Photography, plagiarism and the trappings of instant validation
I am writing this post as a photography enthusiast in light of a photographer who got outed for submitting another lensman’s photos to online contests (and won tens of thousands of pesos). But I’ll get to that later…
The screenshots below are a series of individual shots of a single subject I got enamoured with during a family trip in Vang Vieng, Laos. Here, I would wish to explain the work process in mobile photography that is often taken for granted. But I will also get into that later…
As some of you already know, I have loved photography since my student days, using old school SLR cameras (film). And when I started working in a media company, I submitted feature stories with photos I myself took, still using my Canon AE1, until it eventually broke down. That time, the DSLR was king, but since I couldn’t afford it, I stopped taking photographs. It was only until the advent of mobile photography that I freely took photos to my heart’s content, both for work and leisure.
When I started immersing myself in phoneography (that’s what I called it) in 2009, industry professionals looked down on the craft. So I daresay I was one of the first to publish photographs using a mobile phone, mostly light subjects. But one of the photos I took of a police operation that unfolded right in front of me landed on the front page of the paper, and has since been used as evidence in court (to which I had appeared twice to testify). This (appearing in court as witness) is common among full-time photojournalists, but I was an editor of a leisure magazine when I took the photos of armed police operatives arresting a man suspected of possessing illegal firearms.
While the technology behind mobile photography was obviously revolutionary, it was at this point I realized that the phone camera had changed the game not just in journalism but in content creation as a whole. Still, both photographers of the old school frowned upon the images that came from such newfangled contraptions. Disruption, though, was inevitable.
When I became editor of a print magazine in 2012, phoneography made perfect sense to me, so I published photos shot with mobile cameras, and devoted the entire glossy inside back cover page for contributed quality themed photographs, again many of which were “phoneographs.” Every contributing photographer whose work got published in that section was given an honorarium. The amount wasn’t much, but from what I gathered, many of the contributing phoneographers appreciated the gesture. It wasn’t just the person that got recognized but the craft of phoneography as well.
In my phonecam journey, I met kindred spirits such as the multi-talented professional photographer Crisanto Entoma of Campo Santo Design Studio. Together, we founded Phoneography Cebu, a mobile photography group on Facebook that now has 10,000 members. Abuzz with posts and actual physical activities such as workshops, contests and exhibits, the group and its members helped promote phoneography not just in the curated spaces of social media but in all of Cebu as well.
Meanwhile, the importance of mobile photography could no longer be ignored. Late in the decade, photojournalists, armed with their long lenses and state-of-the-art DSLRs, found mobile phone cameras as indispensable tool in the profession. Other industries had gone through similar sweeping changes, albeit earlier. Meanwhile, I pursued travel photography with a passion, using whatever phone camera I had, of course.
And this brings us back to the screenshots of the astonishing karst mountains of Vang Vieng in Laos, with the Nam Song River in the foreground, during the family’s first trip abroad. The moment this view revealed itself during a foggy early morning walk with the family, my lungs filled up with lightness that buoyed me straight down to the river bank, and as I waded in knee-deep roiling waters, I found a good spot to hunker down and take shots.
Now, all I had was a phone with a camera — no tripod, no lens, no waterproof gear. But as they say, the best camera is the one you have in your hands. Slowly, holding the Samsung Note 5 with using my thumbs and forefingers barely centimeters above the flowing waters, the other fingers spreadeagle so as not to spoil the frame, I took one shot after the other, careful not to drop the device or else it would be game over, crouching all the while, my lower extremities immersed in the murky river that rushed on during Vang Vieng’s rainy low season for white tourists.
One seldom goes wrong with using auto features, but some of the photos here, like the ones with bluish hues, were shot using manual settings (f/1.9, 1/125, 4.30mm, ISO50) of the Samsung Note 5. I just stayed mostly in one sport for more than half an hour but finding different angles and timing the eddies and bubbles that the restless river made. I was about to haul my drenched behind out of the water when I spotted a colorful object slowly descending from the upper right corner of my screen.
It was a lone hot-air balloon — during high season, I reckoned dozens of these tourist aircraft would hover lazily above the otherwise majestic karst mountains. Had there been two, it would have been one aircraft too many. But the appearance of this one hot air balloon offered the scenery a different dimension: minor intrusions into the wilderness.
Would the tourist aircraft be considered a photographic punctum as Barthes defined it, I thought? But what the heck, I caught these images on film, I mean, on file, and I’m happy. After roughly an hour shooting a single subject in the river, it was time to leave.
My family — the wife and three kids — had quietly left much earlier, back to our bed and breakfast. While I was excited to show them my work, I was struck with an epiphany of sorts. We were on a family vacation, and an hour spent alone with my camera is an hour lost. The minutes and the seconds will eventually add up, and while I will have more photographs in my laptop, in the end I will have fewer and fewer shared memories of sights and sceneries, the ones that really matter.
It was that very moment that I walked away from the Nam Song River that I decided that from now on I will take only the essential and compulsory photographs when we travel, the ones that grab me by the hand or seize me by the throat. The fewer the clicks, the better. Instead, I will store all these images in my head, the same images that my pack of five witnessed all at once but through different pairs of eyes.
True enough, the number of photographs I took in our succeeding trips through the years was reduced to a tenth of those taken during my manic phoneography days. Of course, I will always be drawn to beautiful images and I will photograph it the best way I can, but now I am no longer a slave to the perfect shot and the compulsion that comes along to capture it. It’s quite a liberating feeling, actually.
And this brings us back to the issue of plagiarism: while the practice is as old as art itself, social media has created new breeds of plagiarists like the image thief. One thinks he just seeks perfection despite a lack of talent, but what he really longs for is instant validation. With just a few clicks of the finger, the plagiarist takes someone else’s labor of love, and lays claim to the perfect shot as his own.
While the practice is as old as art itself, social media has created new breeds of plagiarists like the image thief.
The most recent accusations of such brazen plagiarism involves the “grand prize winner” of a Philippine telecom firm’s photo contest that awarded P50,000. His winning entry? An image downloaded for free from a stock photo site. It was later learned that a Vietnamese photographer, Quang Nguyen Vinh, took the beautiful image of a fisherman casting his net into the sea as the sun was setting in 2017 yet. My good friend and blog consultant Max Limpag provides more insight about the scandal.
But what’s more alarming than the ease with which these acts are made is the plagiarists’ lack of remorse when the truth comes out. The apologies they mutter are as empty as the excuses they make. Worse, they try to wriggle out of the mess they’ve made by portraying themselves as victims, to which their friends and followers offer generous support.
The Vietnamese photographer must have felt a mix of emotions upon learning of someone claiming his work and profiting from it: from flattery to outright disgust. Another photographer who joined the contest using his original work offers us insight: “It’s not about the prize, it’s about robbing someone of their efforts and dedication put into their art.”
As someone who is passionate about photography, I can relate, although to a lesser extent. Many years ago, someone pointed out that a travel agency used my photographs of Batanes on their Facebook page without my permission. I should have called them out, but I didn’t.
Part of me said the world needs to see those images, another wanted the travel agency go out of business. It did.