Chris Tancock is a photographer living and working in Pembrokeshire, quite close to where I live. Whilst Chris photographs in the landscape, and often his images include wildlife, “traditional” landscape and wildlife photography are genres that he doesn’t particularly warm to. Chris prefers to describe himself as a “rural documentary” or “habitat” photographer. Moreover, he regards himself as a story teller, however, he fails to see how a single image can tell a story. Chris often uses the analogy of writing: a written story is composed of many sentences and paragraphs that build to create a narrative. A single sentence might be beautiful but it cannot, on its own, tell a story. Likewise, a single photograph might be beautiful, but on its own doesn’t have significant meaning. Chris’ views on photography are fascinating, and for those who want to find out more, I would encourage you to to listen to a long and wide ranging interview from several years ago, where he expands on them at considerable, but very interesting, length:

A Year of Any Questions

By Tim Parkin, Joe Cornish & Mark Littlejohn | April 29, 2025

Any Questions has been running for just over a year and we thought it would be nice just to have a casual chat between the hosts: myself, Joe Cornish and Mark Littlejohn. What we ended up with was a relaxed, whiskey-fueled chat covering personal stories about whisky and photography, the challenges of women's representation in landscape photography, the influence of Scottish geology on photographers, the idea of future podcast guests, and a brainstorm about new ways to explore photographic influences and creativity.

Visions of Paradise – American Wilderness

By Jon Ortner & Charlotte Parkin | April 28, 2025

Visions of Paradise: American Wilderness" presents a collection of black-and-white photographs by Jon Ortner, offering a thoughtful exploration of America’s wild landscapes. An experienced hiker and long-time observer of the natural world, Ortner captures the scale, textures, and quiet power of these places through the timeless medium of film. This large-format book gathers his work into a focused tribute to the American wilderness, reflecting both its visual majesty and enduring significance.

How did your childhood on Long Island shape your interest in the landscape?

I was given my first butterfly net when I was only 5 years old. I started exploring the North Shore of Long Island, which at that was a paradise of ancient forests, and abandoned estates. I would wander around the overgrown, walled Italian gardens, crumbling fountains, old wishing wells, and abandoned greenhouses. I spent my time collecting butterflies and examining salamanders, turtles and frogs. I was an avid naturalist and tried to learn the scientific names of everything I saw, at a very early age. By the time I was 12, I was going into New York City, to the American Museum of Natural History, and became a member of the Jr. Entomological Society, which met in the cavernous offices of Alice Gray, a talented scientific illustrator, who worked creating natural history exhibitions for the museum. It was there that I met many other young naturalists, collectors, and budding scientists. All of us experts in climbing fences, and exploring the abandoned wild places around us.

My first paying job was as a Page, in the beautiful library of my hometown. I fell in love with books and research, and became an avid collector of rare photography books, especially those on exploration, and the love of nature. So, for much of my life, I have revered authors who have explained the scientific significance, and irreplaceable value of wild places. These included Edwin Way Teal, Edward Abbey, Terry Tempest Williams, Gretel Ehrlich, and Edward Ruess, I have read, and been inspired by their writings that describe and explain the love of wilderness that I have felt my entire life.

You attended the University of Kansas, where you studied Photography, Eastern Philosophy, Systematics, and Ecology. How did these experiences shape your photography?

Throughout my youth I had been reading, and dreaming about the jungles and lost cities of Asia. As I matured, I thought that I would become either an entomologist, or a zoologist. When I arrived at University, I got my first Nikon Camera, and started photographing both nature, and landscapes. I was soon privileged to meet and study with a brilliant professor named Alphonse Verdue. He was a philosopher, author, Buddhist scholar, and one of the foremost experts on Sanskrit, the classic language of India, in the world. His courses introduced me to the deeply spiritual philosophies of Hinduism and Buddhist, and how these great meditative religions evolved from the sacred Himalaya, highest mountain in the world.

Right after my freshman year, after reading the book Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse, I decided to see for myself the wonders of spiritual India and Nepal, and it was those early experiences, while trekking on pilgrimage to Amarnath Cave in the high Himalaya of Kashmir, along with thousands of Siva Ascetics, that sparked my lifelong passion for photography of Asia, and the Himalaya, and the extraordinary religious culture that has evolved there.

Tell me about the photographers or artists that inspire you most. What books stimulated your interest in photography, and have your tastes developed over time?

Some of the first photographers (and their books) that inspired me were: Burma, Ceylon, Indo-China by (the black in white photographer) Martin Hurlimann, Angkor, Art & Civilization, by Bernard Groslier, & Jacques Arthaud, and the work of Vittorio Sella.

With black and white photography nature displays its majesty and poetic beauty by way of contrast, shape and form. I have always loved beauty.

I want to make images that are powerful, poetic, and visually stunning. When it comes to landscapes, then the work of the great black and white masters, such as Ansel Adams, and Clyde Butcher come to mind, and set the bar very high indeed. Like them, I am seeking out those special places that reveal the inner workings of the natural world.

In 1978, you relocated to Manhattan to establish a commercial photography studio alongside your wife and business partner, Martha McGuire. What initially drew you to commercial photography, and could you share more about your experience running the studio?

When I first moved into New York City with my wife Martha, I knew that it would be difficult to finance our continued expeditions to places such as India, Nepal, Bhutan, Myanmar, Laos and Cambodia. I immediately started photographing the city and its skyscrapers, and that connected me to the world of New York City real estate, especially to developers who were building the newest and most beautiful skyscrapers in America. I started photographing for developers such as Brookfield, SL Green, Hearst, and Tishman Speyer.

The marketing for their new buildings had robust budgets, which allowed us to make good money fairly quickly. This enabled us to spend 3-4 months every year trekking in the Himalaya of Nepal, Ladakh, and Bhutan, or exploring the ancient, lost cities of Asia such as Angkor, Bagan, Sri Ksetra, Mrauk-U, Prambanan, and Borobudur, in the wilds of Cambodia, Myanmar, Laos, Thailand, Bali and Java.

Two Medicine Lake, Glacier National Park

Your photography in Asia has merged an interest in the landscape and philosophy. What inspired that interest and can you tell us more about the books you’ve created around it?

I have always had boundless curiosity and an insatiable thirst for knowledge about people and places. That, combined with a deep-seated reverence for nature’s exquisiteness, manifested itself in my photography. In 1979, with a creative intellect on fire and the urgent purpose felt by dedicated artists, Martha and I embarked on a photographic and spiritual journey to record and celebrate the world’s most remote and astonishingly beautiful sites.

For twenty-five years, we have trekked thousands of miles throughout the ancient lands of Southeast Asia, in many cases gaining rare access to forbidden sites. Against the backdrop of the magnificent Himalaya, we explored the geological wonders, sacred places, and people of Nepal, Bhutan, Ladakh, and Tibet. In India, Thailand, Cambodia, Myanmar, Laos, China, and Indonesia, we have immersed ourselves in the mysteries of the some of the world’s most spectacular and profound religious and cultural sites.

The exceptionally produced, large-format photography books emerging from these singular experiences, have for years, and for reprint after reprint, ignited the imaginations of thousands of readers. They include Where Every Breath Is a Prayer: A Photographic Pilgrimage into the Spiritual Heart of Asia, Angkor: Celestial Temples of the Khmer Empire, and Buddha, each one were multi-year projects, that strived for thematic, compositional, and photographic artistry, and were complimented by my deeply personal and scholarly writings on Hindu and Buddhist art, spiritual pilgrimage, and the role of sacred places in our lives.

The Virgin Narrows, Zion Canyon National Park

Tell us about the background of the book and the project. Where did it all begin?

In 2005, I turned my passion, creativity, and panoramic cameras on the unique, breathtaking scenery of the Colorado Plateau in a five-year odyssey of discovery deep into the deserts and canyons of the American West, which included trekking to isolated and nearly inaccessible slot cxanyons, and to secluded and sacred sites on Dine and Hopi Tribal Lands. This tenacious pursuit for photographic perfection culminated in the award-winning, Canyon Wilderness of the Southwest, a widely distributed book published in three edition sizes, and which esteemed documentary filmmaker Ken Burns has lauded as “…an indescribably sublime book, a testament to the power of our saved and sacred places to transform our lives, rearrange our molecules and make of us all, as John Muir would say, ‘kindred spirits.”

On the heels of that fulfilling project I started working on Visions of Paradise: American Wilderness, which is the culmination of more than 15 years of black-and-white, large-format photography, paying tribute to America’s remaining unspoiled wild places.

The opening quote in the book is: “If a person is very fortunate, in a perfect place under conditions that may never occur again … perhaps on a mountaintop with the late sun breaking through the clouds in diffused radiance … eternity may cease its flow, the world pause, for one incomprehensible moment … an instant in time to be treasured forever.”—Ward J. Roylance, The Enchanted Wilderness
Can you tell us more about why you chose this quote and its importance to you?

When we first started photographing in the American West, we had the good fortune to visit Capitol Reef National Park, in Utah. Martha and I explored extensively and experienced the truly inspirational landscapes of the Cathedral Valleys. Although we had traveled widely throughout Asia and the Himalaya, and had trekked through the wonders of the highest mountains and deepest gorges on the planet, we were astounded, and deeply moved by the otherworldly landscapes we photographed in The Cathedral Valley. We returned several times over the years, hardly ever seeing any other people for most of the days we spent there. For me, it became one of my favorite places in the world. Then I came upon a book titled, The Enchanted Wilderness, by Ward J. Roylance, who lived in Torrey, Utah, and explored the vast wilderness of Capitol Reef for many years. He wrote elegantly about the dramatic monoliths, and the changing light and weather conditions, that made Capitol Reef a sublime, high desert paradise. We then realized that there were other people, who felt the same as we did, and who literally worshipped the sacred landscapes of Capitol Reef, and the astounding and dramatic beauty that could be seen and experienced there.

Traveling Trees

By Robert Hecht | April 28, 2025

It all began one misty morning nearly ten years ago, as I meandered on the still-wet sand of Nehalem Bay on the Oregon coast. It was low tide, and as the shroud of fog began to thin, it revealed a long array of brooding, sculptural forms deposited at the farthest edge of the water line.

Ghostly in the dissipating mist, they seemed to beckon, inviting me to come and meet them.

And I did meet them, instantly enthralled with their fantastical forms, and thus beginning a relationship with Pacific Northwest driftwood that continues to this day. It has become an intimate relationship—an obsession if I am honest—and I have revisited many of the largest and seemingly immovable hulks numerous times, getting to know well their individual, swirling designs and textures. Most driftwood comes and goes with the tide changes, but some of these heaviest pieces stay put, lodged into the sand. That is, at least until one of the more dramatic winter storms—of the magnitude that first deposited them on the shore years ago—comes to reclaim them.

