Best 2475 quotes in «photography quotes» category

I look for ambiguity because life is ambiguous!

I'm not constantly looking for the "right" in my thoughts. I am, actually, scared of absolute “rights”. Therefore, I don't think my book will appeal to people who seek concrete formulas from me to be happy and who have designed their lives mechanically. But I do believe my book can give something to people who live their lives going from information to information like a bee, who depend on their own syntheses as the outcomes and have flexible thought, and who could be an "individual".

In an inexplicable way he was quite different from anyone else....He was smallish, neat, solidly built....Possibly he was a man who at once became self-conscious before a camera. Even snapshots tend to give him an air of swagger, a kind of cockiness he did not possess at all. [On. F. Scott Fitzgerald]

Incluso en esos días, los fotográfos de Geographic tenían fama por algo más que las fotografías. Como uno de ellos expresó recientemente, "me encantaría haber vivido la vida que la gente cree que he tenido". Si la dinámica imagen del fotográfo de Geographic parece exagerada en novelas, folclore y cine, bueno, su vida es todavía nada aburrida. Nuestros equipos fotográficos han sobrevivido a ataques de tiburones, ejércitos invasores, aviones estrellados y volcanes en erupción.

I nearly believe you. The challenge remains extended-make me believe you -- Benjamin

In a few years, it is very likely that this series will be considered a milestone in the history of Singapore photography.

In a field where else you found a stack of revealing nature photographs, of supernude nature photographs, split beaver of course nature photographs, photographs full of 70s bush, nature taking come from every man from miles around, nature with come back to me just dripping from her lips. The stack came up to your eye, you saw: nature is big into bloodplay, nature is into extreme age play, nature does wild inter- racial, nature she wants you to pee in her mouth, nature is dead and nature is sleeping and still nature is on all fours, a horse it fucks nature to death up in Oregon, nature is hot young amateur redheads, the foxes are all in their holes for the night, nature is hot old used-up cougars, nature makes gaping fake-agony faces, nature is consensual dad- on-daughter, nature is completely obsessed with twins, nature doing specialty and nature doing niche, exotic females they line up to drip for you, nature getting paddled as hard as you can paddle her, oh a whitewater rapid with her ass in the air, high snowy tail on display just everywhere.

in photography and as in life, it is the strong contrasts between dualities that make things interesting and beautiful...particularly speaking, darkness has to exist and be present in order for light to glow, and have meaning and purpose

În spatele fiecărei fotografii, în afară de plăcere și bucurie, se află teama, teama de timpul care trece, de vremelnicia lui, teama de a vedea și apoi de a nu mai vedea, de a trăi și apoi de a nu mai trăi, de a fi trăit fără să lași vreo urmă doveditoare, vreo amintire tangibilă; în spatele fiecărei fotografii se află teama de a muri și dovada morții noastre.

În spatele fiecărei fotografii se află teama de a muri și dovada morții noastre.

In the context of photography , there was a luck. But the luck will come, when the photographer is ready.

In successful photography, you don't just look alive at the photo, but the photo also looks alive at you!

In the dry places, men begin to dream. Where the rivers run sand, there is something in man that begins to flow. West of the 98TH Meridian - where it sometimes rain and it sometimes doesn’t – towns, like weeds, spring up when it rains, dry up when it stops. But in a dry climate, the husk of the plant remains. The stranger might find, as if preserved in amber, something of the green life that was once lived there, and the ghosts of men who have gone on to a better place. The withered towns are empty, but not uninhabited. Faces sometimes peer out from the broken windows, or whisper from the sagging balconies, as if this place – now that is dead – had come to life. As if empty it is forever occupied. Reproduced in THE BORSCHT BELT from The Works of Love by Wright Morris by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright 1949, 1951 by Wright Morris.

In our time photojournalists were as important as the writers. Today not so. Photojournalism is diminishing. Now everyone is a free artist, which can only be in photography. For he is taking pictures! Releases the shutter and becomes an artist. Godsend people they are, otherwise the world was doomed. They are so significant. I fear bumping into one of these celebrities walking in the street, which would be very disrespectful indeed.

In the parlor was a huge camera on wheels like the ones used in public parks, and the backdrop of a marine twilight, painted with homemade paints, and the walls papered with pictures of children at memorable moments: the first Communion, the bunny costume, the happy birthday. Year after year, during contemplative pauses on afternoons of chess, Dr. Urbino had seen the gradual covering over of the walls, and he had often thought with a shudder of sorrow that in the gallery of casual portraits lay the germ of the future of the city, governed and corrupted by those unknown children, where note even the ashes of his glory would remain.

