Creative freedom

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“All the time you’re saying to yourself, “I could do that, but I won’t “- which is just another way of saying that you can’t.”
Richard P. Feynman

At the ocean science and engineering conference, I listen to many talks on fascinating subjects that are a bit outside of my main area of research (which is fluid mechanics.) They are just sufficiently remote, so that I think it won’t be a good idea to allocate time and other resources to pursue these tangent areas. Then, I remind myself that the ability to change the focus of research is, perhaps, the greatest benefit of working in academe — the proverbial academic freedom.

The problem with the concept of academic freedom is that more often than not our research directions are dictated by the combination of funding sources (interests of collaborating industrial partners, for example) and infrastructure availability, available time that is free of teaching duties, etc. All these factors forms a rather cynical insider’s outlook on the academic research, its role in the society and on our capacity to take creative decisions about research direction.

However, the limitations on the freedom of choice are almost entirely self-imposed in this case. It is as if we (the university-based researchers like myself) are operating under hypnosis. Richard Feynman described this effect very vividly in his autobiographic collection of stories “Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!” When he was under hypnosis, he was fully aware that he probably could do things contrary to what he was instructed to do. Nevertheless, he never chose to go against the external instructions, because it was too uncomfortable to do so at the moment.

I often find myself in a similar situation with photography. I see someone else’s beautiful work and think, “This is really interesting. I know exactly how it was done. I could do this too.” But in most cases, just saying this to myself precludes me from actually trying the new type of shot. As if declaring my ability to do something makes me subconsciously check this potential project off as already accomplished.

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Colours of Genova

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Genova often does not make the list of top destinations in Italy. A friend of mine recently joked that he would write a blog post entitled “Top Ten Things To Do In Genova,” which would list only three items. Genova definitely has fascinating history (it was the dominant naval power at one point, it is the birthplace of Columbus, etc.), but there are no high-profile tourist attractions, large museums or famous frescoes that many other Italian cities have in abundance. However, after spending four full days here, I start to notice the neat features of Genova that make it unique.

I think Genova’s uniqueness is in its architecture. Specifically, it is in the contrast of the old town, with it’s maze of narrow alleys (“corrugi”), and the modern structures around the waterfront. There is also a noticeable contrast between the dark, dirty, graffiti-covered old town and the bright, sunny, romantic suburb of Boccadasse, which looks very similar to the nearby five villages known as Cinque Terre that are famous for their unique charm.

The colours of Genova’s old buildings are also unique. They are of various shades of red and orange. I heard that this particular shade of red is called “Genova rosso,” just like the typical orange colour of Siena’s buildings is known simply as “siena” to the artists.

More photos here: https://flic.kr/s/aHskbNyVyE

First impressions of Genova: night and day

More photos here: https://flic.kr/s/aHskbNyVyE

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I got a little bit lost in the narrow streets of Genova, when I went for a walk through the city after dinner on my day of arrival. I like to think that my sense of direction is reasonably good, so I wrote this off to being tired after the long trip. The next morning, I went to the Spianada di Castelletto, a lookout point with a panoramic view of the town. It quickly became apparent that the maze of alleys (I learned that “vico” means “alley”, not “street” in Italian.)

I later returned to the same lookout to photograph the panorama at sunset, and saw, this time from above, how sparsely illuminated the town was. Actually, some of the alleys are so narrow, that the sunlight does not reach into them even during the day.

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Travel companions

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A woman in front of me in the security check line at the airport had a tiny dog, who was picking his head out of a special carrier bag, but had to be taken out and carried through the metal scanner. The dog did not complain, and all the security personnel seemed to be genuinely entertained (I suppose, any diversion is welcome in that kind of job.)

This dog reminded me about the time when my wife and I travelled with our pet, an african grey parrot named Zorro, on several planes across America. Zorro was not bothered by travel at all, but crossing the US-Canada border with him at the peak of a bird flu scare was a long process, to say the least, even though Zorro travelled with a stack of documents (vet checks, etc.) twice as thick as me and my wife.

I find it curious that most people, myself included, like travel stories, but put little effort in capturing the little details that make them vivid later. Perhaps, we like the stories because even a shortest trip implies a break from daily routine and a possibility of adventure. At the time of travel, though, we are too focused on the destination, making sure that everything goes according to plan. In other words, we want to avoid an adventure if at all possible, unless it happens on our terms (a paragliding lesson, a guided SCUBA dive, etc.)

It would have been fun to take photos of Zorro at the airports, when he was surrounded by children, or even to snap a picture of that tiny dog in the carrier, but often I find myself too lazy busy to stop and get the camera out of the backpack.

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Change of environment

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While packing for a relatively long trip to Europe that will involve conferences, research visits, visits with family and sightseeing, I catch myself trying to bring along everything that would enable me to replicate my everyday activities. Of course, the very fact that I am going to be doing many things that do not happen at home will ensure that my daily routine will change drastically, which is a good thing.