Driftwood can be a photographic delight. The dynamic, organic forms of Nature’s sculptures offer endless compositional opportunities; many of them are suggestive of animal or human-like shapes, whether real or of the imagination. The mind’s tendency toward pareidolia can have a field day with these ‘creatures’ of the sea—as one stares at these forms, many of them stare right back!

Further, they can offer a multitude of canvases for creating abstractions. Their patterns and textures have been massaged by water, wind and sand, often leaving unique patinas and subtle color changes on their surfaces. I have many times photographed them during a rainfall or just after a rain, when the moisture has dramatically heightened the intensity of the once-latent colors in the wood.

Like all of Nature’s organic materials, they are continually changing, and in that sense, though they have been literally uprooted from their earlier lives, they are still alive and evolving tree forms. Upon a second or third visit, they will inevitably have been transformed further by the elements, perhaps with a slightly changed shape, or a somewhat different texture, perhaps with a scattering of barnacles or a colorful growth of bacteria or algae.

In addition to their visual properties, I have been impressed by another important dimension of the ‘lives’ of these driftwood artefacts—the indisputable reality that they have traveled unknown distances from unknown places to wind up on these Pacific Northwest shorelines. One morning I was moved to compose a haiku about the phenomenon:

misty beach morning—
musing the long voyages
of traveling trees

Yes, they are indeed traveling trees. Where did this huge root cluster originate? What about this thirty-foot long log? Did it come from across the sea or down one of the Pacific Northwest’s many remarkable rivers? And what about this behemoth buried deep in the sand? How long was it afloat before its long-term docking on this beach? What kind of tree was it? When will it move on? Will it ever be replaced by another of its girth and weight?

These are the kinds of questions raised by contemplating driftwood. One thing for sure—you don’t want to be on one of these beaches during a major winter storm when giant waves are tossing these enormous hunks of wood up on the beach like so many matchsticks.

My curiosity about the origins and itineraries of these traveling trees led me to research several scientific articles on the driftwood phenomenon. Some of what I found was not unexpected; however, some of what I learned was indeed very surprising.

Driftwood can come from quite a few different sources, say the scientists. When rivers swell during the spring runoff, it is not uncommon for the high water gradually to undercut the roots of trees growing along the riverbank. Even a mighty Redwood’s tenuous grip on the earth can be jeopardized further each spring, weakened inch by inch or foot by foot until one year when the rushing water and riverbank erosion finally win out and that giant tree crashes into the river.

Depending on the river’s width and depth and the power of its currents, that tree may or may not be swept away on a journey toward the sea. It may first contribute to the formation of a logjam in the river. Such jams can powerfully affect the life of a river and its inhabitants, changing its course, depth, and ecosystem in that area. If that happens, a fallen tree may reside in a logjam for many years or even decades until flood conditions eventually loosen it and send its components downstream.

Smaller trees or logs that have been swept into a river from a logging operation site may be more likely to immediately ride the waves to the ocean. Sometimes the distances trees can travel are as much as several hundred miles.

The San Joaquin River, for instance, flows from the heavily forested Sierra Nevada Mountains some 350 miles to the Pacific Ocean. Along the way, it passes through many forest lands and logging regions, where other trees may join the water parade.

The journey from a mountain hillside to an Oregon beach may not be a straight shot at all. It may take years, and by the time I happen to encounter a huge relic on the sand at Nehalem Bay, for example, it surely will have undergone many changes. It may have lost all its bark and been smoothed down to resemble a marble sculpture. It may have been broken into many pieces. And it may even have spent a long time buried beneath the sand. Scientists have discovered that driftwood from rivers may reach the ocean and drift in the sea’s currents there for some time, eventually getting washed up on the shore. Because of significant shifts in beach topography, driftwood can, over time, be completely covered with sand and spend years beneath the surface. While buried, the wood can, in essence, be ground smooth by the action of water and sand, as if in a rock polishing device. Eventually, when the beach formations shift again, such driftwood may be tossed once more to pile up at the waterline.

Driftwood may even travel all the way across the Pacific from as far away as Japan, a much greater distance than any river journey. However, much of the driftwood beginning its journey in the East never makes it to the Western United States coast. Scientists say that when driftwood is carried out into the ocean, it can maintain its buoyancy for no longer than a year and a half.

It can be propelled along by the ocean’s river-like currents to cover many hundreds of miles, but at some point, it becomes too heavy to continue floating and sinks to the floor of the ocean. There, as part of a so-called wood fall, the driftwood can form habitat and nutrients for a variety of sea life.

There is much to contemplate when observing a driftwood covered beach along the Pacific coast. A tree that stood its ground for perhaps hundreds of years may then have had an ‘after-life’ of hundreds more, as it traveled by river to the sea and eventually to a wood-strewn beach, where it became subject matter for an enthusiastic photographer such as me. There are so many aspects to appreciate in a driftwood log in addition to its aesthetic properties—an entire, mysterious backstory as a traveling tree.

The Travelling Landscape Photographers Camera

By David Tolcher | April 24, 2025

The balance between portability, quality and function has always been difficult when working away from motorised transport. Typically, I have reached for the 35mm based mirrorless system when portability was the most important aspect; but the introduction of the latest Hasselblad CFV 100C / 907X and the newer ‘V’ and ‘P’ lenses enables a way to go small without compromise. This short article comes from a week long trip to the island of Eigg in Scotland where walking is the only mode of transport for visitors, and the CFV 100C / 907X combination came into its own.

Background – Journey to the CFV 100C

Over the years, most of my landscape work has been done with 5x4 cameras and sheet film. The migration to digital became affordably compelling with the introduction of the Sony A7R, and since then, I have pottered about with most of the genres as the manufacturers leapfrogged with new technology. There was (and still is) something fascinating about the larger formats and the ability to use technical cameras for considered landscape work. I retain a technical camera system with a range of lenses for use only with a digital back (DB). This was my expectation and primary intended use for the CFV 100C. Not the most portable though… which brings me back to Eigg.

The CFV 100C has a unique solution when hitched to the included 907X camera body. The combination of this, the CFV 100C and the newer tiny (ish) ‘V’ and ‘P’ lenses makes for a very compact and incredibly portable system. For those with long memories, it is similar in size and form to the legendary Hasselblad SWC (super wide) camera. Added benefits come in the ability to downscale all the peripheral gear you need like the tripod, the head, the bag and if necessary, the filter system.

Comfort in the field has a huge impact on how I approach taking pictures and has a direct consequence on the quality of the images I produce. Having been to Eigg before, I knew that I would not need any long lenses, so travelled with the 28mm P, the 38mm V and the 65mm (which I never used), leaving the technical camera and 90mm lens at home

About Eigg

Eigg is interesting on so many levels with a unique island atmosphere. The geology is fascinating, with remarkable Jurassic strata and a violent volcanic past, which is laid bare in the landscape. The most obvious feature is the distinctive Sgurr, which is pitchstone from lava flows, and not a volcanic plug as most assume. There are obvious volcanic features all over the Island with dykes crisscrossing the beaches and cliffs and great terraces of basalt. All the while, you can see and feel the menace of the ancient volcanoes responsible for the incredible forces that tore this land apart and formed Skye and Rum, which is ever present to the west.

Dyke swarm punched through Jurassic Sandstone on Laig Beach. 28mm P 1.4sec @ F16

The CFV 100C & 907X

The combination of CFV100C and 907X makes a very basic box camera. It is easier to write a list of things it doesn’t do, rather than what it has as a feature set. But it has some important technical components.

The sensor is Back Side Illuminated (BSI), which means that it is quite close to gapless in design, so the issues of colour casts suffered by the previous generation have largely been removed. This applies mostly when using it as a digital back for a technical camera. But other wide angle lenses, where the rear element is very close to the sensor, could give a magenta cast in the corners with the previous model. Hasselblad’s latest 28mm is an example of a lens that exhibited purple corner shading issues with the earlier 50mp series camera. Previously, a Lens Cast Calibration filter was required with any Schneider or Rodenstock lenses of 50mm focal length or wider.

This meant making a second exposure with this semi-opaque filter, which Lightroom or Capture One could then map and neutralise to create a mask which corrected both the vignette and the colour cast. But what a hassle! Now I no longer need to perform this separate step with my 35mm Rodenstock lens on a technical camera, nor with the Hasselblad 28mm ‘P’ lens.

The diminutive 907X camera body gives auto-focusing, and has good face detection taking advantage of Phase Detect Auto Focus (PDAF) on the sensor. This does make the AF quick and reliable. But it can introduce a problem that Hasselblad are yet to effectively solve, whereby the PDAF array can provoke lines that appear with some wide-angle lenses. This is particularly true with the more symmetric optics like the Schneider 47/35mm lenses, and to a lesser extent with the slightly telecentric designed Rodenstock 40mm and wider lenses. The PDAF array is slightly raised from the sensor and the ‘shadow’ causes the lines. It is not unique to Hasselblad, and most manufacturers had this issue when first moving to the BSI sensor. They have addressed the problem through firmware. In practical use, I have not been bothered by it, as it requires extremes of post processing to be noticeable, and then only on large areas of plain tone or colour (like blue sky).

Bay of Laig. Stitch with 38mm. 8sec @ F16

A dyke pie crust on Singing Sands 38mm 1/8th sec @ F16

The 907X is shutterless, so either a lens has to have a shutter (nearly all Hasselblad lenses have one) that can be triggered by the camera or you may rely on the Electronic Shutter to take pictures. One of the difficulties of 100 megapixels is the amount of data that has to be moved off the chip at the time of exposure. Apart from the latest Global shutters, which read data in one go, current chips read off data line by line. If using the electronic shutter then the amount of time to read the whole chip can mean that the movement of any object may be distorted (rolling shutter). The Electronic Shutter in the CFV 100C has a fast enough readout that this is rarely an issue in landscape use, especially in 14 bit rather than 16bit mode where the readout is quite a bit slower. This is an essential feature allowing the use of shutterless lenses with the back, for example, when using a technical camera.

For storage, a 1TB SSD is built into the back with a secondary back up CFexpress type B slot, and this completes the important technical components.

On top of the tech is a very simple User Interface easily managed via a good-sized responsive touch screen which works well. The screen is good enough even in bright light, and hinges upwards so the screen acts as a waist level finder, as per the Hasselblad 500 series film cameras.

Bay of Laig - 38mm 4sec @ F22

What doesn’t it have?

Well, this may sound negative, but in reality, the features it has are designed for the purpose intended, nothing more, nothing less. If you want/need things on this following list then it is the wrong camera for you.

