This Southwest Land - A scenic Portfolio by Dick Dietrich

This Scenic LandA Color Portfolio by DICK DIETRICH

It was that tenuous time before dawn. The skies were inked with night. The sands lay undisturbed, and the canyons were quiet with the hush that comes with that final hour of sleep. Soon the sun would announce that business must begin. The monoliths of Monument Valley, barely visible in the dark, stood as silent sentinels. In front of them a tall man bent over a tripod, adjusting the legs and checking the locks. Satisfied that the base was secure, he turned his attention to the big, black, boxy camera that rested on the tripod's crown. Peering through the camera's eye he traded his view for that of his alter ego - the 8x10 camera. Working quickly he changed the aim of the equipment slightly, repositioning himself and meticulously checking his location. His sleeping bag was already cooled, the last vestiges of his night's sleep smoothed away by the pre-dawn chill that clings to the air. He had camped there that previous day after carefully considering how and where the sun would rise. He knew that time would not allow him any error. If he missed that special place where the first fingers of the sunrise would caress the rocky promontories of Monument Valley, he'd be too late to try again that day. He had carried his cameras - an 8x10, a 5x7, a 4x5, and assorted photographic paraphernalia - down these trails many times before. He knew his way around this sandy floor.

Ask him why he lugs that heavy, bulky 8x10 - the camera and tripod weigh over 50 pounds - and he smiles, “It’s a kick to look through it.” He grins, “You get to see a big image.” (The image size of an 8x10 is approximately 50 times larger than a 35mm.) His voice carries the distinctive, flat “A” sound of the native New Englander. “You can do the same thing with a 35mm,” he counters quickly. “I don’t want people to think that you have to invest in this large equipment. A smaller camera format allows you a greater range of optics. For instance with a 4 x 5 camera, a moderate bellows draw will accommodate a long focal length lens. But with an 8 x 10, you’d need a camera four to five feet long with a huge piece of glass to get the same perspective.” The New England reserve melts when he speaks about his favorite topic.

He bends over his photographic equipment once more checking the view. He straightens up, a long, unwinding process, to his full, lean height that stretches toward 6'4". In the predawn light his white hair gleams and the black, rectangular frames of his glasses are barely discernible against his pale complexion. He glances at his watch, then at the sky, and seems pleased. At ease, he waits. He's accustomed to waiting and he knows that he has done his part. Now the rest is up to the sun and wind and sand and shadows. Dick Dietrich has no misgivings about his nocturnal habits. "When the sun comes up at dawn, you get marvelous texture and warmth," he explains. "When the sun is right on the horizon the shadows are deep and the colors red. But as it rises higher in the sky, you lose the red and get more blue," he finished describing the

(Below) Winter comes to Oak Creek Canyon.

(Following panel, pgs. 24-25) Adrift on Huckleberry Hot Springs, Grand Tetons, Utah.

sensations of color that a good photographer must feel. While Dietrich freely admits that the monoliths of Monument Valley inspire him with a sense of awe, he finds joy wherever he carries his camera. And he's been seen, slightly stooped over, wrestling his bulky boxes up and down the spidery trails in Bryce Canyon National Park, in Utah, the Grand Canyon, New England, and nearly any ruggedly remote scenic location.

Essentially a modest man, Dietrich sums up his dedication succinctly. "If you don't enjoy what you are doing, it would be deadly. The fact that you are working early and late means that you need to be enthralled with what is happening. Actually," he shrugged a bit, "it seems like sort of a shame to accept money for this."

He admits to having a real photographic memory. “I remember when I shot each picture — what time of day it was, where I stood to shoot it. That way when you come back to a location you have less wasted motion. You know that when you go back you become more familiar with an area and do better work. The position of the sun in the sky makes a difference and summer to winter changes are important.” His eyes light up and he transports himself in a marvelous memory. “You know, there’s a spot in Utah where in February I know the sun will be positioned just right to give the scene the correct lighting to transform it from an ordinary picture into something very special.”Photography is more than his avocation. While his understated demeanor dominates, when he speaks of photography he waxes

(Below) Morning light, Monument Valley.

(Following panel, pgs. 30-31) The gold of autumn, Canyon de Chelly.

Almost lyrical. Not surprisingly he relates that he started college as an English major. But he wound up with an Education degree - all financed through his photography. “My mother, who is 83, is still in Maine,” he adds, explaining that he came from Maine to Williams Air Force Base in 1947 and settled permanently in Phoenix in 1950.

Originally, photography was his hobby. Ultimately photography took over his heart as well as his mind. He describes his own reactions to his craft. “Occasionally you will come on something that you know will be great. I can always tell because my heart beats faster.”

