What Is the Subject of a Photograph?
Field Notes
I recently found myself in a friendly discussion about what constitutes the subject of a photograph. It started with a claim on a photography podcast that the sky could never be the subject of a landscape photograph. To be fair, it was presented as a hot take, probably intended to provoke a reaction, but I found the statement rather difficult to accept. It seemed unnecessarily definite, even dogmatic. I could understand someone arguing that the sky was not the main subject of a particular photograph, but to suggest that it could never be the subject seemed to me an entirely different claim. Surely, a sunset or a dramatic formation of clouds could be a subject in its own right.
The discussion stayed with me, partly because I realised that I had never really examined my own understanding of the word subject. Like most photographers, I use it frequently. We talk about finding interesting subjects, isolating them from distracting elements, and creating compositions in which the main subject is clearly defined. Much of the advice we encounter about photographic composition seems to assume that identifying the subject is a relatively straightforward exercise. Yet the more I considered the original statement, the less straightforward the concept appeared. I began reading about how subject matter is understood in art, hoping to find a more substantial foundation for my initial reaction. What I discovered was a considerably broader and more interesting concept than the one we sometimes seem to apply in photography.
Understanding Subject Matter
In ordinary photographic language, the subject is generally understood as whatever the camera is directed towards. In a portrait, it is the person being photographed; in wildlife photography, it might be a bird or an animal; and in landscape photography, perhaps a mountain, a tree or a waterfall. This understanding is both practical and useful, particularly when discussing composition. Identifying a main subject can help a photographer make decisions about framing, visual hierarchy and which elements to include or exclude. Problems arise, however, when this practical understanding becomes a restrictive definition of what a subject is allowed to be.
The J. Paul Getty Trust offers a broader perspective in its publication Categories for the Description of Works of Art. Here, subject matter is defined as the narrative, iconographic or non-objective meaning conveyed by a work of art. The definition includes a particularly interesting sentence: "It is what is depicted in and by a work of art." Getty goes on to explain that subjects can include not only identifiable objects, people and places, but also activities, events, abstract shapes, philosophical concepts and symbolic meanings. Even works that do not represent recognisable objects in the traditional sense can have subject matter. In abstract art, for instance, the content may be found in the forms, composition or implied themes of the work rather than in any identifiable physical object.
This broader understanding makes the categorical exclusion of something like a sunset rather difficult to defend. A sunset is not a physical object in the same sense as a lighthouse or a mountain, but it is a recognisable natural phenomenon involving light, colour and atmospheric conditions. It can be observed, experienced and photographed, and there is no obvious reason why it should be excluded from the category of possible subjects. That does not mean a sunset must be the main subject whenever it appears in a photograph. The distinction between something being a possible subject and functioning as the principal subject of a particular image is important. The latter is a question of how the photograph is constructed and interpreted, whereas the former concerns the meaning of the term itself.
What a Photograph Shows and What It Communicates
One of the most useful distinctions I came across in Getty's discussion of subject matter was between ofness and aboutness. The first describes what an artwork depicts, while the second concerns its thematic, narrative or symbolic meaning. These concepts are particularly useful because they acknowledge that the things represented in a photograph are not necessarily identical to what the photograph communicates. Importantly, Getty treats both as aspects of subject matter rather than as competing definitions.
Consider a photograph of a solitary tree. On a descriptive level, the photograph is of a tree. We might identify its species, the landscape surrounding it or the particular conditions in which it was photographed. But the way the tree is presented may also suggest something beyond its physical appearance. Its isolation within the frame, the surrounding space or the character of the light might create associations with solitude, resilience or vulnerability. These interpretations are not properties of the tree itself, nor should we assume that they necessarily reflect the photographer's intention. They emerge from the way the subject is represented and how the photograph is experienced by the viewer.
