There is an idea that has followed me through each of the workshops I have taken with fine art photographer Les Picker: a photograph is not truly finished until it becomes a print.

That idea may sound almost old-fashioned in a world where most photographs are viewed for a few seconds on a phone or computer screen. But the more seriously I have approached photography and printing, the more strongly I have come to believe it myself.

And perhaps it can and should be taken one step further.

The photograph isn't truly finished until you have considered how that print will ultimately be presented.

That philosophy was at the heart of my most recent trip to Havre de Grace, Maryland, where I attended Les's workshop devoted to Awagami Japanese washi papers. It was my third workshop with Les, following previous workshops in portfolio development and matting and framing, and it would deepen my understanding of the finished photograph in ways I hadn't anticipated.

Les brings an extraordinary depth of experience to his teaching. His photography and writing have appeared extensively in national publications, including work for National Geographic Society publications, and his career has encompassed landscape, wildlife, travel, and environmental photography. He is a Moab Fine Art Master Photographer, X-Rite Coloratti, and Awagami Ambassador. His background also includes a doctorate in environmental affairs with an emphasis in winter ecology—one of many influences that inform the way he approaches the natural world through photography.

Yet credentials alone don't explain what makes studying with Les so valuable. That became apparent again almost as soon as I arrived.

A Long Night and an Early Morning

Traveling to Maryland from Nebraska was an adventure of its own.

I flew into Baltimore/Washington International Airport, but a delayed flight meant I didn't arrive until around 12:30 in the morning. By the time I picked up the rental car, drove to my hotel, and finally settled in, it was about 2:30 a.m.

A few hours later, it was time to get up.

The workshop began bright and early at 8:15 at Les's home and studio in beautiful Havre de Grace, Maryland.

There were only three photographers participating. That small size is intentional and is one of the things that makes Les's workshops so valuable. There is no disappearing into the back row of a classroom. Everything is hands-on, personal, and centered on the actual work each photographer.

In reality, though, this particular workshop had begun weeks before any of us arrived.

Choosing the Photograph Before Choosing the Paper

Several weeks before the workshop, we each submitted a selection of photographs for review.

Les works closely with Robert “Bob” Boyer, his in-house Master Printer and technical specialist. Bob handles Les's fine art printing and helps translate photographs into finished physical pieces, from museum-quality prints to specialized display applications. He is also an accomplished studio photographer with extensive knowledge of lighting and frequently co-instructs Les's printing and studio workshops.

I had previously worked with Bob during my portfolio development workshop with Les, and his knowledge of printing and the technical side of producing a finished piece is extensive.

For the Awagami workshop, Bob played an important role before we ever arrived in Maryland. He helped evaluate the submitted photographs and identify the images that appeared particularly well suited to the papers we would be exploring. Les and Bob then conferred with each of us about those recommendations so that the final selections remained a collaborative decision between photographer and instructors.

Once those choices were made, Bob prepared and printed the final photographs that we would examine and work with during the workshop.

Bob did not attend the in-person portion of this particular workshop, so once we gathered in Havre de Grace, Les led the three of us through the hands-on work. But Bob's contribution was already there in the prints waiting for us when we arrived.

That preparation was an important part of the experience.

The selections weren't based simply on which photographs were strongest on a screen. We were considering which photographs might interact most successfully with the particular Awagami papers we would be studying. Initial proofs were evaluated, adjustments considered, and the finished prints were prepared before our arrival.

That distinction is important because printing on these papers isn't simply a matter of taking a finished digital file and selecting a different media setting on the printer.

The photograph and the paper have to work together.

We spent time looking at the broader family of Awagami papers and discussing their individual characteristics before concentrating particularly on two remarkable papers: Unryu and Bizan.

More Than 1,300 Years of Papermaking

Before this experience, I knew about Japanese washi papers, but learning more about their history gave me a much greater appreciation for what I was holding in my hands.

The tradition of washi papermaking in Tokushima—historically known as Awa—extends back more than 1,300 years. Awagami's Fujimori family has carried that tradition forward through eight generations.

The family's sixth-generation papermaker, Minoru Fujimori, received the Sixth-Class Order of Merit, Sacred Treasure from the Emperor of Japan in recognition of his contribution to the craft.

Awagami continues to produce papers from renewable plant fibers including kozo, gampi, mitsumata, bamboo, and hemp. Those materials become papers used for everything from fine art and design to photography and conservation.

There is something remarkable about taking a photograph created with modern digital technology and bringing it to life through a material rooted in a craft that has been practiced for centuries.

But understanding that history is only the beginning. The real revelation comes when you see what the paper can do to a photograph.

A Nebraska Road on Unryu

Both of the photographs selected for me were black-and-white images I had made earlier this year during the same trip through western Nebraska.

The first was a photograph of a road winding through the Nebraska Sandhills, with wildfire haze obscuring the distant horizon.

For this photograph, we chose Unryu.

Unryu immediately announces itself. Large, pronounced mulberry fibers run visibly through the paper. They aren't imperfections to be hidden. They are part of its character—and, when paired successfully with an image, they become part of the finished photograph.

