An Open Door to a Quiet World
The world is too much with us, late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste to our powers…
William Wordsworth
I have lived a long time, and I find myself increasingly aware that the sand in the hourglass may run out much sooner than I would like. The tumult of our times easily distracts me and turns me sour. I remain passionate about the issues of the day, but I am no longer content to let the fractious debates draw me away from the great peace and beauty that I find on my doorstop at the edge of the tide in Freeport, Maine. I once aspired to travel widely to photograph, and I was blessed with many opportunities to do so. But when the pandemic shrank my world for several years, I found two important consolations. The first was great isolation, which in turn afforded me the opportunity for prolonged concentration. The second was the chance to experience the world without air travel, and hence a re-exploration of my own environs, particularly my town of Freeport, Maine, and the coastal regions from Eastport to Kittery.
My engagement with photography began in earnest more than thirty years ago. I quickly fell under the spell of several photographers from the late 19th and early 20th centuries who worked in Georgetown, Maine, just a few peninsulas up the coast from my home. Clarence White and F. Holland Day were friends and neighbors of one another in the 1890’s, and each produced images which have engaged me completely. Other photographers of that era who were “from away” have also long captured my eye, particularly, Julia Margaret Cameron, Anne Brigman, Robert Demachy, Edward Steichen, Alfred Stieglitz, and others. Over several decades I have photographed in many places, and with a variety of techniques and equipment. I have printed my photographs on gelatin silver paper in my darkroom and with digital printers in my studio. But with the onset of the pandemic, I turned my attention once again to the works of the photographers who had intrigued me most at the beginning of my journey. Because of the enforced isolation, I was not able to shoot portraits for a long time, and thus my attention turned entirely to the challenge of making prints from my existing negatives.
The Printing Process
In February 2020, I bought a large etching press for photogravure printing. The world was just shutting down and my press was one of the last to leave the factory. In isolation, my wife and I disassembled this monster where the crate had been left in our garage, dragged the pieces through the snow on a Garden-Way cart, and reassembled it in our parlor, which became my studio for a time. I had been schooled in the preliminaries of this process two month before by the wonderful artist Jean Wells in Easton, Maine. I love making the photogravure plates and prints and spent the entire winter trying to improve my technique. The process begins with copying the photograph onto a polymer plate, which is then exposed to ultra-violet light. The image is thus etched onto the plate, which is next covered with ink. Afterward, the excess ink is then wiped away, leaving it in the etched grooves. The inked plate is next placed on top of damp watercolor paper and run through an etching press. These last stages are virtually identical to how Rembrandt and many other great artists of that time made their prints in the 17th Century. It was during my exploration of photogravure that I began making the work which is included in my current portfolio.
Over time, I also returned to two other 19th Century processes that I had studied through a three-month course at the Maine Media Workshops in Rockport. Again, I was blessed by my excellent teacher and artist, Brenton Hamilton. Palladium printing (a close cousin of platinum), in its “Ziatype” variant that I use, is a “printing out” process whereby the final image closely resembles its initial appearance after it has received a sufficient amount of ultraviolet light. The image fully appears without the use of a separate chemical developer. Once the image is removed from the light source, it is washed in water and dries to a finished print. It is very satisfying, and with care and experience, the results are quite consistent. The final prints are lush and the blacks can be very deep. However, it is the third of the 19th Century processes that now captures my attention: Kallitype. This technique was patented in 1889. The activating chemicals that capture the image are ferric oxalate and silver nitrate. But unlike Ziatype, the image that appears after exposure to ultraviolet life is a mere “ghost”, barely visible. The print is then placed in a tray where a liquid developer is poured over it, making the image fully appear in an instant. The process is dramatic, at least by the standards of a darkroom. A number of developers are available, but my favorite (which I mix myself) contains Borax (right from the laundry detergent section of Bow Street Market), Rochelle Salts (which were originally obtained by scraping the bottom of empty wine casks) and Tartaric Acid (which naturally appears in grapes, bananas, avocados and citrus). The end result is not particularly predictable. One morning I may find myself making lovely prints. The next day, everything falls apart: the prints are “flat” (insufficient contrast) or stained or “solarized” (where the darkest parts take on a bronze sheen). Through the course of processes, the print gets brighter, darker, brighter, and then, as it dries, darker again. It takes several hours to reach its endpoint, so that it can be properly evaluated, and I know whether I need to start all over again.
