Snap judgments: Alison Shaw and Jeffrey Serusa focus on art

Edited by CK Wolfson - August 2, 2007

A: In a million years I never would have thought I could support myself doing fine art photography. And even in the first 20 years after I came to the Island, I supported myself doing graphic design, proofreading, and production work at the Gazette. I know that there are very few places in the country, or in the world, where I could support myself as a fine art photographer. I feel really fortunate that I ended up in a place where I can.

You're the overnight sensation.

J: It's really nothing that I expected. People come up to me all the time, and it's a wonderful feeling. You know, I hadn't touched a camera in 22 years. I lived in Africa for 12 years setting up water development projects for Third World countries. I came back to the Vineyard in 1984, and went into business drilling water wells. One day I went over to a friend's house - it was the fall of 2003 - and saw a Photoshop image on his computer, and it all started up again. Two days later I had Photoshop 7, and that's really how it all started.

A: Do you feel as if you're an artist first or a businessman first?

J: You know, I've struggled with that. It depends on what I'm doing. If I'm out shooting, I'm an artist. It's really surprising. I remember when I took my first piece, "Sea Smoke," up to the Granary. That was a milestone. It was the first gallery I'd ever been in. And they called me a couple of days later and said, "We need another one." And at that moment I made a conscious decision that this was now a business and had to be treated as such. And that all those wonderful photographers that I'd always wanted to be - I came to the conclusion that I could not be any of them; I had to be myself. Those were my two big revelations.

A: I'm still the artist first. I think I do all right with the business, but it's secondary. You earn more money selling five copies of "Sea Smoke" than I earn in a yearlong book project where I shoot 300 rolls of film. So I'm doing it for the art and for the love of it.

I really feel that what you're doing is unique. Very impressive.

J: Thank you. I knew that if I was going to photograph on the Vineyard - it's been photographed upside down, inside out, some many ways, so many times - that something had to be done a little differently. It's really funny. I'll take a piece up to the Granary, and I'll think, nope, it's one of Alison's. It's almost as if you have a patent on that subject. I had to have a different point of view.

A: Once a year when I put 25 new images on the wall I think, have I been slacking for the past year, or does this represent growth? I think, oh, it's my purple phase. But it's not a conscious thing leading up to the show. Then in hindsight I see what I've done. If I do the same thing for too long, I get bored.

The Island grows bigger because I learned that I can see things that are much smaller and much more intimate. There's a great Marcel Proust quote: The true voyage of discovery lies not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes. And I really, really believe that.

J: It's true. I've taken a shot of Vineyard Haven harbor in the morning when it was foggy and the sky had purple and white clouds. You can be sitting there for half an hour and then have a four or five second opportunity to grab the most beautiful image. And then it's gone.

A: I remember years ago, I was showing a picture of a red boat in Edgartown Harbor, and someone came up to me and basically said, "Those aren't real colors. You must have done something. How did you get that shot?" And I said, "Well, try early afternoon in September or October on a day with a pretty clear sky. Go down to the harbor and see if you can find it. It's there." And the next opening at the Old Sculpin, she came up to me again, so excited, and said, "I saw it. I saw it."

J: It's remarkable. I've always loved the color that you get. I mean it's just amazing. I can't tell colors, [he's color blind] but I can see blue. I can pick out a spot of blue from a hundred yards. And I can see that your stuff just pops.

A: I consider that a great compliment. It's color temperature. The eye does not pick this up as much as film does, but for example, a condition of open shade: blue sky, sunny day, and if you're in the shade there's a lot of blue color. But I know in my head that if I put those blueberries in the shade on a sunny day with blue skies, they will look bluer than they look in real light.

J: I like to shoot in adverse weather conditions. If it's blowing 50 miles an hour, that's not an issue for me. I'll just find some place to get out of the wind. I live on the harbor in Vineyard Haven, so I'm connected to seascapes. I think we see some things that a lot of other people don't see when we pick up the camera. The equipment is part of it, but capturing the image is the important part. Without the image, the equipment is worthless.

A: I use the same clunky equipment that I've always used: my Pentax 6X7 and my Nikon F3, I bought it used 20 years ago. The only reason I bought a digital, the Nikon D200, is because it came along for $1,700 and it became affordable. You can do amazing things with it. Shooting film, you learn to trust your intuition a lot more.

J: So you're a little more careful with film. You don't shoot as much. It's a different process and a different mindset. Do you print in numbered editions?

A: Originally, with my black and whites, I did an open edition. But basically I think editioning with photography is a bit misleading for two reasons: Limited editions first came from printing with plates that actually degrade, so that the 1,000th print is not as good as the 100th. Whereas with photographs, the millionth print can be just as good as the first. The second reason is that with most traditional printing forms, you have only one size: the size of the plate. But a photographer can change sizes and start a new edition. But galleries and sometimes clients like the concept of limited editions.

J: I'm essentially working for the gallery in terms of what gets hung and what size it is.

A: I think of the new seascapes I'm doing as if I'm using the camera as a paintbrush. Picture having one big brush and you put all these different colors on it and you take one swipe at it like that. I can't tell you how often someone says something about my "paintings," and I just let it go. I'm flattered. It's all so mixed in together. You sort of end with the same thing, but for me painting is an additive process, whereas photography is a subtractive process. In painting you start with a blank slate, blank piece of paper, and you add whatever until it feels right. In photography you start with all the clutter in the world out there. But we end up at the same place as the painter.

J: You learn by doing, doing, doing. Being a photographer you either have the vision or you don't. I think it's a lot more instinct [than learned]. For me it is.

A: You get to be an observer. I'm not that social a person anyway, and it allows me opportunities to be places where I normally wouldn't be. It's a shield. You get to observe the world.

J: I'm up at 4:30 every morning. I usually go alone. It's a solitary endeavor. You usually go out in all kinds of weather. You sit and wait for the right moment.

A: People have the conception that I'm always just out there, but I've got two kids. I do the dump runs, I'm the recycler, the gardener, I mop the floor... The most difficult aspect? The showing up part. It's setting the alarm. Sometimes I have to pinch myself to get out of bed and go shooting.