Circling Back: Double Exposure as a Way of Seeing

Recently, a circling back occurred. Like a migrating bird—sometimes flying thousands of miles to return to a place of beginning—I found myself back at a place of discovery, years after first passing through it. Certain ways of seeing never leave us; they wait patiently for our attention.

My fascination with photography began in art college as a side pursuit, then receded as I committed to painting. The camera returned later—first to document my work, then quickly as a way of making art itself. Travel intensified the bond, and street photography became a passion. Equipment improved as the curiosity deepened.

Early on, while working with models in my studio, a mistake changed everything. In 2004, an unadvanced frame produced an unintended overlap—a happy accident. The images were dreamlike, resistant to easy labels, and charged with meaning. I remember the small thrill of recognition, the feeling that something generous and alive had entered the room, asking only that I allow it.

Historically, double exposure did not begin as an artistic strategy. In the early days of film photography, failing to advance the film caused two images to share a single frame. What appeared to be an error soon revealed expressive potential, and photographers began to use the technique intentionally. Two famous men in particular come to mind; Man Ray,  (American/French; August 27, 1890 – November 18, 1976) and Jerry Uelsmann, (American, June 11, 1934 – April 4, 2022).

At its core, double exposure allows two moments, spaces, or ideas to coexist. Rather than replacing one another, they merge—sometimes harmoniously, sometimes in tension. This is what draws me to the form. My work has long circled themes of memory, interior life, time, and the porous boundary between inner and outer worlds. Double exposure feels less like a trick and more like a visual philosophy, rooted in curiosity and wonder. The images feel like surrealist poems.

Ultimately, double exposure is less about technique than perception. It mirrors lived experience itself: layered, overlapping, incomplete. Past and present, figure and environment, thought and sensation—none exist in isolation. Double exposure makes that condition visible.

Many years passed while my creative energy flowed into other forms—painting, writing, design, graphics—while photography remained a steady undercurrent. Now, like migrating birds returning to a remembered place of sustenance and joy, I find myself once again in the quiet magic of double exposure. It feels timeless—less a return than a reunion.

For the time being.

Positive or Negative

People are split whether to be positive or negative about my AI creations. As with anything new and revolutionary, resistance occurs. When automobiles were first introduced, there was resistance from people who were accustomed to horse-drawn carriages. Some considered cars noisy, dangerous, and disruptive to the established way of life. In the early days of the internet, there were concerns about privacy, security, and skepticism about its utility. Some people saw it as a passing fad, while others were worried about the potential negative impacts. When television sets became widely available, there were concerns about the impact on family life, the potential for mindless entertainment, and the fear that it would discourage people from reading. I could go on: vaccines, electricity, personal computers, mobile phones, etc.

I am not replacing my studio art with AI. To explore the vast realm of possibilities generating images using artificial intelligence is but another creative venue. I am experimenting and gaining knowledge, skills, ideas and more. 

As I share images, especially on Facebook, I find there is a split among people  who love or hate it. Some actually like the stuff but on “moral” grounds take issues with it. Oh well, as the saying goes, “To thyself be true.” A big part of myself is adventurer . . .

All of the work shown was produced with AI then hand edited with photoshop.

Break Rules

Advice to artists: create a style and stick with it, become famous and own a highly marketable brand. The same for any business.

Usually an artist chooses to concentrate on one discipline; like classical piano, poetry, fiction writing, or specific type of painting. He masters a style and gives it his own personality, perhaps becoming famous as a brand. If that brand goes big he is world famous. For instance Van Gogh. He made paintings in his own style, not popular at the time, but highly identifiable. Exactly 100 years after he died, Vincent’s  painting, Portrait of Dr. Gachet sold at auction for 163 million dollars.

My own trajectory as an artist is varied. I have a huge interest in the world and find that if I am in a niche I get uncomfortable. So I break rules and surprise people with explorations into the unknown. Then I also surprise myself.

My greatest success as an artist has been as a landscape painter. I am grateful for being able to make a living with my painting (see Steven Boone website). I often pinched myself to be sure I was not dreaming. “And I have not had to be a waiter on the side,” I told folks.

Along the way I have written a memoir, poetry, and magazine articles. I have been a publisher, made photographs, learned graphic design, been a printmaker and owned art galleries. 

I go in different directions simultaneously.

Recently I looked through old files of photographs and came upon some made between 15 and 20 years ago I share today. 

Encounters

The image, called The Traveler, is blurry. The mysterious human subject is a man but has been mistaken as woman. Strange light and shadow are all around, with golden luminescence falling from above onto the lone figure who is otherwise dark. The scene is absent of color and the landscape is so amorphous as to be almost anywhere . . . including another world.

The image is popular in my gallery. 0riginally a photograph, I manipulated it somewhat in photoshop. I print it on canvas, stretch it on stretcher bars like a painting, and work on it with other materials so that in the end it is called mixed-media on canvas.

To take a photograph is often called, “the capture.” Usually but a split second. I like the term because it describes indelibly recording a moment in time and preserving it for viewing later in the form of a picture. Most photographers are trained in camera fundamentals and techniques, then use fine equipment to set up shots that are esteemed for detail, contrast, proportions of light and dark, as well as subject matter that is universally acknowledged.

Not so this photo. In October 2008 I was living in Kashmir, India on a houseboat on Lake Dal, at the foot of the Himalaya Mountains. One day I set out with the owner of the boat to ride horses in the mountains and trek. The day was marvelous and included a stop in a village where I painted and met locals. On the the way back, as the sun was going down we drove on a primitive road that twisted down along a river. Occasionally we went by homes and people. I was rather delirious with joy, feeling the air streaming against my face, full of happiness for the encounters of the day and all the beauty I experienced. I had experimented with using my camera for shooting pictures that included my movement and the turning of the earth . . . in other words, taking photos that did not try and stop movement but rather used it in the composition. We passed a man in the road. He wore a phiran—a native costume that is like a cloak that goes to the ankles. I leaned out the window, turned back to look and took his picture. A “capture” that took half a second. The moment proved serendipitous for the image has been enjoyed by many.

When one sells, I make another and add different strokes and textures so that each piece is unique and the art keeps refreshing. Prints on paper also are available.

For more on this photo, see: Footprints

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