For me, the satisfaction from making images by these techniques is great. First, it is something I am doing by my own hand and eye. It takes much work to figure it all out and make it successful. Troubleshooting forces concentration, which I enjoy. Second, these processes are slow – particularly photogravure and Kallitype. It may take several days effort from the time I take the photograph until I have produced a print which I find acceptable. There is a meditative aspect to it, with water quietly running in my print washer as I mix chemicals or agitate developing trays (to assure an even distribution of the processing chemicals on the surface of the print). Finally, I take great pleasure in linking my own work to that of Maine photographers from long ago whose work I admire. I feel a real bond in doing that.
The Photography Process
I began photographing in the early 1990’s, when film cameras were the only meaningful choice for me. Digital cameras were beginning to appear, but the quality of the images was poor, there was no means available to print high quality images that were archival, and the cameras were expensive. By contrast, the first camera I bought (and which I still use) was a Yashica twin lens reflex, medium format (i.e., “big negative”) film camera that cost $35. I stepped up to some more expensive film cameras after that, before transitioning to digital cameras in the early 2000’s. My Canon auto-focus digital cameras were miracles of technology. They quickly shot clear, crisp photographs and required no time in the darkroom to create an image. My Epson printers could spit out wonderful and colorful prints, each a perfect duplicate of the last. And I continue to have the greatest respect for that technology and the photographers and printers that use them to create amazing, engaging and thoughtful work. But…
For me, over time, my interest in the old photographers and their creations has only grown. I found myself sliding back not only to their methods of printing, but also to the serenity and soulfulness of the images they created. The images I have lately made consciously reflect an idealized view of reality and a recognition of beauty as a worthy objective of art. They are unashamedly romantic. I am well away that this makes me an outlier in many artistic circles. One friend of mine, who is thoroughly immersed in the most current trends of contemporary art, dismissively refers to my kind as “art civilians”. To which charge I readily plead guilty.
I currently shoot with one of two film cameras: an old Hasselblad and an older Kodak camera which I have rebuilt to produce some of the effects found in the portrait lenses of the 19th and early 20th Century. Both are elegant in their simplicity – no batteries, no menu screens, no instantaneous display of the image taken. It is sometimes weeks from the time the film is exposed until the image is first revealed. The film requires careful and slow development. All this imposes yet another level of care and patience in making photographs, because every time I press the shutter release, I am committed to spend time in the darkroom and money for the chemicals that I need to create a usable negative. And in the end, I am sometimes surprised by what I find. There is a lot of room for serendipity and creative mistakes here.
There are many memories, dreams and reflections that animate my photographic imagination; I often forget which are which. Among them are the stories told to me by my mother when I was little -- tales of her own life growing up poor in a family of tenant farmers during the Depression. The image of the young girl, aspiring to move forward in her life to a better place, remains strong. It triggers complex emotions within me to this day. And there are many other stories and characters that compete for my attention as I make the photographs that move me. I am blessed to have had a number of collaborators, willing to stand before the camera and help me bring these visions to film.
Where does all this lead me?
So much of the world is falling apart. I have trouble looking to the immediate future of humanity with anything but trepidation. But that discomfort only strengthens my interest in finding another region – a private garden that reflects pleasure, assurance, and calm. It is photography that has opened the door to that other part of the world for me. I hope that a few others may wish to pass some time there as well.
Jack Montgomery, Freeport, Maine 2024