There’s a fundamental human curiosity that tugs at us, a desire to dissect the fleeting moments that make up our reality. We watch a bird take flight, a horse gallop across a field, a dancer leap through the air, and our minds struggle to fully grasp the intricate sequence of movements that unfold before our eyes. Before the advent of high-speed photography, these actions remained largely a mystery, interpreted through sketches, paintings, and the limitations of human perception. Then came the 1870s, and with them, a groundbreaking movement that would forever alter our understanding of motion: Motion Studies in Photography.

This wasn’t just about taking pictures; it was a scientific and artistic quest to freeze time, to break down movement into its constituent parts, and to reveal the hidden mechanics of the world around us. For me, as someone constantly trying to capture the essence of a moment with my own camera, the work of these pioneers is nothing short of awe-inspiring. They took the nascent technology of photography and pushed its boundaries to unlock secrets that had still been invisible for millennia.

The story of Motion Studies is inextricably linked with the name Eadweard Muybridge. A somewhat eccentric and undeniably driven English photographer, Muybridge’s initial foray into this field was spurred by a seemingly simple question: does a galloping horse ever have all four hooves off the ground simultaneously? Leland Stanford, a former Governor of California and a keen horse breeder, believed it did, a point of contention that led him to commission Muybridge to provide photographic proof.

This wasn’t a straightforward task. The photographic technology of the time required relatively long exposure times, making the capture of rapid movement a significant challenge. Muybridge, however, was undeterred. At Stanford’s Palo Alto farm, he meticulously set up a series of twelve cameras along a racetrack. Each camera was equipped with a shutter that was triggered by a tripwire as the horse galloped past. The resulting images, captured in rapid succession, provided irrefutable evidence: yes, a galloping horse does indeed have all four hooves airborne at certain points in its stride.

These early experiments, while initially intended to settle a bet, were revolutionary. They proved the power of photography to not only document but also to analyse and understand phenomena that were previously beyond the reach of human observation. The grainy, somewhat crude images of “Sallie Gardner at a Gallop” in 1878 were more than just pictures of a horse; they were a revelation, a glimpse into the mechanics of animal locomotion that had never been seen before.

Muybridge didn’t stop there. He recognised the profound potential of his technique and dedicated himself to systematically documenting the movements of a wide range of subjects, both human and animal. His later work, notably compiled in the monumental “Animal Locomotion” (1887), formed thousands of photographs meticulously capturing various actions: walking, running, jumping, flying, and a myriad of other movements.

Looking at these images today, there’s a certain scientific detachment, a clinical quality to the way the movements are broken down into sequential frames. Yet, there’s also an undeniable fascination in witnessing the intricate dance of muscles and limbs, the subtle shifts in balance, the sheer poetry of motion revealed frame by painstaking frame. For a photographer like me, constantly thinking about composition and the decisive moment, Muybridge’s work offers a unique perspective on how movement unfolds through time, a sequence of decisive moments strung together.

Across the Atlantic, another significant figure appeared in the field of Motion Studies: Étienne-Jules Marey. A French physiologist, Marey was also deeply interested in understanding movement, but his approach differed somewhat from Muybridge’s. While Muybridge typically used multiple cameras to capture successive phases of motion, Marey developed innovative single-camera techniques to record multiple exposures of a moving subject onto a single photographic plate.

One of his most ingenious inventions was the chronophotographic gun, a device that could take a rapid series of exposures at regular intervals, effectively layering the different stages of movement onto one image. Marey’s chronophotographs often depict stick-like figures or blurred outlines, focusing on the trajectory and rhythm of movement rather than precise anatomical detail.

There’s a different kind of beauty in Marey’s work compared to Muybridge’s. While Muybridge’s images offer a clear breakdown of individual moments, Marey’s chronophotographs provide a more holistic sense of the flow of motion, the path traced through space and time. They have an almost abstract quality, visualisations of movement that bridge the gap between science and art. As someone who often experiments with long exposures to capture the feeling of movement in landscapes, I find Marey’s approach particularly resonant, a way of condensing the passage of time into a single frame.

The impact of Motion Studies extended far beyond the scientific realm. Artists were captivated by the revelations of Muybridge and Marey, finding new ways to depict the human and animal form in motion. Painters and sculptors studied these photographic sequences to gain a more correct understanding of anatomy and movement, influencing artistic styles and representations.

Furthermore, Motion Studies laid the groundwork for the development of cinema. Muybridge’s zoopraxiscope, a device that projected his sequential photographs in rapid succession, created the illusion of moving images, a crucial step towards the birth of film. The ability to capture and then reproduce motion visually opened up entirely new possibilities for storytelling and entertainment.

For me, reflecting on the legacy of Motion Studies is a reminder of the powerful intersection between science, technology, and art. These early photographers were not just documentarians; they were explorers, inventors, and visual thinkers who dared to challenge the limits of their medium. They saw the world in a way that no one had before, and their groundbreaking work continues to inspire and inform our understanding of motion today.

As a photographer in the 21st century, equipped with technology that Muybridge and Marey could only have dreamed of, I feel a connection to their pioneering spirit. While I may not be setting up banks of cameras or inventing photographic guns, the fundamental desire to capture and interpret the world around me, to find the extraordinary in the ordinary, echoes their early explorations.

The next time I watch a wave crash against the Aberdeen coastline, or a seagull soar above the harbour, I’ll remember the groundbreaking work of Muybridge and Marey. They taught us to see motion not as a blur, but as a series of intricate, beautiful moments waiting to be discovered. Their legacy reminds me that the act of photography is not just about capturing what is visible, but about revealing the unseen, the hidden rhythms and patterns that shape our world. And in that revelation, lies a profound and enduring beauty.

Regards

Alex