IBIS: (lack of)

In many ways the biggest drawback. Hasselblad lenses do not have OIS either, so with 100mp of detail my keeper rate, handheld, dropped alarmingly with the CFV 100C + 907x combination. I am quite comfortable handholding with IBIS and wide/normal lenses at 1/10th of a second, expecting a reasonable hit rate on the Hasselblad X2D, or Fujifilm GFX 100S (previously owned). With the 907X I find a shutter speed that is 1/focal length, as per the old maxim, is a fair low limit for handholding.

AF-C/AF Tracking: (lack of)

You aren’t going to use this camera for moving subjects.

Joystick: (lack of)

This has become standard on the majority of higher end cameras (but the X2D doesn’t have one either). It can be added to the 907x with the optional grip, but then the stability on a tripod is compromised due to a very thin connection to the plate. The touchscreen is excellent and easy to use so for tripod use this not an issue except perhaps in climatic conditions where your fingers do not operate the ‘touch’.

Screen angle

This may feel quite minor, but what does somewhat affect useability in the field is the screen angle: The design of the back is close to the original film magazine of the 500 series cameras. It is beautiful but… the screen slopes, and hinges in one direction only. This is perfectly fine if you only shoot in landscape format, or use it on a 500 series or shoot square format. As soon as you shoot portrait then it becomes quite disorienting. I am not the only one to find it much harder to compose because the angle of the screen leaves you looking in a different direction to the one you expect. A fully articulating screen could solve this.

Storm over Rum. 38mm 0.3sec @ F16

Tripod solutions

Before going into the field, the biggest problem to solve has been effective and secure coupling of a tripod plate. The 907X is very thin, and although it does have an indent to prevent rotation of the plate there are a very limited number that have the pin in the right place. Arca Swiss have a plate that is for “Classic Leica R” that is secure but ergonomically poor, not matching the camera profile. The best solution is the MC-LS Universal ‘L’ bracket from Really Right Stuff. Elegant and neat, it could have been made for the camera, and it also fits the X2D perfectly.

The 907X is very thin, and although it does have an indent to prevent rotation of the plate there are a very limited number that have the pin in the right place. Arca Swiss have a plate that is for “Classic Leica R” that is secure but ergonomically poor, not matching the camera profile.

Lens Choices

Hasselblad is gradually migrating away from the older style XCD lenses with the newer ‘P’ (Pancake) , ‘V’ (Versatile) and ‘E’ (Exclusive) series. My experience with the new and old lenses is that there is not a bad lens in the bunch, and choice can be made based on the focal length you need. Zoom lenses are limited to older series 35-75mm and newer 20-35mm E series. Long lenses are limited to 120mm Macro and 135mm with matched 1.7x converter. I am comfortable using these lenses stopped down to f/22 as needed for Depth Of Field, despite conventional wisdom suggesting that images should be severely degraded by diffraction.

Personally, I own 25, 38, 55 and 90mm ‘V’ lenses, have owned the 28mm ‘P’, which I replaced with the 25mm; and have tested the 35-75mm XCD.

My most used lens is the 38mm. It is a compact high-quality package. There is a little bit of field curvature to watch out for when focusing, and a tendency to flare a little more than other lenses I have used.

A selection from the more compact 28P/38/45P/55/75P best complement the size and form of the 907x. The 25mm and 90mm V lenses produced some of the finest images I have made, but they are quite large, especially the 25mm vs the 28mm. The 25mm has proved its worth for Aurora work.

Adapted lenses from 6x4.5/6x6/6x7 film era cameras generally work well, but are not compact. Most are now quite aged, and finding a good copy of a well-regarded lens can be challenging.

The Sgurr across the Bay of Laig. 38mm 0.3sec @ F16

Image Quality & Development

I am including these together because there is a lot of debate about how to get the best from the Hasselblad Natural Colour System (HNCS). Like Phase One and its relationship with Capture One it is designed to produce best results from the (in house) remarkably similar-looking Phocus software. You cannot use Capture One with Hasselblad files.

Personally, I have been a Lightroom user for years and am comfortable that I get good results from it. I have done my own comparisons and the power of the additional features in LR far outweigh the small quality or colour differences I thought I could see. The only footnote to that is that LR ‘Camera Standard’ profile is rated as the closest in colour presentation to Phocus. I also use extensively the Tony Kuyper Linear profiles for the Hasselblad cameras with good effect. For images I cannot get quite right in Lightroom I will go to Phocus for initial development before exporting to a .tiff for polishing and cataloguing in Lightroom.

Auto White Balance is uncannily accurate in my opinion, and I almost never have to modify it except to taste. The colours are natural, and greens well handled.

The files from the Hasselblad 100mp sensor and developed in Lightroom are the ‘best’ to my taste from any camera system I have used.

Rum at Sunrise. 38mm 1.4sec @ F16

Summary

I have been using the digital backs in both 50 and 100 variants for an extended period. The 907X remains probably my favourite landscape tool if I am not chasing the light; the simplicity and balance works well for me. It needs to be used on a tripod. The small jewel like lenses are a joy to use, especially the ‘v’ variants with the clutch to manual focus.

After several trips where I tried to double duty the 907X as a handheld camera I felt the keeper rate was too low and I complemented it with an X2D. Same wonderful quality, but hand-holdable due to the excellent IBIS.

: Background – Journey to the CFV 100C

: Dyke swarm punched through Jurassic Sandstone on Laig Beach. 28mm P 1.4sec @ F16

: Bay of Laig. Stitch with 38mm. 8sec @ F16

: A dyke pie crust on Singing Sands 38mm 1/8th sec @ F16

: Bay of Laig – 38mm 4sec @ F22

: Storm over Rum. 38mm 0.3sec @ F16

: The Sgurr across Bay of Laig. 38mm 0.3sec @ F16

: Rum at Sunrise. 38mm 1.4sec @ F16

: Rum from Singing Sands at Dawn. 38mm 3sec @ F16

: Micro Plastic debris Singing Sands. 55mm 1/90th @ F11

: Micro Plastic debris Singing Sands. 55mm 1/90th @ F11

Moving Back to Analog

By Przemyslaw Ziemacki | April 22, 2025

I started my nature photography in 2006. My first SLR was a Nikon F75, which I still have and use. I started with color negatives and pretty quickly changed for diapositives. However, it was a time when digital cameras became popular, and pretty soon I decided to buy one. It was Nikon D80. For a short period, I used both analogue and digital SLR, but with each photo taken, I preferred the DSLR more. I appreciated the clarity and sharpness it gave. My financial condition allowed me to operate on kit-lenses then and another good reason to rely on DSLR was its better kit lens.

Over time, I bought another DSLRs and lenses, including a full frame body. However, a few years ago (2020, I believe), I was browsing my old photos and I discovered that analog photos may have been a bit less sharpen etc., but had aesthetic (mainly colors) and mood that was much different from the digital ones. It was as easy to notice as there were photos from the period. I used both systems, so I was able to compare similar motives photographed in almost the same conditions. I also realized that the analog look made much better impression on me. Maybe I had to grow up to discover it, while in fact, there was nothing new to discover. I must have known it from the beginning. I was just focused on something else when I bought my first DSLR years earlier.

Nikon D7200

Pentax 67, Fuji Velvia 50

But in the third decade of XXI century I appreciated the depth, picturesque and smoothness of analog film. I was also curious if it is possible to achieve the same results on DSLR. I suspected that I had done something wrong in post processing. In fact, I did. I learned to do things better, but the result was still different from true analog film. I decided to ask an expert and contacted via e-mail with Jack Dykinga.

His answer was very clear—as I expected—that digital and analog techniques are different, and it is not possible to achieve the same results. He emphasized that he had thought digital cameras were better than analog, so he didn't share my delight.

Soon after "rediscovering" analog world I noticed that the market for analog films got shorter and shorter, and many films were withdrawn from production. It meant that artists (photographers in particular) were not able to achieve the results their predecessors were.

He just agreed that the exact analog results weren't possible to get with digital cameras and vice versa.

I decided to come back to analog cameras. From then on, I use both systems again. As for analog cameras, I use Nikon F75 and Pentax 67. Soon after "rediscovering" analog world I noticed that the market for analog films got shorter and shorter, and many films were withdrawn from production. It meant that artists (photographers in particular) were not able to achieve the results their predecessors were. I thought that it was a new situation.

And the situation was non-intuitive while most people probably consider the present day as times of possibilities like no other in the world history. But this is the consequence of mass production and we should realize it.

As for my analog photography I have motives and seasons that I prefer to photograph this way. I also have plans to buy another analog SLR and manual lenses. I can write a few words about the particular photos and their aesthetics I like.

Nikon D7200

Pentax 67, Fuji Velvia 50

How did you find going back to film?

In two words: very well. I have never been the kind of photographer who takes a thousand images per session, so I did not feel bad about counting frames. I also did not have problems with not being able to watch the results right away. However, even today I sometimes forget which camera I use and I catch myself trying to watch a just taken photo on an analogue camera. It is always a time to smile but without discomfort. As I do not have knowledge of developing slides and I do not have the right place to do this, the thing which makes me feel unsafe is that there are very few reliable and professional photo labs handling the E6 process.

I have never been the kind of photographer who takes a thousand images per session, so I did not feel bad about counting frames. I also did not have problems with not being able to watch the results right away. However, even today I sometimes forget which camera I use and I catch myself trying to watch a just taken photo on an analogue camera

If they finish their business… However, at the moment, the one I am a client of operates very well. The owner has problems with the availability of chemical reagents sometimes. In these cases, I need to be more patient than I used to. As for images themselves, I’m completely satisfied, but I must emphasized that I did not expect better quality from the film in the sense of, for example, sharpness.

What differences in the work flow did you find?

The entire process of the films isn’t perfect in my case. I scan slides with an old Epson flatbed scanner. I haven’t chosen it. The simple thing is my friend has this scanner and I take advantage of his kindness (by the way, not only scanning, Pentax 67 I mentioned earlier is borrowed from him). I’ve never scanned with a high quality drum scanner. On the computer, I work mostly with Photoshop. I try to follow the rule to postprocess as less as possible to get good (expected) results both in analogue and digital photography. I must emphasize that in most cases I do less operations with scanned slides than with files from digital cameras, especially as for separating colours. This situation has two reasons. Firstly, it means that a lot of digital postprocess is done by the film (chemicals) itself. Secondly, I decide to take an analogue photo only when I evaluate that the particular conditions are optimal. As for digital photography, I’m more open to risk with bad conditions and more work on the computer.

Nikon D7200

Nikon F75, Fuji Velvia 50 Pziemacki

What was it about the analog film you liked?