One of the most interesting lessons for me was realizing how much print size matters when working with a paper like this.

The physical fibers don't become smaller because you make a smaller print. On a large photograph, those fibers can integrate beautifully into the image, adding texture and character without overwhelming the subject. Make the same photograph considerably smaller, however, and those exact same fibers suddenly occupy a much greater visual presence. They can begin competing with the photograph instead of contributing to it.

That means the decision isn't simply:

Does this photograph work on Unryu?

It is also:

At what size does this photograph work on Unryu?

But there is another fascinating variable: the individual sheet of paper itself.

The mulberry fibers are not arranged identically from one sheet of Unryu to the next. Their size, shape, position, and direction vary naturally across the surface. That means printing the same photograph at the same size on two different sheets can produce two subtly different finished pieces. A prominent fiber that falls beautifully through an area of sky on one sheet might cross an important detail on another. The placement of those fibers in relation to the photograph becomes vitally important to the final outcome.

It makes each sheet something that has to be considered rather than simply fed into the printer. You begin looking not only at the photograph, but at the paper sheet itself—thinking about where the image will fall and how those individual fibers will interact with the composition.

In that sense, no two Unryu prints are ever identical.

We also allowed a generous border around the photograph rather than printing the image to the edge. That gives the fibers room to remain visible beyond the image itself—to breathe as part of the finished piece.

Suddenly, the border isn't simply empty paper.

It becomes part of the artwork.

Texture Meeting Texture

My second photograph was made along Nebraska's Pine Ridge Escarpment in Dawes County.

An abandoned ranch house and windmill stand beneath a cloudy sky softened by wildfire haze. For this photograph, the choice was Bizan.

Bizan is extraordinary!

It is an intensely textured paper in which the physical character of the pulp is readily apparent. The papermaking process for Bizan gives it a natural and wonderful deckled edge. Looking at it, you might assume that such a pronounced surface would sacrifice some of the fine detail within a photograph.

What surprised me was how well it retained that detail.

Even more interesting was what happened to the sky in my photograph. Rather than fighting against the clouds and haze, the texture of the paper seemed to enhance them. The physical surface became another layer within the image.

The paper wasn't simply carrying the photograph.

It was participating in it.

One of the other photographers in our group brought an image that demonstrated this even more dramatically: a red window set into a stucco wall.

The texture of the paper and the texture of the wall came together so convincingly that the paper itself almost appeared to have been stuccoed. It was difficult to imagine the photograph on another surface because the physical character of the paper seemed made for the subject.

That image reinforced one of the most important lessons of the weekend.

There isn't necessarily a "best" paper.

There is a paper that is right for a particular photograph, at a particular size, presented in a particular way.

Getting the Photograph Off the Screen

This is where the workshop connected with something Les has emphasized throughout every workshop I have taken with him.

Photography requires decisions.

What do you include?

What do you leave out?

What are you trying to say?

Where is this photograph ultimately going?

And, perhaps most importantly:

What is the finished product?

Working with washi makes those questions impossible to ignore.

You have to test print. You have to hold the paper. You have to step back and look at it. You have to see how the fibers interact with fine detail, how texture changes a sky, how scale changes the relationship between paper and photograph.

A computer monitor can't completely answer those questions.

You have to imagine beyond the screen and begin envisioning the physical object you are trying to create.

For me, that is an important distinction between simply creating an image and creating a finished work of art.

The Presentation Becomes Part of the Photograph

The workshop didn't end once the ink dried.

We spent considerable time discussing how these papers should actually be displayed.

That matters because one of the most compelling things about washi is its physical presence. Its fibers, texture, edges, and surface are part of what makes it beautiful.

There is a connection here to the Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi, an aesthetic that finds beauty in imperfection, irregularity, simplicity, and the natural character of materials. Rather than insisting that every surface be perfectly uniform or every object identical, wabi-sabi asks us to appreciate variation and the individual qualities that make something what it is.

That philosophy feels particularly relevant when working with washi.

A visible fiber isn't necessarily a flaw. An irregular texture doesn't need to be corrected. One sheet doesn't have to look exactly like the next. Those variations are part of the material, and when the right photograph is paired with the right paper, they can become part of the artwork itself.

For a photographer, that requires a subtle change in thinking. We spend enormous amounts of time controlling our images—composition, focus, exposure, color, contrast, processing, and ultimately the print. Washi introduces an element that cannot and perhaps should not be controlled completely. Instead, the photographer has to embrace the character of the paper and learn to work with it.

That was certainly true with my Unryu print. The placement of a mulberry fiber might vary from one sheet to another, meaning that each finished print can possess its own subtle individuality. With Bizan, the texture and visible pulp become part of the visual experience rather than something to overcome.

In that sense, the paper isn't merely a surface chosen after the photograph is finished. Its natural variations become another creative element in determining what the finished photograph will ultimately become.

And that leads directly to presentation. Put all of that behind glass and something is lost.

We explored open presentation methods that allow the viewer to experience the paper directly. When you can actually see the fibers and texture without glass separating you from the surface, you become much more aware that you're looking at a physical object rather than simply an image.

