with every click of the shutter, I have reminded myself that all the viewer will know from the resulting picture is what they see. To elaborate, that means the picture must spur their imagination or make them feel as if they were there. Bluntly stated, anything less is a failure.
I’ve shared that story with many fellow photographers, driven home the critical point that capturing an image they like isn’t nearly enough, that they must always think of the viewer who will have only the photograph to take them there.
The logic behind “all I know is what I see” can be applied to such common circumstances as interviewing for a job, talking with a financial counselor, or judging a college one of your kids wishes to attend.
Always remind yourself: All I know is what I see. Or when applied in reverse: All anyone knows about you is what they see.