I am enchanted with its aesthetics or – looking for other words – colours and feel of depth. Many photographers who use analogue cameras say how important it is for them to have physical contact with film and all the analogue equipment, for example, the sound of the sliding mechanism. That’s true, it’s nice, but it’s not my priority. I’ve come back to the old days only because of how photographs are.

Has it made you look at your style and adapt?

Rather not I think but to be more objective it would be good someone else evaluates that as well. I haven’t changed from digital cameras to analogue ones. I use the old technology only in favourable conditions and when I want to photograph motives which I suspect would benefit from the aesthetics of photographic films.

Nikon F75, Fuji Velvia 50

How do you choose which camera to take with you?

It’s always a bit of a problem. It would be nice to have a following set with me: two DSLRs, one with a standard zoom, the other one with a telephoto zoom lens, 35 mm SLR with another standard zoom (unfortunately, my Tamron 24-70 doesn’t fully cooperate with Nikon F75 – the body can’t change the aperture so it’s always f/2.8 - rubbish) and Pentax 67 with two prime lenses.

I never take all the staff with me. Sometimes I take the analogue part only, sometimes it’s my full frame DSLR and one of the analogue cameras, sometimes I leave the analogue cameras at home. It depends on the subject and weather conditions mainly, but sometimes just on my mood.

And a tripod naturally. Pretty heavy… So I never take all the staff with me. Sometimes I take the analogue part only, sometimes it’s my full frame DSLR and one of the analogue cameras, sometimes I leave the analogue cameras at home. It depends on the subject and weather conditions mainly, but sometimes just on my mood.

For example, if it’s windy and I’m going to photograph veratrum and I have low ISO slides loaded, I don’t use the analogue cameras. I act similarly when I’m going to photograph wild animals that I know get active after sunset, because even ISO 800 is too low then, and I don’t use higher ISO on film (I’m not even sure about the availability of such films). Generally, there are subjects that I prefer to do on slides, for example, plants (but not macro). One of my most important series last year was to photograph veratrum leaves during the three – to four-month period when they’re open but before the plant has flowers. I like doing it on DSLRs and I love doing it on slides.

: Nikon F75, Fuji Velvia 50

: Nikon F75, Fuji Provia 100

: Nikon F75, Fuji Velvia 50

: Nikon F75, slide

: Nikon F75, Kodak Portra 800

: Nikon F75, Fuji Provia 100

: Nikon F75, Fuji Provia 100

: Nikon F75, slide

: Nikon F75, Fuji Velvia 50

: Nikon F75, Fuji Velvia 50

: Nikon D7200

: Nikon F75 Fuji Velvia 50 Pziemacki

: Nikon D7200

: Pentax 67, Fuji Velvia 50

: Nikon D7200

: Fuji Velvia 50

Issue 325

By Tim Parkin | April 18, 2025

Click here to download issue 325 (high quality, 113Mb)

Click here to download issue 325 (smaller download, 77Mb)

End frame: The Old Pond by Krister Berg

By Bill Ferngren | April 15, 2025

In Search of Visual Balance

At first glance, the image appears simple and minimalistic, appealing in its black-and-white presentation. Upon closer examination, shapes, details, and nuances gradually reveal themselves as the viewer delves deeper into the image. Grass and water lilies float motionless on a mirror-like water surface. A thicker branch structure from a fallen tree, along with more delicate branches in the background, appear as silhouettes against the dark water. However, this apparent simplicity relies on an intuitively composed structure of details. Creating order out of nature’s sometimes random details while maintaining a harmonious composition requires both experience and a sensitivity to form and balance.

When I was asked to write this article about a photograph that had made an impression on me, I chose an image from 2024 created by the Swedish landscape photographer Krister Berg. To understand how this image came to be, it’s helpful to briefly get to know the photographer behind it, so let me begin with a few words about him. For many years, Krister made his living as a professional photographer, working not only as a landscape photographer but also in fields ranging from food and industrial environments to portraits and interiors. Today, photography is a passion and a creative process free from deadlines and client assignments. His images, primarily in black and white, display a distinctive sharpness and refinement that can only be achieved through years of work and development. His mastery of details and contrasts gives his photographs a unique expression and depth that captivates the viewer’s gaze. Much of this comes to life in post-production, where he fine-tunes every element to achieve precisely the balance he seeks, often through the use of tones and contrasts. To perform this final step, a well-balanced and thoughtful visual structure is of course essential.

Beach Aerials

By Theo Bosboom | April 15, 2025

Receding wave on a rock plate, looking like fire, Westfjords, Iceland

When I am asked what is the most inspiring type of landscape for me, I always say the coast without any hesitation. I also love the ruggedness of the mountains, and in my own country, the Netherlands, I can really appreciate the wetland areas of the Rivierengebied. And I also like photographing in forests more and more, now I do it more often.

But the great dynamism of the coast is unparalleled. Whereas in a forest, the trees are still in exactly the same place after a few hours of photographing, and any changes in the landscape are limited to light and atmosphere, coastal landscapes take on a totally different appearance several times a day just by the action of the tides. Especially on rocky coasts, the differences can be enormous. Delicate, sometimes colourful landscapes with rocky corridors and countless tidal pools slowly appear or disappear with the arrival or retreat of the water. And a lot often happens on sandy beaches too: tidal creeks, pools of water and often interesting ridges and sand patterns appear as the tide recedes. Moreover, because of the waves at the beach, there is always the opportunity to add a moving element to your photos, which often makes photos more dynamic and interesting.

If, like me, you have been involved in coastal photography for quite some time, it is occasionally nice to find new angles for this. For me, in recent years, this has partly been in the use of special wide-angle macro lenses when photographing creatures of the intertidal zone (see, for instance, my earlier story on limpets), and secondly, I make much more use of the drone to be able to photograph coastal landscapes from the air.

Torsten Pull – Portrait of a Photographer

By Matt Payne | April 15, 2025

In December, I co-led a workshop to Death Valley with my friend David Thompson (featured in this column back in 2023). As is tradition, we stopped at the well-known Zabriskie Point to get our workshop participants warmed up for a great week of photography. Despite the location’s popularity, it still holds the potential for unique images—if one is willing to work for them.

While we were there, an unfamiliar voice called out to us and introduced himself—Torsten Pull. He had previously messaged me on Instagram, inquiring about my Death Valley plans, as he hoped to meet up.

I had mentioned that our workshops tend to be quite busy, but if we happened to cross paths, we would be sure to say hello. That chance meeting led to a great conversation between David, Torsten, and myself about his photographic journey. Afterwards, David made a remark that stuck with me: "That guy can shoot!" His enthusiasm piqued my curiosity, prompting me to dive deeper into Torsten’s work—and I was thoroughly impressed.

A Collaborative Book about the island of Orasaigh, Uist

By Michael Faint, Stephen Ely & Charlotte Parkin | April 13, 2025

Orasaigh is a collaboration between poet Steve Ely and photographer Michael Faint, inspired by the tidal island of Orasaigh, just off the coast of South Uist at Boisdale. The project reflects their shared response to the island’s landscape and wider themes connected to the area.

Stephen’s poem, while rooted in the place itself, explores broader issues such as rising sea levels, environmental change, history, culture, and class. Michael’s photographs offer a strong visual impression of the island, standing alongside the poem as a distinct but connected perspective.

Together, the poem and images offer a thoughtful and layered view of Orasaigh, presenting the island as both a fragile and hopeful symbol in the face of current global challenges.

What’s your connection to Orasaigh on the Isle of South Uist?

SE: I’ve been holidaying once or twice a year in South Uist since 2008. I’ve come to love the place – landscapes, wildlife, people, language, culture - and in 2019, I unexpectedly found myself writing about it.

MF: I’ve lived and worked in South Uist since 2019. Most of my photographs over the last six years are of Uist. My website, ansolasoir.com, is a translation of The Golden Light to Gaelic.

Both: Tell us more about how you two connected and how the project came about.

SE: After I’d written the poem, it struck me that it was very visual and that it would work well with photographic accompaniment. I found Mike’s website online and was very impressed with his work, which seemed to address landscape in a way congenial with my own approach. At about the same time, the photographer Alex Boyd, who was aware of the poem, recommended Mike to me. Mike and I connected online, and the collaboration developed from there.

MF: Steve dropped me a mail, we had a chat, and he sent the poem over. Once I had read it, I thought that there was a lot to work with and was intrigued by the potential for a collaboration.

Boring Postcards 2

By Keith Beven | April 13, 2025

I’ll declare an interest upfront: I like trees. Trees do good stuff for our environment, they lock up carbon, improve air quality, prettify our towns and cities, and support a myriad of animal and insect life. They also provide building materials, heat our homes and provide the paper for our books and currency… Without wood we would have no Stradivarius violins and cellos, and a host of other instruments. Many of our first infant sleeps are in wooden cots, and our final long sleep is in a wooden box. That’s why I like wood. And trees. And after five years apprenticeship, became a carpenter.” ~John McPherson, 2013¹

If you go back through the more than 300 issues of On Landscape (and the various volumes of the Natural Landscape Photography Award and Landscape Photographer of the Year), there are really rather a lot of images of trees². Some highlights include the Eden valley trees in mist by Mark Littlejohn³; the images of the Fontainebleau forest by Francesco Carovillano⁴; the forests of the Taunus Mountains by Xavier Arnau Bofarull⁵; articles on the Scots Pine, Birch and Rowan trees by Tim Parkin himself⁶; the winter trees of Zion by Wayne Bingham⁷; and many others. Trees are also a frequently recurring subject in the 4x4 series; evidently, they are a pretty popular subject for many landscape photographers.

Looking more widely, photographic images of trees have a long history. A 2018 Exhibition at the V&A Museum in London (Into the Woods: Trees in Photography) was held to mark the 800th anniversary of the Charter of the Forest sealed in 1217 by King Henry III that restored access to forest lands that had been previously used exclusively as Royal Hunting Grounds⁸. The book of the exhibition⁹ provides a useful survey of images of trees from the very earliest days of photography. As early as 1857 the V&A staff photographer, Charles Thurston Thompson (1816-1868), was sent by the Director of the Museum, Henry Cole, to record images of the trees on his estate at Albury Park in Surrey. In the 1860’s Edward Fox (1823-1899) had been taking pictures of trees from the same point in different seasons. A catalogue of 183 images of different species of trees taken by Henry Irving¹⁰ were purchased by the V&A between 1899-1905. Such images were sold and made available in the V&A Library as a resource for artists, providing a basis for realistic illustrations. In France, the celebrated photographer Gustav le Gray (1820-1884) took images of trees at Fontainebleau¹¹ as well as his well-known seascapes. As photography struggled to be recognised as an art form, the pictorialists (such as Alfred Stieglitz, Edward Steichen, C. H. White, A.L. Coburn, and William A. Cadby) often made extensive use of dark masses of trees and woods in their work.

