I don’t really like “Best of” lists. I mean how do you define “best”? Best for what, best to who? I put some images I made last year that I like in a gallery. Are they my “best”? Beats me.
I prefer “most meaningful.” Or better yet, just Meaningful. (Who cares if its “most” as long as its meaningful?). Memorable might be another way to think about it. Whatever adjective you choose, what it comes down to is that some images are more important to you than others. And it’s not necessarily because that was the “best” photo you took last year. Have you ever been to a great location in wonderful light and made a technically perfect image that looked like a postcard but lacked soul? Have you ever made an imperfect image that revealed a new way of seeing, or brought back a moment that connects with you forever? An outside observer (I’m looking at you, Insta-likers and camera club judges) may call the first the best, but I would bet that to you the second is much more important.
So rather than trying to pick the 10 “best” images out of the ~13,794 I took last year, I just tried to pick one meaningful / memorable / important image I made each month. Some months were hard to choose because there were too many; others were hard because there were too few. It was a fun, thoughtful and even somewhat educational exercise, and you can see my results below.
I’d encourage you to take some time to go back through your own work and think about which of your images hold the most meaning for you. Define it however you want, but free yourself from the pressure of deciding which image is “best.” Hard as it may be, try to identify the images that mean the most to you; not just those that you think will generate the most compliments or likes from strangers. And when you find one, write down a few words about why you picked it. Writing the descriptions below helped me focus and crystallize my thinking, and ended up changing some of the pictures I chose. If I couldn’t think of anything meaningful to say, chances are the image wasn’t all that meaningful to me.
I hope that this exercise will help you reflect on your work in a way that may influence how you approach it in the coming year. It’s never a bad thing to look back and take stock before moving forward.
* * *
North Beach, Pt. Reyes National Seashore, January 2
I took this on the second day of the year. It was a glorious, sunny day. My first photo shoot on the first workday that was not a workday for me. I played on the edge of the pounding January surf, experimenting, playing, being in the moment. A joyful day, full of promise for the coming year.
Marina District, San Francisco, March 10
This was the last image I made before the world turned upside down. I was heading back along a commute route I’d formerly traveled for years, when I turned a corner and - Bam! - here was this apartment building glowing in the mid-morning light. I pulled over, grabbed the gear out of my trunk, made a few images, and headed home. A few days later my mom suddenly passed away, and a few days after that the world was locked down. I look at this image and I think about all that has changed in the last year.
Jerry Garcia, 12-30-81, May 6
I started scanning some of my old film images in May. They had been sitting in slide boxes and negative files hidden away in the dark for years, but there was never enough time to do anything with them. Well, unlike toilet paper and Lysol, time was not something that was in short supply this year. This was one of the first images I looked for to scan. I had taken it during a run of the Dead’s New Year’s shows, and was one of my favorites because it conveyed the energy of the moment much better than any of the sharp, static images I had taken. Seeing my oid film images reappear brings a smile to my eyes, along with a tinge of nostalgia and sadness for all that has changed.
Sunflower, July 10
This was one of a series of abstract sunflower images taken in my garden. I followed these flowers daily as they budded, bloomed, shriveled and died. I was reading Metamorphosis by Ovid at the time, and trying to capture the cycle of birth and renewal described in the poem. Most of the pictures I made were abstract and blurry, using camera movement and soft focus to bring a feeling of timelessness and mystery to the image. This frame was one of my favorites. I ended up using it in Losing Focus, a book of my abstract, impressionistic images that I put together last year with the help of Eddie Soloway’s online book project.
Armageddon, Mill Valley, September 9
This was a weird day. Fires were burning throughout California, and a cloud inversion turned the Bay Area into a surreal, dystopian landscape. I caught a glimpse of this building through the trees as I drove past, and quickly turned around to see what it was (the First Church of Christ, Scientist). The glowing light inside the building and the odd architecture captivated me. This is not a photoshop filter; it’s what the world looked like that day.
Fallen, Roy’s Redwoods, November 14
The colors this fall were brilliant. I became captivated by leaves, in the trees and, more so, on the ground. I began working on a series of images of fallen leaves like this one. I love the interplay of color, form and texture, and the tension it has between life and decay. The project was inspired by pictures I had made on trips to Yosemite earlier in the year. Working on those images led me to spend more time wandering around Marin in November with my eyes pointed at the ground. The project is ongoing, and became one of the photographic highlights of my year.
Tamarack Creek, Yosemite National Park, February 6
I made this image during an outing with Jack Curran at the Out of Chicago workshop. The location was magical, a wonderful combination of flow and light. I had been there before, but never at that time of the year. The print of this image is rich and ethereal, one of the most beautiful I have made. And hanging with Jack, who suddenly and unexpectedly passed away in September, was an experience for which I will forever be thankful.
Dogwood Blossoms , April 10
We were supposed to leave for Spain this month on a post-retirement trip, before heading to a May workshop in southern France with Harold Davis. Instead, I spent the month sheltering in place, adjusting to the new normal, and attending so many zoom workshops I lost count. This is an image I made after watching one of Harold’s online presentations about lightbox photography. The blossoms are off a tree in our front yard. It seems an appropriate way to remember this month.
Rancho Olompali State Park, June 22
June was when the world seemed to be ready to start opening up, just a bit. Barricades came down, parks began to open. I shot this at an old barn at Rancho Olompali, playing around with a new camera I’d bought. Then I met my wife for an anniversary lunch in Fairfax … the first time we had dared to go to a restaurant since the pandemic hit. Though the scene inside the barn is not that special, I love the light in the distance and the ragged and rusty edges of the hole in the steel door. To me the image conveys the feeling of that time, the peeling back of barriers, the hope for something better beyond the wall.
Mill Creek, Prospect, Oregon, August 11
In August we broke out of the Bay Area and took a socially distant road trip to the Rogue River Valley and other spots in Southern Oregon and Northern California. Our first stop was Prospect, Oregon, where we found this amazing stretch of creek burbling through the backyard of the house we rented. I spent hours each day mesmerized by the flow, and shot dozens of images trying to capture the conflict between freedom and chaos that I felt reflected in the waters.
Black Bear, Yosemite, October 21
We made it back to Yosemite a couple weeks after my 60th birthday. The Valley was fairly empty, and I was playing around with the fall colors reflected in the Merced River at Valley View when this black bear walked into my shot and started nosing around for something to eat. I swapped lenses and spent about 15 minutes taking pictures as we stared at each other across the river. Just me and the bear, no one else around. Then the bear became bored with me and wandered away. This is a fairly strong crop of one of those frames. It was refreshing to be in Yosemite during that time, when the rhythm of nature was not drowned out by the stampede of humanity trying to see it.
Cannon Beach, Oregon, December 9
I drove up the coast alone in early December to gather my daughter so she could come safely home for the holidays ahead of the lockdown. It was a long, strange trip - hours of driving punctuated with quick stops to photograph along the way, all in the shadow of the pandemic. I spent most of time on the Oregon coast, stopping briefly at beaches and parks along the way. I made this image around sunrise on the final morning of the trip up, from the balcony of the hotel where I was staying. I was trying to pack up and head out for the long drive north, but the clearing storm and play of light would not let me go. Many of the images I made that morning were abstract, the product of long exposures and thoughtful camera movement. I think this one captures the chaotic beauty of my journey up the coast.