Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

Making a photograph involves a lot of decision making. But I've discovered this year that many tough decisions remain after the photography is finished.

The Church Project consists of approximately 4,500 images made during the three and a half years I spent photographing the rural churches of Iowa. Out of those images I wanted approximately 80-85 for a possible book. From those, I wanted to select about 45 for a slide presentation and 30 for a possible exhibit.

My first cut reduced the 4,500 exposures to 130 possible images. That was easy as many images varied only slightly in composition and while other images just didn't work. Eliminating 50 of those for a book project was a little more difficult, but not much. The pain started when I got down to the 62 images that I felt were the best of the project.

That meant 17 images that I really liked had to go to hit my slide show number. Even worse, an additional 13 that I really, really liked had to be dropped out to make an exhibit manageable, not to mention affordable. I allowed two weeks to make my final choice, but it took nearly four months.

Fortunately, I had some help. George DeWolfe, who served as a mentor for the project, was invaluable. I had also important insights from my wife, Nancy; my photo buddy, Tim; and my brother, Don, and his wife, Susan.

The choice of the final images required a name change for the project. The current project name is "Places of Spirit and Light: Exploring the Rural Churches of Iowa." Images I've picked as an exhibit can be seen at: http://larrymendenhall.zenfolio.com/placesofspiritandlight

Universalist Church, Mitchellville

All photographers hope their work does justice to the subject. For this photograph, however, I admit to failure. This perspective painting behind the podium is so stunning that I literally could not look at anything else for several minutes. When I walked in the front door, the urge to walk down the aisle and up into the painting was incredibly strong.

This painting is in the old Mitchellville Universalist Church. It's on the National Register of Historic Places. Arlis Fenimore lives across the street from the church and was gracious enough to interrupt her Saturday to let me in. When I asked about the painting, she said it was a mystery. When the building was turned over to a historical group, the painting was found beneath a layer of wallpaper. Arlis said no one knows who painted it, when it was painted, or what it's exact meaning.

There are plenty of mysteries in any religion. There are many questions that refuse to be answered. And maybe that's the point of the painting.

From the photography point of view, this photo is mostly a shot of record; that is, it simply shows a subject in its surroundings. I'm posting it because I think it's intriguing and one of the most unusual pieces of artwork I've seen in a church. I did take several different viewpoints, but I'm not sure any of them will end up in the final church project. I did take another photo that is more likely to be in the final project, but I'll post that one later.

Where Do Angels Live?

One of the absolute religious beliefs I had at the age of five was that angels lived on clouds. To my five-year-old mind, it was an undeniable fact equal to the fact that Santa Claus delivered my “big” Christmas present every year.

I’m a little older than five now and I know that angels don’t live on clouds. Science classes and a more mature spiritual outlook took care of that notion. Yet, when the summer skies of our state produce awesome cloud formations there is enough of my five-year-old self remaining to whisper “Angels live there.” 

So when I see a great formation of clouds like these behind the Hickory Grove Church near Kellogg, the idea of angels are never far from my mind. It’s a good example of how powerful symbols and the ideas that we associate with them can be. When I see clouds, I associate them with angels and heaven. When I see a building with Gothic windows and a steeple, I know immediately what it is and what purpose it fills.

It’s likely that symbols in church design are taken for granted. For example, Gothic windows and steeples have been in use for almost a thousand years. Do we really think about what they mean any more or even know why they were used?  Yet, while lumber and brick make a physical church, the symbols used in its construction make it more than just a building. They make it a scared place.

At first glance, clouds appear to be an easy photographic subject. But rarely does taking a picture of clouds, no matter how majestic, result in a good photograph. The problem is including something in the photograph that gives a sense of scale to help the viewer relate to the clouds. In this photograph, the church, graveyard, and trees provide the scale and the high point of the clouds completes a nice triangular composition that helps keep the viewer’s eye in the photograph. 

And, yes, I looked for angels.

Hopkins Grove Church

I'm a big fan of my wife Nancy's apple pie. I usually get one for my birthday which helps me ignore the fact I'm another year older. But trying to understand exactly why I like them so much leaves me scratching my head. It could be how she carefully blends different types of apple. It might be her made-from-scratch crust. It might be because she adds extra cinnamon and, of course, you can never have too much cinnamon. But I can't put my finger on just one of those reasons.

