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An article written by Percy Lund for the Practical and Junior Photographer March 1902 at the time when he was president of the Yorkshire Photographic Union.
Some weeks ago I met three amateur photographers in a railway carriage. I was going into the country for the day, and they were off for a week at the seaside armed with various cameras. The sight of a tripod usually sets one's tongue wagging, and before the train had got clear of the suburbs we were talking about developers and so forth.
Then they each brought forth a package of prints for my edification - just to show what they could do, don't you know. Of course the prints were very rough, untoned, partially fixed, and all the rest of it; but they were good enough to indicate the capacity of my three acquaintances, and I could see at once that originality was not their forte. For there in full force were the usual things - white sailed boats sleeping on the bosom of rippling seas; streets at right angles to the observer wherein the buildings showed a fearful tendency to fall over; river banks or rocky glens sullied with the foreground presence of some jolly Bank Holiday youth in his billycock hat and striped trousers; pastoral scenes grievously marred by maidens gazing with smirking smiles in the direction of the photographer; shining sea coast bits with iron piers cutting them in twain, and Pierrots and people plentifully scattered about; strange landscapes having the foreground fuzzy and the distance clear, as though man possessed telescopic vision. And so it might go on, an almost endless epitome.
Of course I said they were very interesting; and so they were from my point of view. Then I asked the fellows names and singularly enough they were Tom, Dick and Harry. As to their surnames, naturally I must keep them to myself. For if you should ever come across these acquaintances of mine, you might not be able to resist the temptation of cracking a joke at their expense; and I should not like that,nor would they.
Soon my destination was reached; we parted with a hand shake, and I set out to walk three or four miles to an out-of-the-way farmhouse where I proposed to carry out some ideas for pictures.
Then I waxed wroth, and shouted out that only the most expert photographers ought to venture into beauty spots. The Garden of Eden proved photographically-inclined descendants had to do with places of interest, or scenery that had been cut and dried for them, the better for their ultimate progress. It is fortunate that there was not a sole in sight , or I should have been taken for a lunatic. Photo left of a Landscape by Tom
Next in calmer mood I reflected how much better it would be if photographers would keep away form holiday resorts, and boldly set out for themselves, taking no advice about locality; anywhere where there are trees and fields and streams and cottages will do. But of course when one comes to the choice of subject of selection or composition that is quite another matter. then they should get to know all they can from the best authorities, should read what had been written about the art in photography, and endeavour at leas to master the elementary principles.
As I tramped alone my thoughts reverted to the youths I had just left, Poor Tom, Dick and Harry, I thought, what a lot they will have to unlearn! They talk about holding a mirror up to nature, and appear to imagine that they are actually doing so, and that is all anyone can reasonably expect of them. What an odd description of a mirror they have since such distortions and falsities and ugly photographs are produced from it ! "Perhaps," I said to myself, "they have failed to hold the mirror straight, or placed it oblong when it should have been upright, or upright when circumstances required the reverse. Possibly they handled it so carelessly that the mirror, true to its duty, reflected more direct sunlight than landscape." But as I called to mind their prints, and thought that I had never seen such hard, confusing, speckled things, devoid of concentration and breadth, I wondered what they could possibly be thinking of.
Then, in a rather more generous frame of mind, I began to make excuses for them. They might have been reading and making notes from some correspondence columns, which tell the so-called places of interest or beauty spots. I have no doubt the reader has heard of these sources of information himself. You are advised to proceed to some precise locality, to place the camera in a particular position and then expose exactly so many plates as near mid-day as possible. That being so, small wonder is it that your work lacks feeling and character.
But I gathered from the conversation in the train that Tom, Dick and Harry had derived their notions of what was artistic in photography largely form uncultured utterings of the man-in-the-street. They appeared to believe that if a photograph was out of focus or fuzzy it was likely to be appreciated by the Salon. If the negative happened to be over exposed and the print overprinted its chances of hanging were equally as good; whilst in their philosophy the only essential ingredients in a chef-d' oeuvre were mud, made of several layers of paper some what untidily cut. And when I thought of that unfortunate man-in-the-street, with his perpetual boast that he "knows what pleases him" and his cheap truism that "good photography is preferable to bad art" I feel desperately sad, for surely good photography and good art are one and the same thing.
When I remembered the portraits that Tom, Dick and Harry had shown me I laughed heartily. I knew how vague a landscape appeared to a photographer at first, for I had gone through a similar evolution to theirs myself; I knew how one sought instinctively something more definite, and especially a living person who could be moved about. You might put him in the garden or on the doorsteps, and even sit him in an uncomfortable chair alongside a rickety table. and yet appear moderately happy. But, on the other hand, trees and hills are fixtures, and seem to get all muddled up together. No wonder, then, that the novice begins by recording his own species. And yet how disappointing such prints usually turnout, especially if the faint spark of art has been kindled in one's soul ! One cannot tell why, but the prints give a faint feeling of uneasiness, and all that can be done in the way of olive gold edge mounts, vignetting, and a fine gloss, just like Mr Jones, the professional, increases rather than diminishes the impression. Photo right of Group by Dick
Of course, the worst of us have ideals, and I could see that Tom, Dick and Harry regarded the local professional as the creator of everything that was artistic in photography. They had imitated his taste in olive green gold bevelled mounts, and had even attempted a mild sort of burnishing. But their vignetted bricks and mortar backgrounds left something to be desired. Now the reader will recall that our first conversation in the railway carriage had referred to the developers, and, although they did not tell me so in actual words, I knew that developers and the like were amongst the worst evils that Tom, Dick and Harry had to contend with; for in all probability they are members of a club where they perhaps meet with Fred, who will say, Have you tried the new developer?" "Oh Yes", they may exclaim, "we tried it last week," "Last week!" retorts Fred, "why you antiquated stupids, I only discovered it last night!" Most likely they will then be button holed by John, who describes to them his new method of fixing first and toning after, a truly marvellous proceeding! And again later, in the course of conversation with Charlie, they will be informed that a hydrated bath of soapsuds produces a remarkably high gloss upon chloride prints. They will naturally promise to try all these new ideas; but since on each occasion that they jointly or severally go to the club and meet John, Fred , Charlie and others, some new formula is sure to have been worked out, some much superior process discovered, or some modifying dodge applied to orthodox methods, I could easily realise that the photographic lite of my acquaintances, Tom, Dick and Harry, was occupied very largely with a long series of experiments, whilst the education of the eye and the elevation of taste were practically ignored. Photo above of a seascape by Harry
By the time my destination was in sight, and with a last lamenting thought that the artistic capacity of Ton, Dick and Harry was still latent, I turned the stream of my mind into other channels. But to make this story complete I must add a few lines to say that I happened to meet my three friends again a month or so later, and on that occasion I begged a specimen photograph from each one of them. These prints are illustrated here, and may be taken as typical examples of my friend's work.
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