Sparrow and Her Cowboy Richard: The Backstory

Sparrow and her Cowboy Richard, San Marcos, New Mexico
Photograph by ©Craig Varjabedian

When teaching the human or the horse one must try to sense exactly where they are in any given moment.

—John Saint Ryan, horse trainer

CRAIG VARJABEDIAN

This photograph was made digitally, and original fine prints of the image are made in color. I’ll talk about the photograph, but first I want to look briefly at the debate over cameras.

I have long appreciated digital cameras. I have been working with them for the last several years. The instant feedback is tremendously helpful and exciting. I can see immediately the results of something I have photographed.

But this begs the question, Do I prefer a digital camera to a film camera? No, I don’t. The digital camera is just another tool with which to make an image. It is remarkable to me how much is being said and written debating the virtues and shortcomings of digital versus traditional photography. I believe these debates miss the point: there really is no better, there is only different. The measurements that define almost anything are always those of something that came before. In the beginning, painting defined the first daguerreotypes, then platinum prints defined silver gelatin prints, and so forth. In the end, the beautiful delicacy of a black-and-white gelatin silver print and the elegance of a black-and-white pigment print can be equally affective on a viewer. Although a photographer or a collector might prefer one medium over another, each must be considered for the intrinsic qualities it can contribute to the image.

Just as I claim that digital cameras hold no sway for me over film cameras, neither is black-and-white or color film more valuable than the other. They are simply called for in different situations. It is up to the photographer to make the appropriate decision about what will best render the intended subject.

I have done much of my work in black and white, mainly because I think black and white is transformational. I feel that I have more flexibility in ways of rendering light in black and white than I do in color. I can alter tones in black and white but not in color. It’s hard to accept color as transformational because it is too close to reality and thus can be overwhelming. Color tends to make us concentrate on the surfaces of things, whereas black and white leads us to examine edges and structures, to become more intimate with an image. Black and white tends to evoke a quality of light in an image that is much subtler than can be rendered by color.

People look at black and white and color in different ways, but color does have its place. Sometimes I think color is trivialized, so that we glance past color photographs. After all, most of us see in color, whereas a black-and-white photograph is, for most viewers, a change in reality—we don’t see in black and white, so we have to look at it differently. We are drawn to examine it perhaps more deeply.

That said, I’ll repeat: This photograph was made digitally. Fine art prints of it are in color. In this book, it is in black-and-white.

I’ve written about recognizing a moment in which everything falls into place and about being able to make a picture of that moment. Sometimes I can anticipate that something is about to happen and have my camera ready and waiting. The afternoon I made this photograph, during a workshop, we were at Clint’s ranch at San Marcos. I had no expectations about what might happen. I didn’t know the model, Richard, or his horse, Sparrow—didn’t know what they were capable of. We were standing by an adobe wall and all I knew was that using the wall as a backdrop would probably be a good idea. Once Richard and Sparrow had moved in front of it, Richard said, “Do you want to see my horse do some tricks?” and I said, “Sure.” They did the first trick, Sparrow bowing.

Then Richard had her do it again. At the moment Richard looked away from me and the students, Sparrow looked at me, and the moment changed. And right then, with my digital camera, I made a picture of that change. I made a picture of a horse and a cowboy, not a picture of a cowboy and a horse.

This was the first digital photograph I ever made that I felt was on a par with the images I’d been making in black and white with my view camera. The moment I released the shutter I knew I had made a wonderful image. The picture is tied together by the afternoon’s diffused light and the wonderful adobe wall behind the pair. Richard’s white shirt is luminescent, contrasting with Sparrow’s dark curves and shadows. He is looking at Sparrow, making sure she is all right and ready to stand again in a moment. What I see is Sparrow’s trust of Richard, his care for and attention to her, and their openness in sharing this all with me. It’s a triangle. This picture transcends a portrait of a cowboy and horse; it presents a moment of trust and affection. Some people say horses don’t feel affection for their owners, but I disagree. I see love, respect, familiarity, trust—all these emotions mutually between a horse and a man.

The reality presented in a photograph is sometimes different from the reality of the subjects themselves. My desire is not to make a record of something; it is to share my emotional response to what I have seen. In talking with Richard later, I found that he was slightly bemused by my impressions of this image.

