Writing with Light

Thinking, making, connecting: MA Illustration

Archive for ‘November, 2013’

The Light Writers


The Moon, Lanzarote (2008) H. Newall

I discovered light writing by accident. I was trying and failing to take night shots with a long exposure without a tripod, and improvising badly with a stone wall, clamping my arms to my side, and not breathing. In a digital world, we get instant feedback and I could see what I’d shot within seconds. As night shots they were a spectacular failure. A failure because they weren’t the crisp, beautiful things I’d hoped for; spectacular because they were to me much more visually interesting than a hackneyed crisp night shot would have been. I was very fascinated with the marks that even tiny movements and breathing made with the distant lights over the sensor. And then I started drawing with the moon, drawing with the street lights, moving the camera; assessing the result… This, I soon realised, was painting with a brush made out of light and time. 

LightsLanzarote 15

The Moon, Lanzarote (2008) H. Newall

Those first images are crude and exploratory. But there was, I discovered subsequently, a whole world of light writers out there, doing things with cameras, moons, torches, and burning steel wool. Be advised that it’s a dangerous technique, so would-be steel woollers need to prep well. The stunning image below is taken by Lee Duguid, and, according to his commentary, is a first attempt. Not bad.

Lee Duguid

Light Painting Photography (2012) Lee Duguid

Images, such as the one below, by Alan Jaras, use very different and secret techniques, but are other-worldly in their beauty.


Happy Families (2013) Alan Jaras

It seems that photographers are as entranced by light as they ever were… But this strange form of rejecting the realism that photography offers isn’t a digital or recent phenomenon: light writing, it transpires, is quite an old art, almost as old as photography itself. In the late 1800s a physiology scientist called Georges Demenÿ worked as an assistant to Etienne-Jules Marey. Using chronophotography, or sequential photography, they created images which were made in all likelihood to expose the way the human body moves, but which are beautiful examples in their own right of light art. In 1889, they fixed lights to a lab assistant so that the lights would record his body’s movements on the camera plate.


Pathological Walk from the Front, Made visible by Incandescent Bulbs Fixed to the Front (1889) Marey and Demenÿ

In 1911, Anton Giulio Bragaglia established what he called photodynamism. He shot images at slow shutter speeds, moving his models in the frame to capture the blurs of light on the frame as they moved.


Anton Giulio Bragaglia (1911)


Anton Giulio Bragaglia (1911)

I have to confess, that during the many theatre photoshoots that I do (and which I love), there are boring moments when a cue has to be fixed, and the show stalls, and I use this technique to entertain myself. Because these are hand-held, the sensor records the movement of my breathing combined with the choreography of the dancers. The images suggest to me Kurt Vonnegut’s Tralfamodorians, from Slaughterhouse-Five, who see all time simultaneously.


Ballast (2011) Maelstrom Dance Company, chor. Lindsey Brocklebank. photo: H. Newall

In Frank Gilbreth and his wife Lillian Moller Gilbreth used the similar techniques to make time and motion studies of certain actions. They did not consider the results to be art, but as studies to aid the streamlining of clerical work actions.


Time and Motion Study (1914) Frank Gilbreth

Artists associated with this technique most famously include Picasso, but before he worked with Life Magazine photographer, Gjon Mili, others were experimenting with the technique, most notably photographer Man Ray. It had been thought until recently that the marks he made were random, but in 2009, photographer Ellen Carey found, by examining the shots with a mirror, that he was actually often writing his signature into the air with light. Who hasn’t done that with a sparkler?

Space Writing

Man Ray (19

And so to the most famous example because it involves Pablo Picasso. The pictures, however were made by LIFE photographer Gjon Mili. Mili had already been experimenting with photodynamism, and with recording lights embedded into the skates of ice skater, Carol Lynne. He asked if Picasso would like to try something similar, and Picasso drew his famous creatures and centaurs in the air while Mili shot pictures. Both Picasso and Mili were drawing with light. In some of the pictures, with a pop of a flash bulb, Picasso is also captured, frozen in time, caught in the act of drawing. For the story, and more images, go to the LIFE Magazine online site.