Gustave le Gray, Oak Tree and Rocks, Forest of Fontainebleau, (1849-52) ¹²

Some trees have inevitably become somewhat stereotyped as images: the cherry blossoms in Japan¹³; the tunnel of twisted beech trees at Stranocum in County Antrim¹⁴; the dead black trees backed by immense sand dunes at Deadvlei in Namibia; the minimalism of winter trees standing in snow¹⁵; the ancient bristlecone pine trees in the White Mountains of California with trees up to 5000 years old¹⁶.

Those are still not the oldest trees, however. It is estimated that the Pando grove of quaking aspens in Utah may be more than 9000 years old. This is also thought to be the world’s largest tree in that it consists of about 47000 male clonal stems with a shared root systems and covering an area of about 43 ha¹⁷. The UK's oldest tree is thought to be the Fortingall Yew in Scotland, though the estimates of its age range from 1500 to 9,000 years¹⁹.

And talking of stereotypes, there are also the widely reproduced autumn/fall colours of the Aspens, particularly in Colorado and California¹⁸. Well-known Aspen photographers include Ansel Adams and John Sexton (in monochrome ) and Christopher Burkett and Peter Lik (in colour²⁰) and, more recently, the On Landscape contributors Matt Payne²¹ and Charlotte Gibb²². There is also a recent Kozu book by Adam Gibb entitled Aspen²³. The theme is so popular that guides to the best Aspen sites in Colorado and other states can be found on the Internet²⁴. Back in the UK, books can be found describing exceptional trees²⁵ as well as species guides. There is also, it seems, an award for tree of the year²⁶.

The Skipinnish Oak, near Lochabar in Scotland, UK Tree of the Year 2024

Much has been written on the composition of taking images of trees. This requires reducing the three dimensional complexity of a tree or groups of trees to something that creates interest in 2 dimensions. Notable articles include those by Tim Parkin and Dav Thomas²⁷ (who also produced the book With Trees²⁸).

It helps to have not too much sun, so as to avoid too much contrast, and some mist in the background to make the foreground trees stand out more, apart from that it seems that pretty well anything goes.

This can be seen in the works of single photographers, such as Lee Friedlander in his (monochrome) images in the books Flowers and Trees from 1981 and Frederick Law Olmstead Landscapes in 2008²⁹. While known for his innovative framing and composition Friedlander seems to revel in the complexity of mundane “thickets”, and it is sometimes difficult to see what might have attracted his eye in some of the images. Another notable photographer to revel in the complexity of groups of trees and thickets is Jem Southam in his Painter’s Pool series³⁰.

Jen Southam, The Painter’s Pool, 03 February 2002

There are now so many images of trees as a sub-genre of landscape photography that it could be argued that they have become a little boring, even if excellently lit and excellently framed and with mist in the background. However, I am hoping that this might perhaps be another example of how images that to many people would be seen individually as boring postcards might become more interesting as a series (see my first Boring Postcards article for On Landscape in Issue 316³¹). The Friedlander and Southam images are drawn from such series, even if individual prints have also been collected.

Thus, following such celebrated examples, I will take the risk of presenting another (and assuredly last!) series of Boring Postcards, this time in monochrome and taken at the edges of Swiss forests where there are often complex thickets but also areas where the trees and understory are actively managed.

They are drawn from a series of images in 6x12 format, all of which have been taken while walking through the Swiss countryside, mostly in the plateau region, but also in the Jura, pre-Alps and Alps. Switzerland does not lack trees below the treeline, even in more agricultural areas.

There are many copses, woodlands and forests revealing their edges as the walker passes. This then results in a plethora of choices for such a series, and the need to decide on what makes a happy composition (especially when that mist is lacking!). In thinking about this there does not seem to be a simple answer but searching out compositions has the advantage that it can inspire focus on your surroundings as you walk³². Some have an element that stands out; others do not. Some have foreground interest and depth, others a rather flat plane. Some are rather complex, others have only relatively simple elements. It seems that indeed anything goes (or at least you can decide for yourself if any of the compositions work for you or whether, as with any collection of Boring Postcards, you just quickly swipe to the end). As before, this is only a selection of the images, more may be found here³³.

References

In comments on the exhibition Among Trees of the photographs of Iain Sarjeant as reported in issue 47 of On Landscape at https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2012/10/an-exhibition-iain-sarjeant-among-trees/
Searching on “trees” in On Landscape” brings up at least 500 results including Tim Parkin’s Composition Photographing Trees - https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2011/05/composition-photographing-trees/
E.g. https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2015/08/an-approach-to-composition/; http://marklittlejohnphotography.com, especially the Secret Life of Trees and winter in the Eden Valley galleries
https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2023/12/voices; https://www.francescocarovillano.com
https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2023/11/where-the-trees-live/
https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2016/02/the-scots-pine ; https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2016/09/birch-tree-landscape-photography; https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2016/11/rowan-trees-photography/
https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2020/08/winter-trees-zion-national-park
See the Wikipedia article at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charter_of_the_Forest#:~:text=The%20Charter%20of%20the%20Forest,in%20force%20for%20centuries%20afterwards.
Book by Martin Barnes with the same title, V&A Publishing, 2019.
Not much seems to be known about Henry Irving. The V&A cites records from the Royal Photographic Society that suggest that he lived in Lancashire in 1899 and moved south in the early twentieth century. He was based in Horley, Surrey, until around 1913, when he is recorded as living in Letchworth, Herts. He exhibited at the RPS between 1899 and 1915. He took many images of trees in the counties around London.
For more about the history of Fontainebleau, see the 2017 article in On Landscape by Herbert Ascherman at https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2017/05/forest-de-fontainebleau/
For example, some of the images of Shinzo Maeda in his book Trees and Grass were published by Taschen.
Known as the Dark Hedges and apparently now made famous by appearing as the King’s Road in the Game of Thrones series
Such as those of Michael Kenna in Japan and Korea and the first part of the book by Abbas Kiarostami, Images Still and Moving, published by Hatje Cantz Verlag in 2012 https://www.hatjecantz.com/products/17198-abbas-kiarostami
See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ancient_Bristlecone_Pine_Forest
See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pando_(tree)
According to Wikipedia, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fortingall_Yew
Searching for “aspen in fall images” results in 37,700 images on Istock and 14534 on Getty Images.
For example, https://www.moma.org/collection/works/53646; https://www.moma.org/collection/works/50417 and the John Sexton book Listen to the Trees published by Bullfinch Press in 1994, http://www.johnsexton.com/Listen_to_the_Trees.html
For example, https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2021/10/christopher-burkett-radiant-mountain-aspen/
https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2022/01/matt-payne/; https://www.mattpaynephotography.com/gallery/aspen-tree-photos/
https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2017/06/charlotte-gibb/; https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2017/05/endframe-dancing-aspen-charlotte-gibb; http://www.charlottegibb.com
https://www.kozubooks.com/books-new/aspen
For example, https://www.mickeyshannon.com/articles/colorado-fall-colors-photography-locations;
https://www.randybottphotography.com/gallery/colorado-fall-color; and even in Forbes magazine: https://www.forbes.com/sites/brittanyanas/2024/08/19/top-places-to-see-autumn-colors-in-colorado
E.g. https://harpercollins.co.uk/products/the-great-british-tree-biography-50-legendary-trees-and-the-tales-behind-them-mark-hooper?variant=39880371634254 ; https://shop.nationaltrust.org.uk/50-great-trees-of-the-national-trust.html ;
The Skipinnish Oak was chosen by public vote from a shortlist of 12 organised by the Woodland Trust.
https://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/trees-woods-and-wildlife/british-trees/tree-of-the-year. It is interesting to wonder how the votes might have been influenced by the images shown for each of the shortlisted trees (though there are no links from the shortlist to images now). The Woodland Trust also maintains an inventory of ancient trees in the UK (209,000 so far) for which submissions are invited. The Skipinnish Oak will represent the UK in the European Tree of the Year contest in 2025.
See Tim Parkin’s Composition: Photographing Trees (https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2011/05/composition-photographing-trees) ; and Dav Thomas Seeing the Wood for the Trees (https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2013/05/seeing-the-wood-for-the-trees);
Dav Thomas, With Trees, published by Triplekite Publishers in 2013. (https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2013/07/with-trees)
Frederick Law Olmstead (1822-1923) was an American landscape architect famous for co-designing many well-known urban parks with his partner Calvert Vaux, including their first project of Central Park in New York see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederick_Law_Olmsted. Lee Friedlander was first commissioned to photograph the parks in 1988 but continued the project for more than 20 years.
Jem Southam, The Painter’s Pool, Nazraeli Press, 2007, see also https://hymancollection.org/bodies-of-work/jem-southam-the-painters-pool/
https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2024/11/boring-postcards
See my article on walking at https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2024/06/the-road-not-taken
This is a Blurb print-on-demand book that can also be found via the https://www.blurb.co.uk/b/12206848-les-bords-de-la-for-t website. All the images can be previewed for free.

The Photographer’s Extended Mind

By Alberto Rodriguez-Garcia | April 11, 2025

The mind - with its sometimes harrowing complexity, contradictions, and chaos - is very much not a stable entity. This is not something we can change. When we look for it, or even when we don’t, we can feel that impermanence within and without, inside of us and in the environment we exist in. We wade through a thick, inescapable reality that is too thin to grasp but too thick to run through, only vaguely aware of the universe of changes occurring to and around us every moment.

Though it can be destabilizing to think of ourselves as untethered, malleable, and inconsistent when we are usually desperate for the opposite, the greatest powers within our minds are accessible only through the process of change. As the world changes, we change, in turn changing the world as we experience it, leading to even more internal change - and all of this happens without direction or control in the mushy core of our heads.

Neuroplasticity, the ability of the brain to restructure and change itself based on new stimuli and experiences, is a biological necessity to manage and channel the inherent chaos and unpredictability of the external world towards greater potential for surviving, reproducing, and, eventually, dying.

It follows that the brain can be thought of not only as a mediator of experience but also as being a product of it. In the philosophy of mind, this is called externalism: the idea that the conscious mind is the result of what is going on inside and outside of the brain (this may sound fairly obvious, since most of us don’t think of ourselves as totally separate from the not-us); the opposite view, internalism, argues that all of the mental processes we experience are determined only by what happens inside the brain.