Richard Stump and his horse Sparrow, San Marcos, New Mexico
Photograph by ©Craig Varjabedian

RICHARD STUMP

Do I feel there’s a relationship between people and horses? Well, maybe. I think it’s different for everybody. I don’t think it’s an emotional relationship for a lot of people. Dogs and owners are emotional, but horses are not dogs. They respond differently. You can have a horse for a certain amount of time—you’ll get more attached to it. Horses might become attached to what might become a pleasurable experience for them, like a treat, eating, or coming up to be scratched. But they’re not like a dog. Horses would rather be with other horses, just like a dog would like to be with you. They may get to a point where they might chose to be with you, but in their heart of hearts, I believe horses would rather be out running around with their buddies.

I guess I do establish a relationship, but it’s not an emotional one. I’ve had so many horses come and go: I’ve never had a horse I’ve wanted to keep forever. I’ve had Sparrow for a while, because I owned her mom. Her mom was the most athletic horse I ever had. She was like riding a cat. She was a thoroughbred. I loved what I was able to do on her. However, she was the biggest pain in the butt, so I did eventually sell her. She wasn’t a friend. But I loved the experience I had on her. I think about selling Sparrow sometime—she’s often a pain—but I can get a lot of things done with her.

When you work with a horse, you first have to get them started (it used to be called “breaking” them, but not any more), and you’ve got to be slow and gentle. You’ve got to understand the psychology of horses. You have to get around their fears. It works best if you’re not forcing your will on them and you’re working with them. Horses have to accept what is happening to them, and the trainer has to know what he or she is doing. As the trainer, you have to have the final word.

To teach a horse a trick means repetition. If a horse stops, you have to make him keep on. If a horse knows a trick and won’t do it, you can’t let him get away with it. When I’m training, I’m conscious of getting as much from a horse as I need to ask. And I’m conscious about everything going on. You’ve got to be careful where you work. If the ground isn’t soft, if it’s hard and rocky, a horse won’t be comfortable on her knees. You start by teaching a horse how to bow, one leg down and the other one out.

I’m a horse trainer. But I do consider myself a cowboy—not the same, though, as someone who works every day on a ranch. There are very few real cowboys anymore. There are just a handful of them left. I have a friend who runs a ranch—he’s seventy-two but he’s still out there working it every day. He’s a good horseman. Cowboys are people who learned their trade from mentors, from cowboys who knew what they were doing. I learned that way—my great-uncles were horse trainers, and I learned at a fairly young age. But they were also cow people, so I learned my cowboy skills from them, too. I’ve learned from lots of folks. I go to Ray Hunt’s clinics. I like working with Randy Rima here in New Mexico. He’s a great horseman, maybe starts colts better than anyone. Of course, he’ll say the same thing about anyone else.

There are cowboys who’ll identify themselves only that way—they live it, breath it every day, that’s their life. I’ve lived that way. At a certain point of my life, it was all day, every day. But I’m not doing that now. I’m into different things—I’m a renaissance man. I’ve done construction. I used to be an outfitter, and I guided for other outfitters in New Mexico and Colorado. I went to art school in California. I hunt. I fish. Now I paint and I make jewelry.

But I still do cattle work. I help out with branding, castrating, and vaccination. I’ve been around the cowboy life all my life. I live on a ranch. I’m a horse trainer. I have the skills so I can help with cattle. I rodeo. I like the high country. The spirit of cowboying—that’s what I want to have every day, even if I’m not cowboying.

FOUR & TWENTY PHOTOGRAPHS: Stories from Behind the Lens | A book by Photographer Craig Varjabedian and Author Robin Jones
In his quest for those convergences of light and mood that define a great image, award-winning photographer Craig Varjabedian has spent decades exploring the secret corners of the American West. Yet tales of how pictures are captured—the stories behind the lens—rarely reach their audience, inspiring Varjabedian with author Robin Jones to write Four and Twenty Photographs: Stories from Behind the Lens published by the University of New Mexico Press. Brand-new autographed copies of the book are available in the Studio Shop on my web site.