How Was the Photo Made?
It was one of those November mornings when the clouds settle into a perfect, uninterrupted sheet and turn the whole day into a softbox. The forest felt newly rinsed from the recent rain, the air cool enough that I could move freely without breaking a sweat. But the leeches were out in full entrepreneurial force, but I’d made my peace with that part of the job. Wet season tax, right?
I walked in without urgency. Black and white was already the language I’d be speaking, duh, but the emotional tone, the feeling I wanted someone to absorb from the photograph, hadn’t fully declared itself. Some images tell you their mood immediately; others make you earn it.
The forest was doing both things at once: gentle, quiet light from above, but deep pockets of shadow tucked between trunks and roots. Bright highlights caught on slick leaves. A dynamic range that needed careful handling. I stood still long enough for my eyes to adjust, for the scene to settle, for the tones to separate themselves from one another.
Years of photography & teaching beginners about shooting in manual mode means certain thought processes have become muscle memory. The Zone System naturally rose to the surface. If the highlights landed somewhere around Zone VII, maybe even VIII, the image would glow without turning brittle. Shadows needed to fall around III or IV, just enough depth to feel honest without losing detail. That was the balance I wanted: a forest that felt soft but had a spine.
Metering: How was the photo made?
I took a whole-scene average meter reading for the shape of the light, then spot readings in the highlights and shadows.
So I started by looking for my middle grey. Not the textbook version, a literal grey card, but the natural anchor the scene would offer if I waited long enough. A patch of moss catching soft light. A trunk with moderate tone. It ended up being a section of the concrete wall just below the fallen tree.
Soon enough, the numbers began to assemble themselves into something sensible.
Camera Settings:
- Leica SL2
- Summicron-SL 50mm f/2.0
- ISO 400
- F/11
- Shutter speed of 1 second.
One second always feels longer than it sounds. There’s a kind of ceremony to it. I settled the tripod firmly into the damp ground, double-checking everything because a one-second exposure rewards stillness and punishes haste.
Then I turned on the 2-second self-timer, exhaled and pressed the shutter.
The forest didn’t move. Nothing did. Even the leaves seemed to oblige.
Later, when I brought the file into Lightroom, it looked the way the forest felt: gentle light with shape, shadows with intention, a quiet November day held inside a rectangle.
People often ask how a photo was made, expecting the answer to be a trick or a secret. But it’s rarely either. It’s simply this: paying attention long enough for the scene to reveal what it needs from you. Translating that feeling into numbers & camera settings. Trusting the combination, yourself included.
That evening, the photograph wasn’t made in the one-second exposure.
It was made in the minutes of noticing, the slow calibration of mood to meter.
And that deliberate stillness is, truly, how the photo was made.