Creative: Pixel to Pulp

After my talk at B&H, someone I met in Spain at the RAW Photo Festival came up to the front to get a look at one of my notebooks. “I can’t believe these books,” she said. “Are you telling me you do this every single day?” I had to laugh. During the talk, I’d stated, more than once, that I’ve been journaling daily since 1993, after I found a book about Peter Beard in the Phoenix Public Library. Sure, there were days I missed, but not many. I know why people find this interesting, or challenging, or impossible. I do. But I have focus. Some might call it obsession. I find the notebook to be the single most important, interesting, strategic thing I do, and I completely understand if you aren’t interested.

I’m not here to tell you what to do.

You should keep a notebook. I’m telling you, you should keep a notebook. Don’t call it a journal, that word triggers the haters. Worse yet, “diary,” although Beard introduced himself as a “diarist,” and it worked out pretty well for him. Instagrammers, those who take themselves too seriously, the tech addicted, or the massive ego types, all find what I’m saying downright blasphemous. You could also throw in those without their own thoughts, at least two generations now, by my crude math. Those who live by the algorithm. Poor bastards. I almost feel a tinge of pity, but not quite.

I wanted to give you a “typical day,” or “day in the life” of Dan’s journaling world. Sometimes we need a little help or direction. I’m here to save you from yourself. First, I gave a talk for Fujifilm at B&H in Nuevo York City. I call it “Nuevo York,” because at least seventy-five percent of the dialogue I heard while in the city was in Spanish, something that makes me HAPPY. It’s such a great language. I still believe the United States is part of “The Americas.” We are better together.

Nuevo York, awesome. Fujifilm, awesome. B&H, awesome. Post-talk photo walk, awesome, although damp- and I mean torrential downpour, tropics-style deluge damp. Walk and talk, walk and shoot, as you do on something like this. And many thanks to those who kept at it while the heavens unloaded on us. As I walk, in this case making multiple exposures, I’m thinking more about the future than about the present. I’m building for later. Multiple exposures are fantastic for bookmaking. Useful in a myriad of ways. Images that can freeze a reader, allowing them to sit and study an image, finding new things each time.

I’m also thinking about what type of print I want to make, and how and where it will fit into the notebook. I’ve been doing this for decades, so it might be a bit easier for me than you, but that’s okay. You must start. That is all. Just start. Shoot, write, paste, glue, adhere, tack, tape, or paste. And then I write. I’m always writing. Planes, trains, automobiles. Always writing. It’s a conversation with yourself, so be prepared for what comes back. You may not like yourself. Today’s writing was about how different the East Coast is from where I live. Subtle hints of short seasons, dehumidifiers, lushness, birdsong. The words flow. No right and wrong, just whatever passes through the gray matter.

Then I print.

Fujifilm Instax via the Instax Wide Evo, an incredible little machine that is so odd it could only be imagined by Fujifilm. It takes me a minute to figure it out, but soon the prints begin to emerge. I used the internal image editor to gear the prints toward the look I want, which is typically a bit more contrast than normal. I want the file to pop. Out they come. I spread them on a table in direct sun to bake them to perfection.

I print five, but two are the chosen ones. Glue stick, press, done. A quick note along the border reminding of time and place. Turn the page, keep writing, another day, more thoughts, more challenges, and MORE IDEAS. Man, do I have plans for the future. Who knows, they might involve you. Maybe. I can see the plans in my mind, but I use the book to record the details, the additional ideas, and what the result might look like. In many ways, it feels like I haven’t started my career yet. I feel like I’m still in the infant stages. What I don’t do yet is draw in my notebook. Not yet. Maybe someday.

To answer my friend’s question, yes, I do this daily. It doesn’t take long. When you reach for your phone, I don’t. When you scroll social, I don’t. When you lean into ANOTHER YouTube film, I don’t. When you turn on the television, I don’t. I don’t because I’m in rhythm. I live at the pace that fits me. The pen-to-paper pace. I find this to be where the best conversations are. I don’t need or want noise. I like knowing your thoughts, your ideals, and pain points, but I have my own, so I can bounce in and out of yours when desired or required, and you can do the same. You are welcome to what I have.

I see our world moving toward self-destruction. I wish I didn’t, but I do. Don’t think this is a new idea. I’ve felt it since childhood, watching logging trucks on high-speed runs out of the national forest. Watching ethics gradually decline while the greed scale expands rapidly. Watching education levels fall while healthcare costs explode. These notebooks are testimony, evidence, if you will. Think about it that way. The book about you, for now, but for “us” later, at some distant or not so distant time. Dug from the Earth, dusted off and consumed. A reminder? A warning? A celebration?

I’ll leave you with this. Notebooks are fun, and they will teach you about yourself. Most of you have the time. It might mean reallocation, but the result will be worth it. Start small, start easy. For the first time, I’m teaching a workshop with the notebook as the centerpiece. There is a reason this is happening. The deluge of emails and notes and comments: “Hey, tell me about your notebooks.” Throughout our history, many of the best minds kept notebooks, thankfully, as they reveal so much about the human behind the accomplishment. I’m not putting myself in this category. I could try, but you would easily see through that. I’m just saying, there’s a trend here, people. Maybe it’s time to get on board.