Salient Color

In a recent post I described my changing attitude towards post-processing in photography. I’ve gone from someone who avoided it completely to someone who’s open to exploring it when I think I can learn something from it, or when I think it can help me communicate more effectively.

I consider this as as a radical personal change but most of my acquaintances probably have no idea that I’ve gone through this evolution or that it’s such a big deal to me.

To give you a sense of it, I’ve spent thousands of hours taking pictures and reviewing them over the past decade, and for the bulk of that time, I repeatedly and consistently avoided the temptation to alter the output of my camera in any appreciable way.

I had very good reasons for adopting this strict no-editing policy, and it took me a really long time to even consider changing my approach. Now that I’ve crossed the threshold, I feel I should share a few examples of the sort of image I can produce with post-processing, but not without.

One post-processing idea that I find intriguing is to transform an image to black-and-white but preserve one salient bit of color. This idea gets me looking around and wondering: what’s the most important color (or region of color) that I’m seeing right now, and what would it be like if everything appeared in grayscale except that particular color?

The first time I tried this out was with the lips of a mannequin:


The second time was with a stained-glass window that I saw through a church door:


The third time was with an image of a luxury waterfront condo construction site in my neighborhood that had been flooded during a recent snow storm that coincided with an astronomical tide. The original image was not captured by me, but rather shared with me by a neighborhood activist. Since I had already explored the “salient color” technique with my own images, I knew immediately how I wanted to interpret this image:






Withdrawing a Photographic Guarantee

As I’ve worked on my photography over the past ten years or so, I’ve always felt I needed — wanted — to give my viewers a certain guarantee. While I might have liked to assure viewers that each image was perfectly true to what I had seen with my own eyes at the time of capture, I knew that such a guarantee was fundamentally impossible, so I offered a weaker guarantee: that at least I hadn’t edited the image in post-processing. I hadn’t cropped it, hadn’t altered the colors, hadn’t messed with it at all. The camera produced a JPG file, and I either accepted that file in its totality, or I rejected it altogether.

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Fretboard Insights From Another Look at CAGED

In this post I’d like to share a way of thinking about the guitar fretboard that occurred to me when I was revisiting the well-known CAGED system. I had known about CAGED for years, but only recently did it give me an “Aha!” moment.

What I’ll be presenting here is not CAGED itself, but rather a set of observations that were prompted by CAGED. As with anything relating to guitar, someone’s probably thought of it before, but I couldn’t find a similar exposition, so I’m offering my own.

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Interval Compression

In music, “imitation” is what happens when one musical part or “voice” repeats the material stated by another voice. Episodes of imitation occur in many forms and styles of music, but the canon is the one form where imitation is sustained from start to finish.

One of the reasons why I see boundless possibility in the canon form is that the idea of imitation itself can be interpreted in so many ways. Imitation can be direct or it can involve some systematic way of changing or transforming the original material: when the follower repeats what the leader “said,” the follower can state the content verbatim, or say it in a different way.

Some of the most common kinds of transformation that occur in counterpoint are to turn the original material upside down, to change its speed (make it faster or slower), to play it backwards, or to do some combination of these things together. And so we have canons in contrary motion, canons in augmentation or diminution, canons in retrograde, and so on.

Why bother crafting pieces of music with these special technical properties, these “deviant” forms of imitation? Because they can provide a fascinating experience for the listener, where two manifestations of the same idea may be heard together and compared. If we take a melody and turn it upside down does it still bear an audible relationship to the original? Does it carry the same affect? Each time we listen to such a “canon in inversion”, for example, we might notice new connections between the original melody and its mirror image, or we might perceive differences in sound or meaning that hadn’t been apparent before.

As I continue writing canons myself, I’ve been seeking to experiment with other kinds of transformation – other ways of interpreting the idea of “imitation” – that have been less commonly addressed than those mentioned above: inversion, retrograde, augmentation, and diminution. The technique I explored in my two latest canons could be called “interval compression.” The idea is that follower should cut all of the leader’s melodic intervals in half: if the leader makes a jump of an octave (12 semitones) from C to C, for example, the follower would copy this gesture by leaping a tritone (6 semitones) from C to F#. So the follower presents a vertically compressed or “squished” version of everything the leader does.

Is it possible to make meaningful music with this unusual constraint? And why bother doing this? As with many technical constraints that can seem arbitrary at first, it forces you to write music that you probably wouldn’t think of otherwise. But beyond that, it’s an interesting way of addressing the question of what makes two melodies sound similar or different: is it the specific pitches they hit, the specific intervals they use, or is it just their rhythms and basic contours? How similar do the two parts – the leader and its “squished” follower – sound to you as you listen?

Here is Cannon 73 “Tellurium”:

Here is a visualization of the first part of of the canon:


And here’s how it looks if we align the two parts, eliminating the lag between leader and follower so they can be more easily compared:


To make this canon work out cleanly, I confined the original theme to a whole-tone scale so that all melodic intervals would be divisible by 2. The transformed theme, the result of this division, consists largely of chromatic motion as you can see in the images.

Canon 73 was borne from the same outline as its predecessor Canon 72 “Rhyolite,” a piece with a much slower and more brooding demeanor: