North Walls, Squamish Chief, 1982

“But when does something’s destiny finally come to fruition? Is the plant complete when it flowers? When it goes to seed? When the seeds sprout? When everything turns into compost?”
~ Leonard Koren, Wabi-Sabi: For Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers

I recently got to thinking about wabi-sabi (侘寂), the the Japanese aesthetic that embraces the “imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete” nature of existence. The idea of wabi-sabi arose from the human feeling of loneliness within nature (examined from a Western perspective in my recent posts on landscape), evolving to embrace and celebrate simplicity and acceptance of imperfection. Its expression flows, if you will, from the Buddhist tea ceremony, served in flawed ceramics.

As a perfectionist who often allows dissatisfaction to send half- or nearly-finished projects to the trash, the contemplation of intentional “mistakes” is alien to my nature (while insufficient skill is not).

Years ago, I heard of the “Persian flaw,” the habit of Persian rug makers weaving ‘a deliberate mistake’ into each of their carpets, since only a god’s creation is supposed to be perfect. We own several exquisite Oriental rugs whose imperfections are imperceptible to me.

My approach to photography began as a simple fascination with the “magic” of the reflected world emerging from the mysterious depths of the latent image, where silver atoms (one ten-millionth the size of the silver halide crystals suspended in the emulsion) are formed on exposure to light. Thus, the precious alchemy of photographic imaging.

When, in my twenties, I established my own darkroom, the mixing of potions and their effects on film and print reconnected me to my childhood “laboratory,” in England (housed in a Canadian-made cedar shed outfitted with chemistry sets and methylated spirit Bunsen burners). Were it not for a dyslexic handicap that made mathematics as opaque as a lens cap, I would perhaps have pursued a career in the sciences.

The average photographer has always relied on scientific progress. Without the trades of lens manufacturing, camera design and chemistry, we would not have Carleton Watkins’ sublime views of Yosemite.

Today, the inner science of photography is more mysterious to me than ever. Contained within the magnesium and (now 100% recycled) aluminum chassis of the machines I use to make my reflections of light, the arcane industries of logarithms and computer technology reside. Short of returning to analog photography, my part in the production of photographic imagery now consists of “pulling the levers” that control “magical” combinations of integers contained within (soon-to-be-obsolete) spinning, and solid state containers. I am, only by extension, a modern-day sorcerer.

My entry into the world of commercial photography coincided with the advancement of my technical knowledge and familiarity with materials — films and developers that were the “pallette” of the film photographer — studio lighting, and ability to enhance my subjects. Need I add how valuable these arts are to merchandizing?

So where does that leave my “mistakes” — those photographs that didn’t make the cut? In the case of work-for-hire, at worst it meant a reshoot and lost profits; as far as my “personal work” there was the darkroom dustbin, today “delete from disk.”

The photo above represents a negative file that escaped the trash, only because it represents the memory of an unrealized project … one that exceeded my ambition.

At the time, I was busy developing the now-popular Squamish climbing area known as Octopus’s Garden. Much of the initial excavation work was undertaken during spring monsoons (inspiring route names like Unearthly Delights). 

It’s a hasty snapshot, made with a 35mm Nikon FM camera and a roll of my favoured Ilford FP4 film. But, perhaps more importantly, it is the view from a mind completely taken with climbing. Its purpose was to survey the soaring, granite dihedrals, lit through the rising mist of a clearing storm. To the eyes of a mountaineer, they represented possible routes through the North Walls of the Squamish Chief, above the bush-choked feature known as “Astro Ledge.”

As it turned out, I would abandon that obsession to brave the perils of advertising photography, in Toronto’s concrete jungle. Packing up my Vancouver apartment in 1986, I donated my well-worn climbing ropes to Dean Hart, a young climber I’d recently introduced to the sport. They were to be used as “fixed ropes” on a bold enterprise up on the North Walls.

Over the next year, Dean and partner Randy Atkinson pioneered classic climbs like Public Image, Gone Surfin’ and The Calling, pushing the boundaries of what was possible at the time.

The vertical composition (I shot a horizontal frame next) reminded me of landscapes in the Japanese tradition. I made a silver print, years ago. It may be in a storage box somewhere, awaiting the shredder. 

Today, a digital version makes its debut here. Is it wabi-sabi, or just a bad photo rescued from obscurity by intimations of the sacred? Certainly, it represents for me the impermanence of human ambition and even “God’s finest sculpterins’.” A massive rockfall on April 19, 2015 obliterated parts of the upper headwall, including sections of Hart and Atkinson’s famous routes.