Pablo Picasso;Pablo Picasso [Misc.]

Picasso Draws with Light (1949) Gjon Mili

Pablo Picasso;Pablo Picasso [Misc.]

#2 (1949)


#3 (1949)

Mili’s images of dancers Gene Kelly and Martha Graham are equally stunning, capturing as they do, the exuberance of the dance that one still image often can’t.

Gene Kelly

Gene Kelly (1944) Gjon Mili

There’s much more that could be said, but suffice to say that light painting is a bright area of activity. Light Painting is out there with contemporary practitioners such as Corey Bryson, graphic and motion designer Ricky Diaghe and collectives such as Lichtfaktor, all of them using stills and/or animations involving light painting, while computer artists such as Chuck Anderson have demonstrated how to replicate light painting effects using Photoshop for those of us too scared to go out after midnight and light up some steel wool.

It’s a dark world out there. It needs light painting. Get a torch.

Preliminaries: A Lonely Impulse of Delight

I have just started an MA in Illustration at The University of Hertfordshire. ‘Madness!’ you might say, if you know my life’s chaotic schedule of unremitting deadlines. I’m so busy most of the time that the thought of engaging with another major time-dependent project sends half of me – the sensible half – into a tailspin. The other half – the dreamer – is flying way above the clouds, doing what I think I’ve put off for far too long, which is admitting to myself that making images makes me happy. So, I have on my hands a battle of two halves, and all the while, a fragment of a half forgotten poem floats through my head… “A lonely impulse of delight / Drove to this tumult in the clouds”: it repeats and repeats and repeats…

These lines are from William Butler Yeats’s lyrical 1918 poem, An Irish Airman Foresees His Death, and while the poem deals, with beautiful drifting ambivalence, with the hostilities of the First World War, set against the unalloyed joy and freedom in what was at the time the novel experience of flying aircraft, the lines for me bring to mind the joy, and tumult, of the creative impulse. (Perhaps, bearing in mind my crazy deadlines, the first lines of this same poem are also germane: “I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above…”) And so, lest I forget, I must remind myself: I have embarked upon an MA. In Illustration. And for the first assignment, I must pick a keyword. So now delight and terror are swooping in a great big dogfight up in the clouds. I am flying, and so far, terror is winning!

I picked the keyword Photo-Graph because I’m often messing about with cameras, so it is, as a concept, something familiar – the terror insisted it must be familiar – but it is also a concept I’ve almost taken for granted up until now, because, up until now I’ve not given myself permission nor time to make more than a cursory exploration: yes, I’ve presented papers at conferences on the photographic documentation of performance; I’ve even just had my first exhibition of photographs at The Arts Centre, Edge Hill University, but I’ve never before examined deeply the concept of photograph as object. This is not a new idea: this is about the transparency that Sontag (amongst others) expounds in Against Interpretation (1966) and On Photography (1971). Photography, she claims, is a transparent medium because more often than not we look through it to see the content, or subject without recognising what she calls, ‘the thing in itself’, and what we might call the medium or surface that contains the subject (or, for the critics and commentators, the message). So, I want to look at this surface; to examine it (and scratch it) as another form of mark making, and so I have made the first sortie by cutting the word in two – hence the hyphenation – to break what is familiar into its constituent Greek halves: phos light and graphê write or draw, and thereby, de-familiarise it. This blog records my conceptual explorations: these entries are the first skirmishes of a tumult in the clouds. This is a tumult driven by that lonely impulse of delight. This is what I have always wanted to do.

Sontag. S., ([1966] 2009) Against Interpretation. London: Penguin Classics.

——— ([1971] 1979) On Photography. London: Penguin Books.

Yeats, W. B., ([1918] 1965) Men Who March Away: Poems of the First Wold War. London: Chatto & Windus.