Yet the limitation of the lens cannot be ignored. Dietrich warns, “You must always remember how a scene will reproduce photographically. You see, you are taking a three-dimensional object and reducing it to two dimensions. He looks up and flashes a quick grin. “I've made all the mistakes in the book at least two or three times, I'm sure, but then if I were perfect there wouldn't be any challenge, would there?”

Dick Dietrich stretches a bit and continues. “You come upon a scene and you know it could have possibilities. But things are not in the right position. A painter could move things to fit the composition. But a photographer must position himself. This involves a lot of trudging around. Sometimes,” he shakes his head at memories of moments lost, “you can get things to work and sometimes you cannot put it together. So you have to walk away from it. But then you keep coming back.”

The photographer gazes around the room then says in a philosophical tone, “Perhaps one of these days when I can't lug a big camera around, I might try painting.”

And if he had it to do over? He replies without hesitation, “I'd go to a good art school and learn about color and texture and composition and the like. My own experience is self-taught. Going to art school could have speeded up the learning process immensely.”

A self-taught pupil, Dietrich remains the demanding instructor. “As time goes on you get more critical of what is good and what is merely acceptable. You are always looking for something new that you haven't seen before.” He leafs through stacks of photos covering his dining room table and selects some of his favorites. Gazing at some pictures taken in Monument Valley he says softly, “At night when you are under the monoliths and look up at the stars . . . it makes you feel insignificant. A place like that is so quiet, so awe-some. . .” He stares at the photograph where the muted shades of the sand and rock are carefully orchestrated as if he had directed the blend of dawn and shadow and the degree of coral in the sunrise, and points to a tiny row of tracks on the sand. “That's what I like about this picture,” he says. “That line of tracks against the expanse of sand.”

His photographs are difficult to categorize. The breadth of his subject is captured in his big lens, and when an 8x10 photograph is printed, it loses none of the detail that photographers strive to hold onto in film. Indeed, when a Dietrich photo taken through his big camera is magnified, hidden treasures come up into view. An insect trapped inside a bloom, a line of nearly indiscernible animal tracks, the undulating pattern of a distant sand dune - these appear

and take on a new dimension, lifting his photographs from the scenic to the see-ing.

He describes his choice of camera equipment easily. “The big transparency is more marketable. An editor can see immediately what he's getting.”

But composing within such a framework is an art that Dietrich continually perfects. His subject matter covers the spectrum and lends itself to everything from calendars to framed artwork. “If I had my druthers, I'd photograph only what turns me on,” he maintains. “And I'd probably do just as well.”

Free time is usually taken up with work. He admits, “I'd rather be doing photography than strictly sightseeing. Somehow I get more out of seeing scenes when I am photographing them. Then I find small things - the texture and colors of a leaf by itself, or a blossom. To me this is getting down to the basic things. Frankly, if I weren't photographing, I would be painting or composing a poem,” he concluded without any inhibitions.

At 51, Dick Dietrich can look at his portfolio with pride. A portrait artist, scenic photographer, architectural illustrator, and commercial photographer, there is little his lens hasn't considered. Commenting on his versatility Dietrich says with characteristic modesty, “The trouble with me is that I do too many things for fun. Faces, especially, I find fascinating.” But he cautioned that if he goes in too many directions at once he won't make the best use of his time.

Obviously the good times are catching. His wife says she carries a small camera on their trips although she leans more toward snapshots. His oldest daughter, Dianne, is aspiring to her father's trade. But so far Nancy, the younger, shows no such leanings. Still, Dietrich laughs, family vacations generally are photographic expeditions.

He prefers the scenics, explaining that more people can easily enjoy this type of picture. But he notes that injecting a person into a scene can add scale. For his own purposes, he'll add color as well by turning his canoe around for a lake or river scene. “I painted one side of the canoe yellow and the other red,” he explains. “This confounded some artists who were on a painting vacation on the Snake River. They'd be painting the scene and suddenly that yellow canoe would be red!”

Reflecting on his chosen profession, Dietrich says, “I feel that photography is a definite art form. I'm rather critical of paintings and photographs and I see many that I don't feel are worthy. He sat forward and continued seriously, “A fine photograph must ring an emotional response. You can get this from a fine painting as well. My criteria is emotional - my own as well as other people's emotions. Occasionally a photograph will grip . . . and maybe it is better that this only happens infrequently. Otherwise this, too, might become too mundane.

“A good photograph,” he concludes, “is simple in the first place and it has to have good composition. One of the biggest faults in many photographs is that they are too busy . . . to much is happening.” He sat back and considered his words.

What about his own plans? Dick Dietrich smiles. “I'm always searching for that zinger.”