As nature photographers, it’s difficult to accept that everything that we experience - those elevated emotions of awe, inspiration, wonder, mystery, and joy that can appear while exploring beautiful natural places - are generated illusions of the brain without reference to a physical reality outside of us (what internalism argues); we tend to experience things as an externalist might: our minds and bodies creating reality and meaning through a participation with the environment.

Within externalism, there is a theoretical progression from passive to active participation. A passive externalist recognizes that the external environment affects the contents of consciousness, that we are influenced by the environment. The active externalist goes one step further and says that the external environment can actually be part of our minds. Andy Clark and David Chalmers coined this active externalism in a landmark paper called “The Extended Mind”, putting forward a hypothesis that the realm of the mind can extend from the brain and body to the external environment, that the mind can be thought of as being physically manifest in the outside world.

The active externalist goes one step further and says that the external environment can actually be part of our minds. Andy Clark and David Chalmers coined this active externalism in a landmark paper called “The Extended Mind”, putting forward a hypothesis that the realm of the mind can extend from the brain and body to the external environment, that the mind can be thought of as being physically manifest in the outside world.

Not to be confused with panpsychism - the view that all things have a mind or a mind-like quality - the Extended Mind Hypothesis has certain requirements or conditions that should be met before one can consider one’s mind to have satisfactorily and categorically laid nest beyond themselves.

Calculators, maps, watches, even cameras, can be part of our minds because we use them as if they were part of it, reliably, intuitively, and constantly, engaging with them to create an ”extended system, a coupling of biological organism and external resource,” according to the now-famous paper. Our major cognitive system, the brain, expands outward and adds additional tools and processes to its repertoire, allowing us to reshape our minds and have new (or sometimes replicated) mental experiences via the environment that we interact with. A coupled system is created through a reliable and reproducible process that, over time, becomes so intuitive that it is effectively a cognitive process in and of itself. According to the experts, the requirements for this are: functional equivalence: the external resource must function in a similar way to internal cognitive processes and should be directly involved in the process; accessibility and availability: the external resource must be readily accessible and available to the mind when needed; reliability: the process must be repeatable and the output trusted as being accurate or representational; intentionality: there must be an intention to use the external resource as a part of the cognitive process.

As the authors explain, “If, as we confront some task, a part of the world functions as a process which, were it done in the head, we would have no hesitation in recognizing as part of the cognitive process, then that part of the world is (so we claim) part of the cognitive process.” In other words, if we replace or add a cognitive process (e.g.. doing multiplication) through the environment (a calculator) that we could perform ourselves (assuming one could, which for me might be a stretch), then the cognitive process of multiplication now lives partially outside of the brain (in this case, the calculator).

The calculator performs a cognitive process - multiplication - and is able to give the same output as a purely in-brain version of the process would produce; the only difference between an extended mind and a non-extended one is the location of the cognitive process - if there is a cognitive step done using an external-to-us resource then, congrats, your mind is now extended. A cognitive process can be as simple as moving your arm or as complex as abstract thought. All of this is, of course, fairly obvious. Every day, we use tools that warp and extend our minds in a multitude of directions: computers, cars, instant messaging, digital maps, and all kinds of software. Though our minds are not in everything, they are exploring further and further than ever before.

The photographer’s extended mind means that our photographic resources - the camera, lenses, tripod, etc - can transcend, through an investment in the combination of time, conscious effort, and practice, from a mechanical tool to, in the literal sense of the words, a part of our minds, stretching into the environment through our (camera) bodies. How does this happen, and when do we know if our minds have extended into our cameras? And most importantly, why does this matter at all?

Going back to the four requirements of proper extension (functional equivalence, accessibility/availability, reliability, and intentionality), we can see how this translates to the experience of making images. The camera is performing a function that the human eye is known for: directing and processing light; if you are like me, the camera at times is too available/accessible; and modern technology has made cameras exceedingly reliable too; which means that the main thing we need to focus on is our intentions in using our cameras. There is no wrong intention, generally speaking - the important thing is for there to be some intention at all. To intend to use a camera as a part of our mind is where a mechanical process has the potential to transform into a creative one, depending on what parts of your mind you are extending. Whether we are attempting to record the external (“capturing a moment”) or we are attempting to record the internal (“expressive photography”) does not determine the extent or success of the mind’s extension, but only demonstrates what is being extended from the brain to the camera. It is important to be aware of our cognitive objectives. Are we using the camera to replicate sight, or to be able to have a vague re-experiencing of this moment, or to translate meaning from the things that we see? For most of us, the answer may include all of the above. For the artist, the priority should be the latter - the observation and translation of internal meaning from external experiences.

Regardless of intent, the camera, like any other human tool, reaches its maximum potential for action when a user can wield it with the charm of intuition, when the four requirements merge.

An intuitive relationship, whether with an inanimate object or with a person, is one where the thoughts about the relationship - about what one should or should not do, about the consequences of actions, about right and wrong, about the value and meaning of the relationship - dissolve into a bright abyss of confidence that cannot be manufactured but which must be earned via the virtues of patience, persistence, and open-mindedness.

Over time as one becomes more familiar with the intimate nuances of the not-you and the physical-intellectual-emotional connection inherent in any relationship, the internal struggle and fight to make sense of it all slowly erodes, and so do the doubts and confusions and expectations and frustrations that we sub/conciously harbor inside of us. The result is that the not-you ends up becoming a part of you, in a sense. It is part of your nature because it does not require you to deviate from what your body and mind know to do; directions are unnecessary. Of course this all sounds exceptionally straightforward, but as anyone who has invested in themselves to this degree knows: it’s not easy, and it’s a lifelong pursuit. And the harsh truth is that no matter how patient, persistent, and open-minded you are, how much you practice and invest, there is an asymptotic illusion called perfection that teases and motivates. “Practice makes perfect,” they say, wholly deceptively; what it does make is intuition, and that is good enough.

Just like how we don’t have to think about how to breathe, how to blink, how to swallow, how to laugh, how to digest, how to cry, or how to walk, we should not have to think about which buttons do what or what will happen if we press the shutter. This is how our biological system becomes coupled with our camera: we repeat certain motions - this dial controls shutter speed, this one aperture, that one ISO; and this button means I make a (usually) mediocre image - with predictable results. At a certain point, we know not only what the dials do and how to use them, but we don’t need to expend any resources to remember these facts. It all starts to become second-nature, and then first-nature. Our mind is in the process of entering the camera, but is also quietly busy, as it always is, changing itself.

The reason the dials are so familiar that we don’t have to consider them anymore goes back to our good friend, neuroplasticity - all of our experiences, whether familiar or completely foreign, pass like a rushing of water over the contours of our brains, creating and destroying rivulets and channels that determine much more than we dare to admit, directing thoughts and behavior and the mind-shatteringly diverse set of actions required to maintain a functional, living body. This is how we become who we are. Whether an experience elicits a misty drizzle or a downpour over the landscape of the mind is complex and, for now, mostly unknowable; but whether a channel is created by one intense experience or by the aid of practice is secondary to the consequence of the changes themselves. And suddenly, intuition is born and the channels and rivulets of a particular set of actions become so deep that information flows uninterrupted from our cells to our environment.

Beautiful and helpful though it is to know that we have the capacity for change built into us, the flip side of this reality is that some patterns, once they have been set by an endless mist or by a downpour, can be stubborn. For an artist, this is dangerous territory: the frightening and despised land of conformity, of habitual thinking, of stagnation. This is why practice, though it is critical to reach intuition, should be intentional to some degree, as it can be easy to practice patterns of behavior or thought that are less than useful or that are counterintuitive to one’s own goals. The point is, again, that we should be aware of what it is we want to expand into, our cognitive objectives, and that the process of intuition is natural but, thankfully, malleable. We can, it turns out, become what we want to be.

The question then becomes: what do we want to be?

Another startling revelation emerges after enough investment in the practice of photography: our minds are being shaped by the camera in return. We begin to see the world differently, like we are somehow part camera, our mind projecting images as though the eyes have adjustable shutter speeds and apertures of their own, influencing what we notice in the external world and what it means to us; a coupled system, a reciprocal influencing, an extension of ourselves. Eventually it starts to feel like we aren’t using a camera at all, like the camera is a physical extension of the hand, mind, and eyes. And through composing with the camera, which is now just a mechanical addition to the body, our minds can extend further still, seeping out like smoke towards the world: moving towards the trees, rocks, grass, water, leaves, mountains, and more, simultaneously expanding and destroying the self through the construction of meaning, revealing what can only be found inside each of us. We become closer to everything that isn’t us by stretching out as far as we can go, further, maybe, than we thought possible.

Through the creation of meaning - through our images - we can extend our mind a little further, to other minds. We offer, if accepted, a peek into our minds, narrowing the gap of understanding between fleshy universes, both minds extending toward each other. That is part of what makes art, and photography, so valuable: the ability to expand yourself just that little bit further, to be seen a little bit more clearly, in return seeing yourself more clearly too.

Again the question tantalizes and begs: what will we see when we become more clear?

Issue 324

By Tim Parkin | March 31, 2025

Click here to download issue 324 (high quality, 142Mb)

Click here to download issue 324 (smaller download, 125Mb)

End frame: The”Awakening Dragon” by Alister Benn

By Astrid Preisz | March 29, 2025

When Charlotte asked me to write an End frame for On Landscape, it didn't take me long to decide which photographer and image to choose. The "Awakening Dragon" by Alister Benn has always been one of my favourites. I first saw it in 2021, and as far as I remember, it didn't have that title back then.

Those of you who know Alister will be familiar with his concept of the five triggers that make us engage with a scene: luminosity, contrast, colour, atmosphere and geometry. He brought this awareness with him from multiple trips to the Gobi Desert, which strongly influenced his relationship with his photography and the way he wants to be in and interact with this world. All these elements are reflected in this image.

When I look at the Awakening Dragon, I might or might not know anything about where and when the photo was taken, what Alister had in mind, what mood he was in, or what was going on in his life. It doesn't matter to me as a viewer.

John Blakemore (1936-2025)

By Tim Parkin, Joe Cornish & Paul Hill | March 29, 2025

I met John Blakemore for the first time at one of the Photographer’s Place workshops in the Peak District. The event was a reincarnation of a series of seminal residential workshops that were run in the Peak District in the 1970s and 80s which were started by Paul Hill. They offered immersive, creative courses led by influential photographers such as Thomas Joshua Cooper and, of course, John Blakemore. Over the course of the two-day workshop, John came across as a delightful combination of philosophical and slyly jocular, at once self-deprecatory but cleverly challenging in his insights.

It was during the afternoon of the second day when I got to appreciate just what a talent he was as a photographer and printer. John had collected the best of his work into an extensive portfolio of prints to take to Birmingham Library, where it was to be held in perpetuity. He said he was sure they’d be fine if we had a chance to get our hands on it before it was taken to the and so, for the remainder of the afternoon, we got our hands on some of the most beautiful examples of printing I’ve ever seen and with an in person discussion on each piece of work as it was passed around the group.

I have to thank Paul Hill for organising this event, and I also have him to thank for allowing us to publish the obituary he wrote for John, which was also published in the British Journal of Photography. I asked a couple of friends who knew John well to contribute their own personal memories of John, which will be included at the end of the article.

Paul Hill

Time plays tricks with the memory, but I think it has been about 50 years since I first saw a photograph by John Blakemore. It was a nude in long grass that I thought was made by French photographer Jeanloup Sieff, much in vogue in the 1960s and 70s and known for wide-angle images of women. Looking back, it is obvious this image was part of the transitional period between John’s documentary work, made in his home city of Coventry, and the meditative landscapes and exquisite still lifes he became renowned for in the latter decades of the 20th century and early years of this century.

When we both started work on the joint Creative Photography diploma course – he at Derby Lonsdale College of HE and me at Trent Polytechnic, Nottingham (now Derby University and Nottingham Trent University) – he sported a hipster-type beard and favoured denim jackets. I mention this because people think of John as a guru and gentle sage with long hair and beard, who always wore a fisherman’s smock and open-toed sandals. Many followed this bohemian fashion, but no one carried it off better than John.

This persona came with an ever-increasing interest in Eastern philosophy and tantric practice (his brother taught yoga in the West Country). But John was not an aloof mystic or guru. He had a sharp, acerbic wit but was also very shy. I remember him telling me that when he started teaching in Derby, he wandered the corridors at the Kedleston Road campus summoning up the courage to face his first class of students.

Abergate, Derbyshire, from Lila, 1978

This will surprise those photography students and workshop attendees at my Photographers’ Place in the Peak District, who clung to his every word as he talked eloquently about his work and sensitively critiqued their photographs for hours. His introspective approach reflected a movement in British photography that sought to use the medium in a more meditative way. Nature and the landscape were the leitmotifs. Spirit of Place was replacing a moment frozen in time. However, from time to time, the black dog descended, and you would not hear from John for a while.

I knew he would emerge when asked to give a talk about his work or run a workshop – which we did, often. John was not a self-promoter. But when someone opened the door and offered a platform, he came alive and entranced his audience with deep philosophical insights and immensely useful tips on how to improve photographically. He also possessed great curiosity and an impressive intellect. An example of this came when Derby offered him a sabbatical in the late 1980s and instead of using the period to work on a new project, he enrolled on the MA Film Studies course at the University of East Anglia.

His renowned large format work surfaced following time spent in Wales in 1968, unsuccessfully running a cafe with Penny (his second wife) after the breakdown of his first marriage. Influenced by the Transcendental Movement and the work of American photographer Minor White, John returned to Wales and the Mawddach Estuary, where he used the natural world to make emotionally deep black-and-white images that were wonderfully gestural and metaphoric, about ideas, not things.

Rocks and Tide, Friog, North Wales, 1977

During mentally challenging periods later, he often took nature indoors and made large format photographs that beautifully chronicled the life cycle of cut tulips in and out of vases and arranged thistles and pampas grass still lifes that reminded me of Roger Fenton’s fruit and flowers prints made 140 years earlier.

Like many photographers of that postwar era, John stumbled on photography before pursuing it professionally, seeing the seminal Family of Man exhibition in the pages of Picture Post while he was doing his National Service as an RAF nurse in Libya in 1956. He recalled in John Blakemore: Photographs 1955–2010 (Dewi Lewis, 2011): “I saw photographs not as speaking of sameness but of difference. Of disparities of wealth and poverty, of war and peace.” He immediately ordered a camera and revelled in the excitement of looking through its lens.

Many see John as an artist who uses a camera, but I always think of him as a photographer who made art. This is not a semantic conceit; it defines a particular empirical practice that is camera-based, where the maker thinks and sees photographically and focuses on making the final print the event, rather than a record of what is in front of the camera. John made his landscape or still life prints with great, almost fetishistic concentration on craft and immaculateness. He was a consummate fine printer, rewarded by transmitting the sensitivities of his seeing into a tangible form.

It was an intensely personal journey as the photographs are emotional and evocative – and an escape from domestic problems and relationship difficulties. From time to time, he came to stay in my caravan in the Peak District and went out alone every day with his trusty MPP 5×4 and tripod. “To be alone in the landscape was a release, a return to the pleasures and pursuits of my childhood which had been lost to me,” he said.

John had left school at 16, going against his parents’ wishes to work on farms in Shropshire, my native county. He would talk about working with horses under the shadow of the iconic Wrekin, a hill near what is now Telford. Up until that time, he had been a city boy. He was born in 1936 into a house without books, but became an avid reader obsessed with birdwatching, drawing and painting. He was influenced by his grandfather who had been a carter (someone who transported goods by cart). Perhaps that is why he always headed for the stables when he came to visit me.

On one of those visits, he came with a handsome young man in his twenties, one of his two sons from his marriage to first wife Sheila. He had not seen him since the youngster had been a child and part of the reconciliation was visiting his photographic world. John was not a mystic in my experience, though he was mysterious. But if you want to discover this complex, gifted and generous person, you need only look at his photographs.

Lathkill Dale, Derbyshire, from 'Lila', 1978

Joe Cornish

I was still an art student when I first came across John Blakemore’s work in the late 1970s. I still have a monograph published by the Arts Council of John’s work at the time, all of it landscape. And although other photographers have guided my own path through the years, it is no exaggeration to say that John’s influence was first, and is still the greatest. You might compare my work to his and find little, apparently, in common (colour vs black & white, wider landscapes vs intimate etc), yet John’s work inspired in me the idea that landscape photography was an artistic calling, in which personal expression was possible.

As time went by my focus became more concerned with earning a living as a working photographer, but with workshops, teaching and public speaking in recent years, I now find the lessons I learned from John’s example resonate as clearly today as the first time I saw his imagery. Only last week I found myself experimenting with a technique directly informed by prints in John’s series, Metamorphoses. I count myself lucky to have met him several times, and came to understand a little of the complexity and humanity that informs his photography. His immense contribution as photographer, printer, educator, thinker and inspiration will stand the test of time.

Afon Gamlan, Wales, 1978

Kyriakos Kalorkoti

Like many others I first met John through photography, he astonished me with the depth of his insight into the psychology behind my landscape images at the time. As our friendship developed we had many wide ranging rewarding discussions: he was often amusing, always considerate, clear and itellectually sharp. These qualities shine through his writing.

On one occasion I bought a rather nice loaf of bread on the way to visit; as soon as it was unwarpped out came his camera to capture its wonder, eating could wait! I spent many happy times with a view camera in his beloved garden, too busy to notice that he was photographing me at the same time. Later on he presented me with a beautiful hand made book of the photographs with text in his characteristic handwriting, a typical generous gesture which I treasure. Many of his wonderful prints adorn the walls of our house, another treasure.

We know the day of parting will come but always hope "not yet". When it does come, the richer the friendship the deeper is the grief but the greater is the consolation from the good fortune of having had such a friend. Thank you John, my dear friend.

Stand before the World, 1976

More about John

We were lucky to engage John to speak at our event in the Lake District. I’ve published the recording on YouTube and highly recommend watching.

If you want to find out more about John, you could also watch the piece recorded for Birmingham Library.

You can see more of our interviews and articles about John Blakemore via our tag link https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/tag/john-blakemore/.

Any Questions, with special guest Rachael Talibart

By Rachael Talibart, Tim Parkin & Joe Cornish | March 27, 2025

The premise of our podcast is loosely based on Radio Four's “Any Questions.” Joe Cornish and I (Tim Parkin) invite a special guest to each show and solicit questions from our subscribers.

Brendan Devlin

By Brendan Devlin & Michéla Griffith | March 25, 2025

Consciously or not, we invariably loop back on early interests and experiences in our photographic subject matter. In Brendan Devlin’s case, this is the woods and shoreline of his childhood, and in particular, the passage of time, the forgotten histories—the enduring and ephemeral elements. More than a theme, this is a process too. Brendan has spent 15 years observing and photographing the changes occurring around Connecticut’s Oxbow, close to his home and that of many others. Looking the location up on an aerial photograph, you may be surprised at just how close this apparent wildness is to domesticity.

The enjoyment for Brendan lies at either end of the process—making the photo outdoors, slowly, and in printing, for which history crops up again in the processes that he most enjoys using.

Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what you went on to do?

I was born in New Haven, Connecticut, and grew up in a town just up the coast called Branford. As a kid I had a keen interest in both art and science; I loved to draw as well as conduct my own crude scientific experiments. I spent a lot of time exploring the woods surrounding my house and the tidal pools at the shore. As I grew older, I developed an interest in playing and recording music. I studied Astronomy at a college in western Massachusetts. I stayed in the area after college and eventually got a job in the rare book and manuscript trade, where I have remained for most of my career.

How did you become interested in photography, and what kind of images did you initially set out to make? How much time are you now able to devote to your photography?

Throughout my childhood, I developed a penchant for documenting my surroundings, whether it was through drawing, taking photographs or making audio recordings.

My mom was our family photographer, and my first photos were taken with her Instamatic and Polaroid cameras. When I was around 7, my dad brought me a copy of Astronomy Magazine, and I became obsessed with figuring out how the pictures of celestial objects were taken. I had looked through backyard telescopes, and the dim, grey, ghostly views were a far cry from the rich, detailed, colorful vistas printed in the magazine. To my surprise, you didn’t need to be a scientist at a large observatory to do it. Ordinary people did it from their backyards. I learned that a camera could do more than just freeze an event like a birthday party or family vacation; it could reveal things that could not be seen with your eyes.

When I was around 11, my father got a 35mm camera (Ricoh KR-10). I immediately commandeered it (sorry, Dad) and began making attempts to capture the night sky. This was the start of my lifelong journey with cameras. At first, I was extremely unsuccessful. I remember being happy just to have anything show up in the prints. During this period, while I took a lot of terrible photos, I began to learn about the essential rudiments of photography, like aperture and exposure, etc.

My Photographic Process

By Benjamin Dimmitt | March 22, 2025

In his first article, Benjamin took a look at the environmental issues at The Chassahowitzka National Wildlife Refuge. In 2004, he began a project, Primitive Florida, photographing landscapes in Florida that I felt were vulnerable to development, rising seas and worsening storms. In his second article he writes about the book publishing process.