It is curious, though, that the mindset is relatively slow to adapt to the change in environment. In fact, this naturally-occurring change of the mindset is one of the main benefits of travelling, according to Rolf Potts’ “Vagabonding.” Potts says that an important factor in facilitating the transition into the travel mode is limiting the amount of information consumed in familiar, day-to-day ways (e.g. email, social media, etc.) A vivid image of what can happen otherwise is a tourist sitting in a street-side cafe, checking her Facebook feed, as if she has never left her living room.

I suppose, the key concept to avoiding this pitfall is presence. Needless to say, cultivating it is not easy, and like any worthwhile skill, it requires a lot of practice.

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Dreams of greatness

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This month’s calligraphy is a saying by a Chinese poet, who as a child had a dream of a flower emerging from the tip of a brush.  This turned out to be a prophecy of his future greatness.

It is curious how many important people had their greatest ideas come to them when they were not consciously thinking (Newton’s apple story is one famous example.) I think this is a perfect reason (besides all the health benefits) for getting more sleep. This is my excuse reason for making this post so short.

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On scalability

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The ability to scale up is typically considered a very desirable (if not the key) property of a business, a research group (in academic context) or any other entity or project where productivity is measured quantitatively (i. e. in terms of profits, journal publications, etc.) However, in certain cases, consciously limiting the scale of the project has tremendous benefits in terms of quality of the end product as well as the quality of the experience of the process. A great example of this decision not to scale up is shown in “Jiro Dreams of Sushi“, a documentary about a high-end sushi restaurant in Tokyo.

In my experience, limiting the scale of projects certainly works well for photography. High-volume photo shoots involve a lot of overhead related to production and logistics. As the scale of the project increases, so does the overhead, while the essence of the project that served as the original motivation, at best, remains unchanged.

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Mother’s Day

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When taking family pictures on a holiday like Mother’s Day, it is best to let the children and parents interact and play naturally, without imposing on them with lighting, wardrobe and posing directions. The profound nature of our relationships with our mothers makes it difficult to convey this connection in a picture, which freezes only one short instant in the relationship. It is common knowledge that conventional, posed family portraits are often boring (partly, because they reflect the experience of taking these photos – tired parents, uncooperative children, stressed-out photographers…) On the other hand, a candid portrait can potentially provide a unique glimpse of a genuine emotion that connects the family members through their “normal” interactions.

The chances of taking a good family portrait are greatly improved if children are used to being photographed. If taking pictures is not a special occasion for them, but rather a part of daily play, they are more likely to “forget” about the camera and display their genuine behaviour.

The same argument applies to adults (in this case, parents.) Despite the wide-spread obsession with selfies, typically, our mental self-image is different from the more objective view provided by the camera. This is why we often don’t like how we look in photographs. Accepting the image of oneself as others see it takes practice. A positive side effect of being photographed regularly is that we can learn which poses, camera angles, clothes etc. are most flattering for us and repeatably reproduce those conditions. Thus, we can objectively become more photogenic.

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Back to Italy

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Some of my most vivid travel impressions are from the trip to Italy that my wife and I took six years ago. Now, I am planning a short research-related trip to Genova and Milan, where I have never been before. This time, I will go without my family, though, so the dynamics of the trip will be very different. I will have only a couple of days off work for some sightseeing, so I do not have a detailed photography agenda. It would be nice to balance photography with the actual experience of being in the foreign place.

Photography requires a certain amount of focus, which can detract from the travel experience. On the other hand, I find that visual memories, frozen in photographs, largely shape the overall retrospective impression from the trip. I am curious to see how my photos from this year’s trip to Italy would be different from those taken six years ago.

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Telling a story through small details

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Although a picture is worth a thousand words, sometimes a subject of a photo shoot is so vast that it is difficult to decide what to start with. This is often the case with travel photography, as every country’s story can be told in many different ways: through its architecture, food, people, arts, etc.

To overcome the initial block created by the vastness of the subject, I find it productive to pick a specific element, such as an iconic building or even and try to cover it deeply. The term “study” that is sometime used to describe some of the classical works of art ( e.g. “a study in scarlet”) comes to mind. When I start my photography in a new place with a study of a small element of that location, I free up the bandwidth of my mind from the necessity of making decisions about the subjects of the photos (i.e. what to shoot, at what time of day, etc.) This is very valuable at the initial stage, as I can focus on learning more about the particular subject I have already chosen. It might not be the single most perfect subject representing the country or location, but it always offers opportunities for learning about its larger context, so the other subjects for follow-up photo shoots emerge naturally.

Josh Waitzkin, an international-level chess player and a martial artist, who studies learning processes, refers to this strategy of focussing on small details as “creating small circles.” Interestingly enough, his inspiration for this approach came from the book that I am currently reading – Robert Pirsig’s “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values.” In this book, there is a scene where the main character helps a student to overcome a creative block by changing her assignment from writing about a town to writing about a detail of a building in that town: “Narrow it down to the front of one building on the main street of Bozeman. The Opera House. Start with the upper left-hand brick.”

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