This also highlights an important difference between what a photograph is of and what catches our attention first. The element that dominates a photograph in terms of size, contrast or colour is not necessarily the element that gives it its central meaning. A small human figure placed against an enormous mountain landscape provides a familiar example. The mountain may occupy almost the entire frame, but the inclusion of a person can fundamentally change how we experience the scene. The photograph might become less about the mountain as a geographical feature and more about scale or the relationship between human beings and the natural world. The significance of the figure depends partly on the presence of the mountain, just as the mountain takes on a different significance because of the figure. In such cases, I find it difficult to separate the importance of one element from the other. What makes the photograph interesting may lie in their relationship rather than in either element considered independently.
This is not to suggest that every photograph must communicate some deeper philosophical meaning. I think there is a tendency, particularly when discussing art, to search for symbolic significance even where it may not be intended or necessary. A photograph can simply be an appreciation of form, colour, light or the beauty of a particular place. But even then, its visual qualities are part of what makes the image worth looking at, and they cannot always be reduced to the physical objects it contains.
In his Equivalents series, Alfred Stieglitz used clouds to explore something beyond their physical appearance. Through light, shape and contrast, the sky becomes both the subject of the photograph and a means of expressing emotion.
Beyond the Literal Subject
An interesting example of the relationship between subject matter and meaning can be found in Alfred Stieglitz's photographic series Equivalents, produced during the 1920s and early 1930s. These photographs consist primarily of clouds, often photographed without the horizon or other recognisable landmarks. By removing the usual references to the ground, Stieglitz created compositions in which the viewer's attention is directed towards the clouds themselves, their shapes, their tonal relationships and the changing light. The photographs are unmistakably images of the sky, yet Stieglitz was interested in expressing something beyond the literal appearance of clouds.
As discussed in the National Gallery of Art's scholarship on his work, Stieglitz saw these
photographs as a means of communicating emotional experiences through photographic form. His intention was not simply to document particular cloud formations, but to create images capable of expressing feelings and experiences that did not depend on a recognisable narrative. The title Equivalents itself suggests this ambition: the visible subject could function as an equivalent for something less tangible.
I find these photographs particularly relevant because they demonstrate that an ordinary and universally accessible subject can become the basis for a highly personal form of expression. Stieglitz did not need an extraordinary landscape or an unusual object to make photographs that went beyond straightforward representation. He worked with clouds, light and the relationships between forms within the frame. The fact that his photographs could communicate something beyond the clouds does not mean the clouds somehow ceased to be subjects. Rather, it illustrates how a subject can operate on more than one level at the same time.
Does a Photograph Need to Tell a Story?
Another distinction made in Getty's definition concerns narrative and non-narrative subjects. In art history, a narrative subject generally depicts a story or an episode within one, whereas a non-narrative subject can represent an object, a landscape or another recognisable subject without presenting a particular story. This is an important distinction because it separates the presence of subject matter from the presence of narrative. Getty explicitly recognises that works of art do not need to tell stories in order to have subjects.
An example of non-narrative photography. Rather than telling a particular story, the photograph relies on form, light and negative space to create a sense of stillness and isolation.
I think this is particularly relevant to landscape photography, where we frequently encounter the advice that a good photograph should tell a story. There are certainly photographs in which storytelling plays a central role, and even a single image can imply events beyond the moment it depicts. But a photograph does not necessarily need a narrative structure to engage the viewer or communicate something meaningful. A quiet coastal scene may convey stillness through the arrangement of its elements, while an abstract study of light reflected on water may be compelling because of its colour, rhythm and texture. Neither requires us to imagine a sequence of events in order to appreciate the photograph.
Perhaps the expression telling a story has become so common in photography that we sometimes use it to describe almost any form of visual communication. I understand why. It is an accessible way of suggesting that a photograph should offer more than a straightforward record of something. Nevertheless, I think the distinction matters. Narrative is one way in which an image can communicate, but atmosphere, form, symbolism and aesthetic experience are others. Recognising this allows us to appreciate photographs that are not concerned with telling stories without treating them as somehow incomplete.
