How my project was on TV 3 times, in 4 different newspapers, and I still felt like a failure
In part one of this series, I talked about how I photographed two trailbuilders for nine months and then made large weatherproofed prints that we put along the trail itself so people could see how it was built as they were using it. I called it Evidence of Trail Fairies. In this part I’m going to talk about how I felt like a failure despite my outward appearance of success.
I like learning about how stuff gets made. Often I’m more interested in what goes on behind the scenes than I am in the final product.
Recently I went to an adventure film festival where they showed a night of behind the scenes films about other films in the festival. I started out excited, but as it went on I became more and more disappointed. With a few exceptions the films were all the same: “I’m rad, these athletes are rad, and look at all the rad things I got to do to film them.”
I was in the middle of my trail project, and I didn’t feel very rad. I mostly felt worried, alone, and disappointed. Watching these films made me feel intimidated by people who were so obviously better at this than me that they would feel rad when I felt like I was failing.
Over the course of the project, I shot 21,262 photos. I selected 20 of them to show. But even with the luxury of throwing away 1000 photos to pick one, I felt that at least half the photos I selected were not up to par. Wherever I’m at as a photographer, I know how I feel when I’m at my limit and pushing farther. Those photos that I selected did not reflect that: they were too simple, too safe, too technically flawed, too much like what I’ve done before.
More disappointing than flawed photos was missing themes. I built a list of emotions, or themes, that I tried to shoot over the course of the project. Well I missed a bunch of them — again, at least half. I never managed to capture anything for the builders’ feeling of wanting to leave a legacy. I was too scared to take out my camera-plus-flash in the pub where we’d eat afterward, so I have no record of post-building satisfaction. And one of my favourite parts of the experience was hearing people riding or hiking nearby, unaware of our presence. But I tried and failed to capture photos that reflected that feeling.
Even more disappointing was that I think the medium overwhelmed the message. The comments from viewers were mostly about how neat it was to see art in the woods, but the actual themes got discussed much less often. After the careful selection of photos and endless polishing of the captions, I hardly heard someone even mention what their favourite picture was — let alone say anything deeper about them. So that made me feel that I failed at communicating what I wanted to say.
When I discussed this all with my partner, I told her that I felt that the entire project was a failure that only succeeded in spite of itself. She said she was surprised to hear that, and that she disagreed. “I’ll show you who’s a failure,” I said, and went back to check.
I’d been so wrapped up in the post-project experience of writing emails and photographing the prints while they were still up that I hadn’t looked at the photos themselves in quite some time. When I took a second look I counted three photos of the 20 that were not up to whatever my level is as a photographer. Three is still a lot — 15% of the final project — but it’s not the 50% that I felt earlier. Similarly, when I went back and actually looked at my list of themes, I found that I missed about 20% of them. Again, not great, but a far cry from 50%. My perception did not match reality.
So I learned that not only was I comparing my insides to other people’s outsides, but I was comparing an exaggerated version of my insides. Those three photos and three themes loomed large in my mind, and tricked me into thinking that my overall performance was worse than it was. They doubled my problem of being intimidated by others.
Feeling so intimidated, I find it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that everything I do sucks. There’s a certain nobility to the idea that “I’m my own worst critic”.
But if we don’t stop to also see our strengths, then we’re left with nothing to build on.
Looking back now, I see that the photo above is one of my best examples of planning out a shot beforehand.
Whereas this photo from when the trail was opened is an example of having only a few seconds to make a picture, failing the first time, and then pulling it off at the last second.
I also managed to photograph in the pitch dark both with remote lighting and by headlamp alone, and we hauled 24 giant sheets of plastic into and out of the forest without being seen (much). Most importantly, I managed to incorporate emotions into the work more deliberately than I ever have before.
Those missing photos and themes still disappoint me, but in the context of the larger project they don’t have as much impact as they did in my mind. And I remind myself that the message did get heard: I had conversations with friends who eventually mentioned picking up on the themes more than they initially let on. So maybe strangers did too. Getting distance from the project helped me see these things.
Hopefully, by showing the failure that went on behind the scenes of this outwardly successful project, I can help someone else feel less intimidated than I did.
And, maybe, they can even feel just a little bit rad.
This is part of a four part series. In the first part I talked about turning a trail into an art gallery. Next I talked about how creating for a mainstream audience like this doesn’t mean dumbing down your work and then about how I recognized the tricks my brain was playing on me that were preventing me from finishing the project.