Throughout the workshops I've attended with Les and Bob, they have often described themselves as lovers of paper. I've come to understand why. Paper isn't merely a surface that receives an image; it becomes an integral part of the finished photograph. And of all the fine art papers I've encountered, Awagami's washi papers are among the most striking I've ever seen.

We discussed different mounting surfaces, glues, and adhesives and why a method appropriate for one washi paper may not necessarily be the best choice for another.

It was time to put those ideas into practice.

Under Les's guidance, we mounted our prints into open frames and also experimented with mounting directly to Gatorboard as another presentation option.

This was hands-on work, and that was precisely the point. Selecting the photograph, choosing the paper, determining the print size, considering the individual sheet, leaving the appropriate border, deciding how to mount it, and choosing how it should ultimately be displayed were not separate concerns.

They were all parts of creating a finished piece.

The results were nothing short of stunning.

By the time I saw the finished photographs mounted and presented without glass separating the viewer from the paper, I was already thinking ahead.

I want to create an entire exhibition this way.

Learning Together

There is another reason I continue returning to Les's workshops.

They are deeply collegial. We all learn from each other along with Les.

With only three photographers in the room, everyone becomes part of the process. We look at one another's work, exchange ideas, help each other, and offer observations.

Constructive criticism is encouraged, but never for the purpose of tearing someone's work apart. The goal is advancement—to help another photographer see possibilities, solve a problem, or make a stronger decision.

Although Bob was not with us in person for this particular workshop, I had experienced that same collaborative atmosphere with both Les and Bob during my previous portfolio workshop. It is very much part of the environment Les creates: everyone has something to contribute, and everyone has something to learn.

That atmosphere is helped enormously by the setting. Les's home and studio are warm and inviting, and the workshop feels less like sitting through a class than spending concentrated time working alongside people who share a serious love of photography.

Les himself possesses something I have always associated with the very best teachers: an extraordinary depth of knowledge combined with a genuine desire to share it.

His career has taken him around the world and into environments most of us will never experience, from extreme cold in the Arctic to the deserts of Egypt, as well as extensive work exploring wildlife, landscapes, travel, and different cultures. Yet what impresses me most isn't the list of places he has been or assignments he has completed. It is his continuing curiosity and his willingness to share what decades of experience have taught him.

He doesn't simply tell you what works. He makes you think about why it works.

That has been a common thread through all three workshops I have taken with him. Whether we have been discussing portfolio development, matting and framing, or now printing and presenting photographs on washi, the underlying lesson is remarkably consistent.

Think.

Make decisions.

Know where you want the photograph to go.

And don't stop simply because the image looks good on a screen.

The Finished Photograph

As our time together wound down, we finished the frame mountings, continued our conversations about photographs and papers, and eventually wrapped the completed pieces carefully for their journey home.

But I left Maryland thinking about much more than paper.

The Awagami workshop reinforced something I already believed and made me consider it on an even deeper level.

A photograph begins with seeing. The camera records it. Processing interprets it. But for me, the photograph reaches its destination when it becomes a physical print—and perhaps even more completely when that print is presented in the way the photographer envisioned.

Awagami washi takes that philosophy somewhere particularly exciting because the paper refuses to be an invisible participant.

Its fibers matter.

Its texture matters.

Its size matters.

The individual sheet matters.

The border matters.

The way it is mounted matters.

The way light falls across its physical surface matters.

The paper becomes part of the photograph itself.

And perhaps that is where the idea of wabi-sabi returns once more. The finished piece doesn't need to erase every irregularity or make every print perfectly identical. Instead, the qualities inherent in the material can be allowed to remain visible—to contribute something individual to the photograph that exists only when image and paper finally come together.

That forces the photographer to slow down and ask a question that can easily be forgotten in a world filled with photographs viewed fleetingly on screens:

What do I want the finished piece to be?

That is perhaps the greatest thing I have taken away from all of my experiences studying with Les Picker. His workshops don't simply teach techniques. They encourage you to think more deeply about why you make photographs and what you ultimately want them to become.

I can't recommend his workshops highly enough. They have been among the finest photographic learning experiences I have had and worth every penny I have invested in them.

And I have tremendous respect for Bob as well. His contribution to the preparation of this workshop—and what I have learned from him in previous workshops—has been an important part of these experiences.

But beyond Les's extraordinary knowledge of photography and printing, he is simply a wonderful human being. He has a remarkable ability to bring people together through a shared love of the art of photography, and he gives freely of his knowledge with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely wants the photographers around him to succeed.

I'm fortunate to have learned from him.

And I'm even more fortunate to call him both a mentor and a friend.

I returned home with two finished photographs, a new appreciation for the beauty of washi and what it can bring to a photograph, and an even stronger belief that the photograph doesn't end with the image—it ends with how we choose to bring it into the physical world and ultimately present it.

Now, to sign up for the next workshop!

Interested in learning more about Les Picker's photography workshops?

Visit: Les Picker Fine Art Photography for current workshops and information.