Finding a Subject and Making a Photograph
These ideas have also made me think about the relationship between finding a subject and making a photograph. As landscape photographers, we are often attracted to places that are already visually impressive. Mountains, waterfalls, dramatic coastlines and colourful skies offer an abundance of possibilities, and it is perfectly understandable that we seek them out. But the qualities that make a place spectacular do not necessarily make every photograph of it successful. The subject provides the possibilities. The photograph is shaped by what we choose to do with them.
In his influential book "The Photographer's Eye", John Szarkowski examined characteristics of photography such as the frame, the detail, time and vantage point. His discussion offers a useful reminder that photography is a process of selection. The camera records what is in front of it, but the photographer decides where to stand, when to make the exposure and which parts of the scene to include. These decisions influence not only how individual subjects appear, but also how the different elements within the photograph relate to one another.
In my own landscape photography, I find that the attraction of a scene is not always connected to a single identifiable object. Sometimes the light is what first catches my attention, while at other times it may be the colours, the atmosphere or the relationship between different elements in the landscape. A relatively ordinary coastline can become interesting under particular lighting conditions, while a spectacular mountain may offer surprisingly little photographically if I cannot find a composition that works. The difference is not simply a matter of finding better subjects, but of recognising the visual possibilities that exist within a scene.
I am particularly interested in how the different elements of a photograph can depend on one another. A foreground may create depth and establish scale, while a distant mountain provides structure and the sky contributes much of the atmosphere. None of these elements necessarily has to be the single defining subject for the photograph to work. Their importance may come from how they interact, and removing one can completely change the character of the image. There is, of course, a distinction between subject matter and composition, and I don't want to suggest that they are interchangeable. But the way a subject is represented is so closely connected to the other elements in a photograph that separating them can sometimes seem artificial.
The tree, the light on the mountain and the drifting snow.
Three distinct elements that, together, made the scene worth photographing.
This is also why I believe an ordinary subject can produce an extraordinary photograph, while an extraordinary subject can result in a fairly ordinary one. The photograph is not simply the sum of the objects within the frame. It is also the result of the photographer's observations, decisions and interpretation of what is there.
A Broader Understanding of the Subject
Returning to the discussion that started all of this, I still find the claim that the sky can never be the subject of a landscape photograph difficult to defend. The broader understanding of subject matter found in art history leaves room for physical objects, natural phenomena, abstract forms and symbolic meanings. There is no compelling reason, at least from that perspective, to exclude the sky or a sunset from the category of possible photographic subjects.
At the same time, my reading has made me more aware of how easily we can use the same term while referring to different aspects of a photograph. We might be discussing what is depicted, what dominates visually, what the photographer intended to communicate or what we experience as viewers. These aspects are closely connected, but they are not identical. A disagreement about the main subject of a particular photograph may therefore be as much a disagreement about terminology as about the photograph itself.
I don't think we need to abandon the traditional understanding of the subject as the thing we photograph. It remains useful, especially when making practical decisions about composition. But treating it as the only possible understanding risks overlooking some of what makes photography interesting. What we choose to photograph matters, but so does how we represent it, how it relates to the rest of the frame and what the finished image communicates.
For me, that is perhaps the most useful outcome of this little exploration. It has encouraged me to think less about identifying a subject in isolation and more about understanding what makes a particular arrangement of subjects, light and space worth photographing. And that seems like a worthwhile exercise for anyone trying to become a better photographer.
References
J. Paul Getty Trust (2024). Subject Matter. Categories for the Description of Works of Art. A discussion of subject matter, including narrative and non-narrative subjects, ofness and aboutness.
Harpring, Patricia (2019). Subject Access to Art Works: Overview Using the Getty Vocabularies. Getty Vocabulary Program.
National Gallery of Art. Alfred Stieglitz: The Key Set, 1918–1937. Research on Stieglitz's later photography, including his cloud studies and Equivalents.
Szarkowski, John (1966). The Photographer's Eye. New York: Museum of Modern Art.
AI statement: In this text I have used artificial intelligence to clean up the language, discuss certain ideas and for help with the overall structure.