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برچسب: Mood

  • The Power of Mood


    Photography can be many things. For some, it’s about capturing scenes. For me, it’s about conveying emotions and suggesting narratives that resonate deeply, first with me and then with the viewers who might experience the image. I’m not so much after eyes as I am hearts and minds. Mood does that.

    The mood of a photograph is its emotional tone—a subtle yet powerful element that can transform a simple image into a compelling one that is more than visual but also visceral.

    Mood in photography refers to the overall feeling or atmosphere an image evokes in the viewer, ranging from joy and serenity to tension and melancholy. As broad as the gamut of human emotions is, so too is the possibility of touching them with a photograph. Mood is the intangible quality of a photograph, often created by a combination of many elements, a short list of which would include light and composition, the subject matter itself, and colour. But that is a very abbreviated list of how we can establish an emotional connection—to make photographs that are more expressive on the level that makes us sigh, laugh, cry, or feel wonder when we see them.

    For those who aim to tell stories with their images (and not all of us do), an image that successfully conveys a mood can evoke empathy, curiosity, or nostalgia, drawing the viewer into the story behind the photograph. Making them care. Investing them.

    Mood can also play a significant role in guiding the viewer’s perception and interpretation of an image. It acts as a lens through which a visual story is understood. It changes a photograph of something into a photograph about something more specific. For instance, a photograph of a deserted house might evoke feelings of loneliness or melancholy, suggesting themes of abandonment or loss. But the same scene captured with warm lighting and vibrant colours might create a nostalgic or serene mood, changing the narrative entirely. Through mood, photographers can steer the viewer’s emotional response and shape the story being told. Both hypothetical images I just mentioned are of the same thing, but they are about very different things. That’s the power of mood.

    Beyond storytelling and emotional engagement, understanding and pursuing mood can just make prettier photographs. Stronger images aesthetically. Images that stand out more because they have a distinct visual identity. Whether it’s the ethereal quality of a foggy landscape or the raw energy of a stormy sea, mood adds depth and character to photographs, making them more memorable and impactful.

    Mood is often what first captures the viewer’s attention—the hook that draws viewers in to explore the image further.

    Complicated images with a lot going on can take a while to figure out. The impact is spread out and sometimes doesn’t hit as powerfully. Mood is simple; it’s a feeling that requires no figuring out. Mood is seldom a puzzle.

    In portrait photography, mood can be used to reveal a subject’s unique personality or telegraph how they feel. It can connect us to a subject we might not otherwise care about. The landscape photographer relies on mood to transform ordinary scenes into extraordinary vistas, capturing the essence of a place—the feeling of it. Documentary photographers use mood to make us feel empathy about social issues. Any photographer wanting their audience to feel something would be foolish to assume that subject matter alone will provoke empathy when there are much more powerful tools available, among which might be choice of moment, point of view, or the brightness of an image.

    Mood brings emotional depth; it is the life of an image.

    For me, mood is often the why. It’s what draws me to make the photograph in the first place. And so it is perhaps a source of consternation or confusion when I look at the work of photographers new to this craft, and even back on years of my early work and see no mood. What power they might have had if only these photographers (and I) understood the possibilities. If only I had asked better questions than, “Which lens should I use?” or “What would a proper exposure be for this?”

    When you first start out, it’s probably helpful that your questions relate to focus, exposure, or lens choice. But I’m increasingly convinced those questions should never be separated from this better one: How do you want the image to feel? Because even where focus and exposure (and lens choice) are concerned, your choices about how can never be separated from your choices about why. If I can see it, I can feel it. So if you make an image darker, I will feel that darkness and its accompanying mood. If your focus is so shallow that the out-of-focus highlights become globes of light and colour and the rest of the scene softens, I will feel that too. Or if your focus is so shallow I can’t see enough detail to make sense of the story, I won’t feel the power of that story. Not a single decision we make—either in camera or with development—can’t be used to make an image that is as visceral as it is visual.

    Two questions that will change the way you make photographs: How do you want the image to feel? What would that look like?

    If you’re open to a quick exercise, answer these two questions for me:

    What do you love that conveys mood in an image?

    What makes your heart skip a beat?

    Many of the elements and choices that bring mood to an image are felt somewhat universally, but the ones we most like working with, the ones we most want to see in our images, are a matter of preference. I’d love to hear what those mood hooks are for you. My top three would have to be backlight, point of view, and the mystery that shadows create in an image. What are yours? You can drop those into the comments below.

    For the Love of the Photograph,
    David





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  • The Problem with Mood


    I do a little moonlighting for a small computer and imaging company that rhymes with Snapple. They are under the mistaken impression that my nearly 40 years behind the camera means I know what I’m talking about. Still, I like the challenge. One of my first tasks as their Creative Storytelling Specialist (yeah, I don’t know what that means, either) was to help the engineers understand mood as it relates to picture-making.