I found it equally difficult to pinpoint why rural churches appeal to me. I've logged quite a bit of time behind the wheel since starting The Church Project in 2009 and, since I never listen to the radio in the car, a lot of drive time was devoted to finding an answer to the "why". In previous posts, I've mentioned that I like these buildings for many reasons. But if I had to pick just one, which would it be?

It took a couple of years, but I think I finally discovered the why. I call it eloquent simplicity. This shot of the Hopkins Grove Methodist Church near Madrid is a good example. The repeated arch shapes and diagonals create an eloquent facade and also a simple one. Imagine adding one additional shape or building feature. It would create a contrived, confusing and chaotic facade to this lovely, small church.

Capturing eloquent simplicity in a photograph is a little tricky. It's too easy to include one more element than necessary in a composition. The result is a photograph that look contrived, confusing, and chaotic. It's necessary to develop a visual discipline and to learn when to say enough. 

And more than that. It's necessary to understand that these buildings can tell their own stories. I just need to give them a voice.

Mystery and St. Micheal's

It wasn't my intention to make a foreboding and mysterious photograph when I stopped at St. Micheal's Catholic Church near Iowa City. But both words are appropriate for this shot.

I think mystery is appropriate for any artistic project with a religious theme. Despite the best efforts of our many belief systems, there is something about the nature of the Divine that resists the best efforts of our prying and curious minds. The darker tonal values and the grave markers contribute both to the foreboding and mystery in this photo. The sense of mystery is heightened by the ambiguous figure at the extreme right.

What caught my eye in this scene was the afternoon light illuminating the windows. But two issues created problems. One was perspective. Standing close to the windows so that no markers were in the way created severe perspective distortion. Standing a little further back didn't fully correct the situation and introduced the second problem of markers intruding on the composition.

My solution (that I'm not entirely happy with) was to incorporate the markers into the composition. I used the three tall markers on the left and the mysterious marker on the right to create a frame for the two windows. This viewpoint down slope from the church also created a rich addition of tones found in the weathered wall of the church and the markers.

While shooting, I was pleasantly interrupted by Harold, a member of the church and part of the Friends of Old St. Micheal's group that maintains the church. He graciously let me in to look around in the sanctuary and also added an interesting historical tidbit. Former residents of every county in Ireland are buried in the graveyard. Meeting great people like Harold and discovering more about these fascinating churches have been a real treat.

Dunbar Lutheran

Rural churches fascinate me because they can be looked at from several different perspectives. They can be looked at as scared places. They can be viewed as historic places. But they can also be seen as part of our landscape, just like our rolling hills and cloud-filled skies. Whether they're nestled against a tree-filled hill or surrounded by fields, they look as if they belong there. Rarely do they stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. They only look out of place when they are no longer there.

Unfortunately, like many aspects of the landscape, these churches are fragile elements. I'm afraid that our landscape will soon be missing some of these churches. While many rural churches are active or are maintained by their former congregations, many more have been left to be worn down by time and weather. And while I've tried not to be too sentimental or nostalgic in doing this project, I think that is unfortunate.

This shot of the Dunbar Lutheran church in Central Iowa is a good instance of a church at home in the landscape. I'm not entirely happy with the composition -- the small fur tree blending visually with the trunk of the foreground tree is a little distracting. But a critical part of any type of photography is compromise. To create separation between the trees required moving to a point where a power pole intruded or moving to the side which I felt made a less effective photograph. It brings to mind this definition of compromise I read somewhere: "Compromise: A solution which neither party likes."

 Cloudy Skies

 

Clouds are no strangers to Iowa's summer-time skies. In fact, the marvelous display of cumulus clouds drifting lazily above the landscape is one of the few "perks" of a hot, humid Iowa summer. And while my weather knowledge is limited, we don't often seem to see such a variety of clouds as we do in this photo of St. Paul's Lutheran Church in Story County.

The clouds adds a sense of mystery that helps make this more than a picture of a steeple against a cloudy sky. It adds -- and I'm struggling with terms here -- an unseen dimension which I hope is found in the other photographs. My goal for The Church Project is to portray these wonderful rural churches as sacred places and I feel these clouds help this photograph meet that goal.

However, this photo walks a fine line. Is this a photograph about clouds or is it about churches? Considering the time I spent adjusting the contrast in the clouds and only including the steeple of the church, the argument could be made that the photo is about the clouds and not the church. While I like this photo quite a bit, I need to think about the question it raises before including it in the final project.