In the years that I could not see him, I came to know my father through the medium of photography. My perceptions of him were forged on black-and-white squares that stole an instant out of history and immortalized it between the pages of a family album. When I summoned up the image of the man, it came to me frozen, black-bordered, flat. He stood pale above the creases of his uniform, framed in the foamy wake of some ship, drops of sunlight caught in the buttons on his jacket. He winked at me from the liberty ports of countless exotic places. In an atrocious hand he scrawled stilted, affectionate words to the stranger that bore his name and his features, telling of adventures far away, misbehavings under suns hotter than that which shone over the Greater German Reich.

În ziua de azi, odată cu apariția aparatelor digitale, fotografia și-a pierdut o parte din suflet. Pozele nu mai au acel caracter crucial și definitiv pe care-l aveau cele clasice. Bună sau proastă, o fotografie este irevocabilă și rămânea fixată pe peliculă. Developarea unui film scotea la iveală în mod implacabil și cronologic imagini reușite și imagini ratate; imposibil să scapi de verdicte și de statistici. Chiar dacă puteai să multiplici fotografiile și să schimbi filmul, fiecare imagine captată avea o valoare unică și reprezenta un mic miracol. Ultima fotografie avea un statut special, o savoare deosebită. Era adeseori făcută la repezeală, doar ca să se termine filmul mai repede; dar uneori, dimpotrivă, amânai s-o faci, erai atent, calculai, voiai să fie o încununare a întregului film. Abia atunci puteai să-l rebobinezi.

I refuse to have my vagina photographed because I have no interest in being desired on the basis of its appearance. It has taken me decades to appreciate its power and beauty, and not merely because it birthed a child. Responsive to tenderness and the source of a luminous ecstasy, my vagina has enabled me to transcend an otherwise limited sense of self. I feel no need to make it conform to another’s aesthetic or have it applauded by strangers.

I see it all through the lens of my camera—the flurry of movement, the venue staff in black T-shirts, giving orders into their headsets. As I take it all in, my mind weighs the texture, the composition, the possibility of each changing scene, and I struggle to hold back, to keep my finger from pressing too soon. That’s my biggest flaw as a photographer. I’m impatient—trigger-happy. I want the shot now, now, now, click, click, click, and if I could just wait a second more, the moment would really flourish.

I see myself through others eyes and I am made anew.

Is it possible to further improve something excellent? Yes, it is possible and an uber-excellent photo of an excellent view is proof for this!

It has occurred to me that when one is raised in the absence of culture – without access to galleries and museums – one has to fill the void. I turned to books, album covers, magazines, slides and prints – anything visually stimulating that I could lay my hands on.

I still have my dad's phone. I keep it and a charging cord hidden in Harold's trunk next to the spare tire. A ton of pictures on his phone were of leafless branches dividing up the sky, like the view I had as we floated under that sycamore tree. I always wondered what he saw in that, in the split-apart sky.

I think the thing i like about photography is that the image you capture will always be unique , never to be captured that way again.

Its not enough to just own a camera. Everyone owns a camera. To be a photographer you must understand, appreciate and harness the power you hold!

It’s the difference between your wife’s passport photograph and the portraits you took when you got engaged. Both may have been created with similar technology, but what stands in that great gulf between them are the passion you have for your wife, the knowledge you have of her personality, and your willingness to use your craft, time, and energy to express that. One says, “She looks like this.” The other says, “This is who she is to me. It’s how I feel about her. See how amazing she is?

I've never taken a photograph of someone and created a persona, I've just discovered what was already there.

Life is brighter than we think and better as we are. We just have to open our eyes.

Looking at Loh’s photographs, it is obvious that there is nothing simpler and richer than a face when stripped of all effects and affects, poses and postures, stances and pretences. The Singaporeans featured here are almost expressionless, as if the photographer wanted to leave us clueless about them. What do their faces tell us? Why are they so familiar? Why do we feel we know this auntie that we don’t know? And this guy with the nondescript look? And this girl with no distinguishing mark? Have we met before?

Looking into the mirror I ask myself: "You live in a house equipped with air conditioning. You eat tasty food. You utilize convenient transportation to travel. You utilize convenient information technology to live. Could you not say that you, who do all this, are not a dictator? Isn't it right that you life is supported by somebody else's death? Doesn't your life that exists at the expense of somebody else's sacrifice infinitely resemble the life of a dictator who only cares about his own life?" -Yasumasa Morimura (excerpt from "Mr. Morimura's Dictator Speech").

Look― shoot all you want. With a camera you can barely capture a soul at a time. With planned obsolescence, you can terminate everyone's future at once and they'll never know what hit them.

Lovers tend to be philosophical, achievers are practical.

I take same picture twice, First with my heart then camera.

It is so gratifying to tell so many stories my eye can romance with, that i become the stories. They shall live on after me, and in that way it makes me immortal

It is through living that we discover ourselves, at the same time as we discover the world around us.

It's like a malicious person lifting a photograph from the developing chemicals too early, and then pronouncing the photographer incompetent.

It used to be thought, when the candid images were not common, that showing something that needed to be seen, bringing a painful reality closer, was bound to goad viewers to feel more. In a world in which photography is brilliantly at the service of consumerist manipulations, no effect of a photograph of a doleful scene can be taken for granted.