    So to get a head start, I did some poking around the internet in hopes that people with greater minds than I had already articulated the idea of mood. Mostly what I found was the advice to “put more mood in your photographs,” as if I were being told to add more salt to every recipe. Not helpful.

    The problem with mood is it’s not really one thing. Add mood? What kind of mood? If mood is about emotional connection then surely we can be more specific about which emotions. But before we disregard the advice entirely, it’s worth acknowledging that it comes from a good place, a recognition of the power of mood.

    The desire for more mood in our photographs—not unlike the desire for more salt—is a desire for more flavour. Only in this case, the flavour is emotion. It’s a desire to move beyond the pursuit of perfection in our images toward something a little more poetic. Poetry is about feelings; unless you’re working as a forensic photographer, feelings are probably something you hope to stir with your photographs. And that requires interpretation. It requires making choices that sway an emotion one way or the other. It requires taking some risks because almost every choice that leads to more emotion in our images is a choice that deviates from the playbook we were all given with our first cameras. It’s a move away from average and towards more flavour. Pass the salt, please.

    So back to my early efforts to articulate mood as a powerful tool (more like a toolbox, really) in photographic expression. Once I got over the confusion about why so little insightful information was out there, here are the first three realizations I had.

    You Can Learn Mood

    Mood isn’t the result of secret techniques, or even advanced techniques. It’s more a result of refined sensibilities. Maybe it’s also a matter of priority. It’s in looking for it, chasing it. It’s in recognizing it when you see it and knowing which choices can amplify those emotions through the image. And those are all present as visual cues that we can see and learn from. You can learn this.

    Set the camera aside for a moment and think about a photograph that you love—one that stirs something in you. Maybe one of the iconic images that made so many of us feel the power of the photograph and want to pick up the camera ourselves so we could find that power and beauty. What makes you feel the way you do about that photograph? Is it only the subject matter?

    I love bears, but not every picture of a bear makes me feel anything. Some make me feel bored. They lack mood. But the ones I love? It’s more than a bear. Bear in great light, perhaps. What kind of light is it, and what did the photographer do with it? Maybe it’s a bear in a great moment. Maybe it’s the camera placement or a story implied by other elements in the frame. Maybe—probably—it’s all that. Whatever it is, you feel it because of something you see. And if it’s something you can see, it’s something you can learn.

    In short, don’t spend more time studying your technical tools than you spend figuring out your mood tools.

    Light Is Everything

    The first thing we look to when we chase mood is light. And so it should be. Light is so often the first thing that hooks us. We feel something about light that resonates with us. We feel differently about backlight than about front-lit scenes. We feel differently about softer light than light that’s more direct and makes harsh shadows. We respond to the shadows and reflections created by light. Where light is concerned, what we seem not to respond to is, well, boring light. Average light. That’s not to say you can’t make expressive photographs in boring light, but it won’t be light to which we respond but something else. A different hook. So if light is so powerful, why do photographers insist on painting with anything but light that has the power of an emotional hook? If you want mood, look to the light. 

    It’s Not All About Light

    At the same time, it’s not all about light. There’s a reason photographers use different focal lengths, and it’s not just to “get more reach” or get more in the frame. It’s because different lenses feel differently. They interpret a scene differently. So do the places in which we put the camera. And the weather. And our choice of moment. Of course light isn’t truly everything. All our choices, all the elements, are everything.

    And that’s the problem with “put more mood into your photographs.” It’s every decision we make—or it can be. But here’s the other problem with mood: there are no rules. There are hooks, elements and choices that we do or don’t respond to, but there’s no playbook. Not really. And so it comes down to having a sensitivity to those hooks, taking risks, and knowing what stirs the OMGILT (Oh my God, I love that!). Many things stir emotion in our images—and nearly infinite combinations of them—but you won’t love to use them all. You won’t love the same colours I do. You won’t be as excited by the same focal lengths or perspectives nor drawn to the same subjects or stories.

    Your Turn. There’s a Prize.

    Are you up for an exercise? How about if I put a prize on the line? In the comments on my blog, tell me about that photograph I asked you to imagine a few paragraphs ago. Describe it. Tell me why you feel the way you do about it. It’s probably not just one thing, but many. What gives that photograph its mood, or what makes you feel the way you do about it? Don’t hold back. I’ll draw one person’s name from the comments below for a free enrollment in my next course, which may or may not be available very soon and is all about mood and making photographs that elicit a more powerful emotional response. Who’s in?

    Update: The lucky winner is Jon Lloyd. Jon, I’ll send you an email about your free enrollment in my Shoot What it Feels Like course. Thanks for playing!

    For the Love of the Photograph,
    David





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