Wow – quite a lot in there and it will take me a few readings to digest all that you have said.

But in the meantime, there are a few things that stood out for me, in particular:

“At the same time, it is drummed into us from childhood to “Keep back from the edge. It’s dangerous.” We learn to be responsible and to choose the safe option. Yet our wild side sometimes rebels, urging us to “live dangerously”, perhaps informed by the deeper understanding that there is no second chance – that we have only one life”

Well, I couldn’t sum it up better if I tried.

I feel a sense of frustration with my life – a need to explore and this year has been particularly unsettling for me. I feel I’m living on ‘the edge’ at the moment. Taking a gamble with so much – going full time self employed for starters, having faith in what I do and believing in myself is another one. Not having to rely on an ‘employer’ for my income is another.

Then there are the images – I’ve taken too many chances in the past and I know from experience that I have a few images in my catalogue that couldn’t have been made without me taking a chance. I’ve done stupid things: all in the cause of an image – which is to my sensible mind – crazy. It’s only photography.

So I’m left wondering – am I a risk taker? Is this what it’s all about? Playing with fire?

from sunny Brechin. Peter Freeman is absolutely right. But this is not a new insight: I’ve been writing about the concept of the edge since the early 1990’s ; – )

Here the chapter on the theme from my new book, “Outdoor Photography Masterclass” due out in June 2010:

Images from the Edge.
Ever since I started to write about the concept of “the edge” in outdoor photography almost 20 years ago I’ve tested and re-tested the core idea – that we are drawn irresistibly, instinctively to “the edge” – time and time again. It has stood up to examination with one caveat: while the edge concept helps to define successful expressive photographs, it is less useful when it comes to pinning down what makes a great narrative picture.
I hit on the idea of edges originally when I was trying to figure out why some pictures cause a limbic spark while others leave us cold. What for example, makes Jim Brandenburg’s picture of an arctic wolf jumping between ice floes an icon- an image whose appeal extends beyond the ranks of nature photographers? Well let’s analyse it. This is an animal on the edge; he’s living in the artic wilderness of northern Ellesmere Island where there is no sign of any cultural influence on the landscape. The ice floe is neither quite land nor water, but something in transition from one to the other. The viewer has to wonder why the animal is in this apparently dangerous situation. Even the lighting is ambiguous – suggesting a zone between night and day. The picture exemplifies why the edge is such a powerful underlying theme in many of the most compelling images of the natural world.
The edge, defined, is a zone of transition in time or space or being. Put more simply, it’s where change occurs and contrasts arise. Our visual system is set up to respond to these stimuli; present it with a static scene and it switches off after a while. If “zones of transition” sounds a bit nebulous to you, consider the topics we shoot over and over again; dawn and dusk (the edges of the day); autumn and spring (the transition between seasons); seascapes and silhouettes (the edge between land and sea and between land and sky); baby mammals and the old males (representing the edges of life); animals such as penguins and marine iguanas living in extreme environments (places where the gap between life and death seems narrow). These are all images from the edge, away from the usual, familiar or mundane. They are pictures about “the most” – and most of us find them irresistible.
There are two conflicting forces at work here. On the one hand, innate curiosity leads us to explore our own limits. This is perhaps why we gravitate towards the edge of the sea (always more exciting in a storm) rather than drift along the foot of the dunes; why we need to peer over the edge of a cliff or get to the summit of a mountain; these are edges in space. At the same time, it is drummed into us from childhood to “Keep back from the edge. It’s dangerous.” We learn to be responsible and to choose the safe option. Yet our wild side sometimes rebels, urging us to “live dangerously”, perhaps informed by the deeper understanding that there is no second chance – that we have only one life. In creative terms, this translates into the need to experience nature at its most extreme and to validate that experience by producing a photograph of it.
The edge is also where the struggle between wildness and culture, anarchy and control, is fought. In much of the West, there is a creeping trend to infantilise our relationship with wild nature, to cosset and protect us from it, to make it safe and palatable. The need to take responsibility for our actions therefore diminishes and with it our appreciation of the power of nature unmediated by man. To that end, we are often prevented access to the edge – to visit places after dusk or to go to the cliff edge because a protective fence. On one occasion I was even asked to complete a risk assessment form for doing some work with my floating hide on in estuary. The only reasonable response was that I couldn’t assess the risk until I’d taken it.
Is this really something to concern outdoor photographers? Well, it depends on how happy you are with second best, whether you’ll settle for the dunes or if you want to walk through the surf. If you are driven by a powerful urge to create, being denied access to the edge matters a lot; I doubt if any of us is content to produce work we know we could have done better.
Since the notion of the edge is so deeply embedded, pictures that dance to its tune appeal on a visceral level; they don’t require much analysis or explanation. So where does that leave the narrative, complex image whose appeal is more to the intellect than the gut?
If “edge” pictures celebrate the most extreme contrasts in the natural world, complexity is pre-occupied with its connections. What is going on beyond the frame is every bit as important as what appears in the picture itself.
A “complex” composition is often modest in its scale and less visually dramatic in content. The subject may not be immediately apparent and indeed several may vie for attention. But if they are successfully executed, complex compositions can have a more enduring interest. Nevertheless they need to be in a form readable to an uninformed but interested viewer: this is not an exercise in smart-aleckry. We just have to hope that if we show the viewer that courtesy, it may be returned in the form of him or her spending some time reading the picture.

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Niall