It was uncanny. You press a button and a man drops dead a hundred meters away. It seemed hollow and remote, falsifying everything. It was a trick of the lenses. The man is an accurate picture. Then he is upside down. Then he is right side up. You shoot at a series of images conveyed to you through a metal tube. The force of a death should be enormous but how can you know what kind of man you’ve killed or who was the braver and stronger if you have to peer through layers of glass that deliver the image but obscure the meaning of the act? War has a conscience or it’s ordinary murder.

I've hardly taken any pictures on this trip. Melanie teased me about it, to which I always said I preferred to experience something rather than obsessively record it. Though, really, the truth of it was, unlike Melanie (who wanted to remember the shoe salesman and the mime and the cute waiter and all the other people on the tour), none of that really mattered to me. At the start of the trip, I took shots of the sights. The Colosseum. Belvedere Palace. Mozart Square. But I stopped. They never came out very well, and you could get postcards of these things. But there are no postcards of this. Of life.

I've often thought about how all these different life forms occupy the same space as me during a given moment and how easy it can be to get so wrapped up in your own world you forget you're part of something larger and marvelous.

I was deep in a dream about photography-walking through a strange city with buildings that stretched so high they disappeared into the clouds. And every time I took a picture of one, it shivered and changed into something else. A sound came from a building behind me-a soft song. I started to walk toward it's open doors, but they closed. I would have to climb in a window- and then I woke up.

I wonder if we would ever switch back to old photo albums we got printed from photography shops. A Kodak KB10 camera with 36 photos worth of film roll, waiting for it to complete before sending the photos for developing. Nothing was instant, it would sometimes take months to compete a film and weeks to get the prints. The joy of seeing the photos, the disappointment to find a ruined image due to shaky hands. Even after having lots of camera and GBs of memory cards will never bring the same feeling.

…Maybe I’ll be watching super-8 home videos,” Alecto told her, smiling bleakly. “I love my super-8 camera, it’s an Eastman Kodak one… Kodak stopped manufacturing them, the world went digital and now Kodak has stopped making Kodachrome film and all kinds of traditional film products… it’s sad.” “Well, uh… well, have fun watching your home movies then,” Mandy finished, but she didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.

Me and my Photographs are a bit romantic. I do not take photographs in a normal light. Either at sunrise, or sundown, or early in the morning. Besides I want to explain something in every frame. Every image has to have a message.

Most of Arbus's work lies within the Warhol aesthetic, that is, defines itself in relation to the twin poles of boringness and freakishness; but it doesn't have the Warhol style. Arbus had neither Warhol's narcissism and genius for publicity nor the self-protective blandness with which he insulates himself from the freaky nor his sentimentality. It is unlikey that Warhol, who comes from a working-class family, ever felt any ambivalence toward success which afflicted the children of the Jewish upper middle classes in the 1960s. To someone raised as a Catholic, like Warhol (and virtually everyone in his gang), a fascination with evil comes much more genuinely than it does to someone from a Jewish background. Compared with Warhol, Arbus seems strikingly vulnerable, innocent--and certainly more pessimistic. Her Dantesque vision of the city (and the suburbs) has no reserves of irony. Although much of Arbus's material is the same as that depicted in, say, Warhol's Chelsea Girls (1966)...For Arbus, both freaks and Middle America were equally exotic: a boy marching in a pro-war parade and a Levittown housewife were as alien as a dwarf or a transvestite; lower-middle-class suburbia was as remote as Times Square, lunatic asylums, and gay bars. Arbus's work expressed her turn against what was public (as she experienced it), conventional, safe, reassuring--and boring--in favor of what was private, hidden, ugly, dangerous, and fascinating. These contrasts, now, seem almost quaint. What is safe no long monopolizes public imagery. The freakish is no longer a private zone, difficult of access. People who are bizarre, in sexual disgrace, emotionally vacant are seen daily on the newsstands, on TV, in the subways. Hobbesian man roams the streets, quite visible, with glitter in his hair.

Living in the desert makes a lot of things very clear. It really gives you an unobstructed view. The severity of the landscape opens people up to their inner selves. St. Anthony went into the wilderness and was tormented by demons. Jesus was tempted by the devil in the desert. In an unexpected way, the Mojave is a very spiritual place.

Most people feel that the world looks like the photograph. I've always assumed that the photograph is nearly right, but that little bit by which it misses makes it miss by a mile. This is what I grope at.

My best photo will be the last one, that I want to be taken.

Mandy was thinking back to when she was five years old, when she, her parents and Jud went outside before Christmas and had a snowball fight with the gray snow of Sydney Mines. “This is a wicked blast,” Jud would say, and Mandy would snap photos with a 35mm disposable film camera, photos she wished very much she could step into sometimes.

Most of the views are visible to everyone but only those who had passion can see it beyond.