I ask to see how a Burtynsky print is made. Unlike much contemporary painting or sculpture, where the individual artist is sole author of every detail, an art photograph today is a collective enterprise, produced somewhat the way a large painting was in a 17th-century European studio. There, under the guidance and vision of the artist, assistants and apprentices would do a lot of the fill-in work. Here, Dan Ebert, Burtynskys custom printer, does all of the physical production of Burtynskys photographs. I watch Ebert work with an eight-by-10 negative in one of the darkrooms designed for large-format printing (the enlarger is one hefty piece of machinery, equipped with a 2,000-watt bulb, that moves horizontally on tracks). The image is from a series taken at the Carrara marble quarries in Italy. Burtynsky is with us, though Ebert would normally work alone. After some four years of working together, Ebert says, I know what hes looking for. When he gives me a negative, I can get 90 per cent of the way with it.
With the help of charts, the two of them calculate the length of exposure, the lens opening, the distance the enlarger must be from the wall. Then lights out. In the dark, Ebert removes a 50-by-50-inch piece of colour photographic paper from a dispenser, affixes it to the wall, throws the switch. All I see is a vague pattern projected onto white paper, but it obviously means more to Ebert. His hands flutter like moths in the 14.9-second beam of light, shielding parts of the print, allowing others to darken, a technique known as dodging and burning. The paper is then fed into a large processing machine. Five minutes later, a perfectly dry, flat print curls out the other end.
It looks wonderful to mea vertiginous glimpse into a white and ochre wound we have inflicted on the earth, a chapter in what Im beginning to think of as a celebration of loss. But when Burtynsky examines it, this photograph of an Italian marble quarry in use for more than 2,000 years, he suggests that Ebert reduce the exposure by five-tenths of a second and burn in the top left corner a little bit more. He fears that section, mostly rubble, is too bright, will lead the eye astray and off the image. Back to the darkroom, a second round of fluttering hands, a second print. It is almost what he wants, but he suggests that Ebert reduce the exposure by another two-tenths of a second. The next print, he says, will be fine. When he is satisfied (and with Ebert, it rarely requires more than three attempts), the photograph will then move into the hands of Rose Scheler, a woman with exquisite colour sense. With paint and very fine brushes, she will spot out any small imperfections produced by particles of dust on the lens. Burtynsky will then sign it on the back, write its title and date of printing, and voilàa Burtynsky print is ready for exhibition.
