How do I decide whether to photograph in black and white or color? And is black and white always more artistic?
For the first question, it's pretty simple. You'll come up with your own criteria for what makes a strong black and white statement. Until then, you can use my single criterion and play with that.
No, black and white is not always more artistic. Sometimes it can be an unfortunate decision. Which leads us back to the first question.
Here's the question I ask to determine whether black and white or color is more appropriate: Is there strong emotion in this story or do I want to create strong emotion in this story?
That's it. Simple, right?
Because my style revolves around telling stories with strong emotional connections, black and white is my default. My photographs are more often like observations or narrations of life than conventional portraits, so it makes sense that black and white is my preference.
Black and white removes the distraction of color.
Yeah. Distraction.
When color has something to contribute, like the details of unique markings or eye color, and those color messages are more important than the emotion that is visible, then color is the better choice. Otherwise, color gets in the way. People will automatically pay attention to the color, especially if there is a lot of it, and they'll miss the other stuff. Color is easier to talk about than emotion for most people.
Let's talk through this example of Wean. He was sleeping on an uncovered dog bed. In real life, the color wasn't especially compelling here - he was orange and the bed foam was grey and white. There is nothing else in the frame.
This would be a good time to have a tissue at the ready.
This bed belonged to Rhys. And Conan. I think even Angus used this one (all Danes in my family from 2002 to 2018). Now Greer (the German shepherd) uses it, and the cover smells much more like shepherd than Dane.
The foam inside, though, is another story. It clutches years and years of Daneish lounging wisdom.
When I wash Greer's laundry, I typically put this foam bed behind a closed door so no one will get on it or tear the foam. On this laundry day, I didn't. I propped it up on the arm of the sofa and the side table, thinking it was safely out of the way of Greer, and went on to do something else.
Wean found it.
Wean had been around this dog bed for as long as it's been in our home. He slept on it infrequently. It had never been a particularly interesting place for him unless there was already a dog on it.
There was no dog on this bed, and yet Wean was spread on it like butter on toast. He slept there all day. He didn't wake to eat. He didn't wake to stretch in the afternoon. He woke for dinner, visited the litterbox and the water fountain, and returned to his foam platform.
So I didn't put the cover back on the bed because there was a cat on it. I figured the next day I'd be able to return it to service. I was wrong about that.
At the time I initially wrote about all this, Wean was sleeping on this foam interior of the dog bed. I washed the cover four days prior. It's not because of the location or the height - there had been other soft, flat, welcoming surfaces here and he hadn’t been interested in those.
I'm speaking for him, of course, but I think he felt Rhys. I think Rhys is in this foam. The smell of him. The memory of him. That's why Wean stayed.
Wean loved being on this bed with Rhys, especially this time of year when I'd move it outside. Wean would stretch out and make himself comfortable, and Rhys would shrink a bit to make sure Wean had enough room.
When Rhys died, his last breath was on the bed right next to this one. Wean was pressed up against his hip, purring mightily. Within an hour of Rhys' death, Wean moved to this bed, the one pressed against the one where Rhys was lying, so he could see his face. And he settled in.
Rhys died in the afternoon. Wean did not leave the bed until the following morning. He sat vigil with Rhys' body all night. On this bed.
So when I saw Wean on this foam, it was a lot more than a cat on a bed on laundry day. Or several days post-laundry day. It was about a being who was grieving. Someone who was mourning.
I saw it in the way he supremely relaxed on this foam. That he had a preference for this bed since Rhys died, and before that he'd lie on it only if Rhys were already there (in which case Rhys would often grumble loudly and get up and move). I remember how Wean would hardly move from this bed for nearly one week after Rhys died.
I feel love in this frame. It's the kind of photograph that instantly brings tears because of its connection. Color would take away from that.