Stump & Dead Trees, 2015

My mother was an artist. She often used a camera to make studies for her paintings and drawings. Most of her work was abstract which, I believe, helped me to see the essence of what was in front of my lens. I learned to see in terms of line, shape, form and tone. She gave me a Pentax 35 mm camera for my sixteenth birthday. We had many enlightening discussions in her studio about composition, the artist’s gaze and how to locate and render what was most important in a landscape. I believe that I learned more from her than I did in many of my photography classes.

I am not alone in believing that an artist’s best work involves a subject that he or she feels most passionately about. In my case, that would be the wetlands of Florida and the forests and mountains of North Carolina, where I now live.

Primarily, I photograph with a medium format SLR film camera that I bought and used nearly forty years ago. The oldest photographs in the Chassahowitzka project were made using old 35 mm cameras. Very early on, I photographed from a canoe with a 35 mm camera without a tripod and without getting out of the canoe to photograph. This, of course, did not always yield optimal results. I very quickly evolved and began getting out of the canoe and into the swamp with my Hasselblad and tripod. Alligators, poisonous snakes and very soft creek bottoms all contributed to my changing my approach again. I pivoted to using high speed film (ISO 3200) when photographing from the canoe. I would get out of the canoe with my gear only in places where I could see the creek bottom and could determine that it was firm enough for me, my camera bag and my tripod.

Blue Run Shore, 2014

A great many of the photographs in the project could not have been made without high speed film, careful exposure and development. I mostly use 100 and 400 speed film which allows me flexibility and yields finer grain negatives. Utilizing several different types of film makes for days of film processing once I return home.

I really preferred photographing on drier ground where I could walk more freely in the sawgrass savannas and remaining hardwood forests without all the logistical concerns.

Early in the project, I decided to rephotograph scenes that I had photographed as much as 36 years earlier to help depict the progress and speed of the coastal inundation and environmental ruin.

As my project continued and the saltwater moved inland, these hardwood forests grew thinner, leaving only the more salt-tolerant palm trees.

Early in the project, I decided to rephotograph scenes that I had photographed as much as 36 years earlier to help depict the progress and speed of the coastal inundation and environmental ruin. These diptychs were difficult to produce for several reasons. For one, my old cameras don’t have G.P.S. to guide me to the exact location of my archival photograph. Most often, I used the trees in the earlier photograph to help position myself for the follow up photograph. Unfortunately, the deforestation caused by rising sea levels had killed many of these locator trees. When I did find the locator trees, it was a gut punch to see my archival photograph next to the now ruined landscape that it depicts. These side by side photographs are very powerful and often provoke a gasp when I do presentations.

Dead Tree Hosting Orchid & Air Plant, 2015

Colonnade, 2012

Creating a Book

Around eight years ago, I attended two different portfolio reviews with reputable New York City photography gallerists. I was advised straightforwardly that my climate change project should be a book. They both liked the work but said they couldn’t sell the prints because very few collectors want to acquire photographs of environmental ruin. I liked the idea of a book as the medium for this project but I had no idea how to go about publishing a book. After a few dead ends, a friend steered me to the University of Georgia Press in 2020. They were enthusiastic about my Chassahowitzka project.

I liked the idea of a book as the medium for this project but I had no idea how to go about publishing a book. After a few dead ends, a friend steered me to the University of Georgia Press in 2020. They were enthusiastic about my Chassahowitzka project.

Canoe and Cabin 1988, 2020

This was my first book, and it was all new to me. I was assigned an editor and learned how to write a good book proposal. Once the proposal was accepted, I began further research on global warming, sea level rise and saltwater intrusion. Finding four contributing writers who would take instruction was not easy, but I succeeded. They included a marine biologist in Florida who had used my re-photographic diptychs in his studies.

Once the proposal was accepted, I began further research on global warming, sea level rise and saltwater intrusion. Finding four contributing writers who would take instruction was not easy, but I succeeded.

While writing my parts of the book and herding my writers, I was also making work scans of my negatives, getting cheap prints made of those scans for sequencing, laying out prints on every surface in my studio and finding image sequences that resonated with me. I was also driving down to Florida to make more photographs in the swamp so that I would have the most up-to-date photographs for the book.

The image selection and image sequence were all my decisions. This really was the most fun and engaging part of the process for me. I had photographs spanning forty-five years spread out everywhere. At the end of the day, I would make a quick video of the arrangement, turn off the lights and walk out. The following morning I would start from scratch again. I got to know all the images very well, who they played well with who and which needed to be alone. Late in this process, I asked the press for two four-page gatefold spreads to help illustrate the impact of the sea level rise. The gatefolds were approved without hesitation.

Lower Crawford Creek 1988, 2014

Once all the image choices were made, I had my negatives drum scanned and settled down to weeks and weeks of file preparation. Working on your image files at 100% in Photoshop on a big monitor is another very good way to learn about your images and how they feel, and how well they work with each other.

Once all the image choices were made, I had my negatives drum scanned and settled down to weeks and weeks of file preparation.

This also gives you an opportunity to live with and become comfortable with your images and their sequence.

The publisher’s book designer was hands off until the end. At that point, we discussed possible book cover images, duotone colors and minor tweaks like image sizes, full-bleed photographs and printing across the gutter. She and I went through the printer’s proofs and discussed sharpening and then, several months later, I had boxes and boxes of my book.

An Unflinching Look: Elegy For Wetlands was published by the University of Georgia Press in 2023, and details of how to purchase the book can be found on his website.

: Stump & Dead Trees, 2015

: Blue Run Shore, 2014

: Dead Tree Hosting Orchid & Air Plant, 2015

: Ruined Forest

: Colonnade, 2012

: Cabin 1987, 2021

: Canoe and Cabin 1988, 2020

: Lower Crawford Creek 1988, 2014

: Creekside 2011, 2021

: Downriver 1986, 2020

: Jerry’s Prairie 2014, 2022

: Kitchen 2004, 2019

: Roof View 2006, 2022

: Upriver 2004, 2021

: Upstream 1987, 2021

: View Downstream 2004, 2022

A New Found Love of the Landscape

By Mark Littlejohn | March 19, 2025

I remember back in 2019, talking to someone about the last few years that I’d spent working on the Ullswater Steamers. They asked me what I thought of it after spending so many years as a Detective. I replied that “After 30 years in the police, 26 years of which was as a detective and the last ten years of those tracking down paedophiles, I didn’t dislike people so much until I started working in tourism”, which might have been stretching the truth slightly, but only slightly.

And yet, running photography tours over the last few years, I’ve met so many lovely new people, and I don’t think I’ve felt the urge to wrap any of them in thick anchor chains and plunge them headfirst into the depths of a cold, dark lake somewhere.

Why is that? It's not that I’ve mellowed. Because I don’t think I have. Is it because landscape photographers tend to be cut from the same cloth? I have fond memories of the On Landscape “Meeting of Minds” conferences at Rheged. Swathes of like like-minded people who got on with each other. Smiling and laughing at the same things. We mostly had the same politics as well. If I’m allowed to mention politics here. So what quality is it that we share, apart from our good looks and lovely personalities. Empathy for the world around us would be my guess. I’ve always thought that if you feel no emotion for your subject, then no one looking at your images is going to feel any emotion.

The landscape that we love to photograph is a living thing. But in order to fully see its beauty we have to empathise with it. To care about it and all its little foibles. I started into landscape photography because of a new found love of the landscape. The photography was secondary. I just wanted to capture all that beauty that previously only existed in my head.

It matters not a jot if your photography is representational or more creative, whether you take big pictures or little pictures. It doesn’t matter how we capture that love. The equipment we use is superfluous. It's what’s inside us that counts.That care we feel for whatever it is that’s in front of the camera and how our individuality interprets it. Which in turn leads to the variety of images you see out on a daily basis via social media, websites, magazines etc.

Love takes many different forms, after all. But, having mentioned politics earlier, I’m now wondering if socialists or capitalists make for the best photographers? I’m guessing that the capitalist will have the better camera.

But I’m not going to guess who will make the best photograph. I’ve been out with carpenters and merchant bankers. And they’ve all shared that same love, that shared empathy, for each other and for their surroundings. Exactly the sort of people to restore your faith in humanity after several years of going in the opposite direction.

Issue 323

By Tim Parkin | March 15, 2025

Click here to download issue 323 (high quality, 96Mb)

Click here to download issue 323 (smaller download, 47Mb)

End frame: Mussels in the Sand by Theo Bosboom

By Birgit Potthoff | March 13, 2025

It's a great honor for me to have been asked by On Landscape to write an End-Frame article. I didn't have to think long about which photographer to choose. Theo Bosboom is one of the most well-known nature photographers. I've known him for many years.

Theo is constantly developing long-term projects. He travels long distances and conducts intensive research into unknown locations, which he visits repeatedly. For Theo, it's a given not to disclose his locations to protect the environment. It's certainly difficult for a Dutch nature photographer living in a densely populated country to find untouched nature. He doesn't leave the European continent when looking for subjects. In this way, he wants to protect both the climate and the flora and fauna. Despite the decline in nature, he continues to find topics that are important to him.

It's difficult to bring a picture by "Theo Bosboom" to the attention of a very knowledgeable audience. Nevertheless, I chose a relatively unknown work so that I could formulate my own thoughts without being influenced.

"Mussels in the Sand" fits perfectly with his observation of limpets, goosebumps, and barnacles. Focusing on mussels, which are very familiar to all of us, is certainly a challenge.

At first, I wondered why Theo gave his picture a relatively simple, almost banal-sounding title. Without ever having seen the picture, the name sounds rather sober, and I'm amazed that he pays attention to mussels that are "a dime a dozen." I've looked at this picture several times and now understand why I was so captivated by it, and what makes mussel formations so special.

The picture appears like a puzzle with many pieces, because the individual, vertically arranged mussels all have a fixed place in the composition. They sorted themselves out in a sense in their arrangement. In the center of the picture stands a large mussel, enclosed in an almost circular shape by countless similar mussels. The mussels outside this catchment area turn away from the center and seem to be seeking a new arrangement. The initially rigid formation, with defined spacing, appears to be in motion. The abstract image with a vertical view of the scene is thus a snapshot, a special situation that does not repeat itself. With the next wave, or at the latest after the next tide, the colorful stones are rearranged and sorted again due to the strong current.

Viewers familiar with Theo's puzzle-like paintings will recognize his view of the world. They always find order with different natural materials. Often these are leaves, stones, or, as in this example, clusters of mussels.

The strong contrast between the black and blue mussels and the light, partly transparent stones makes the eye jump between the shells. The dark color of the colonies contrasts with the orange sand bed. The subject was photographed fresh and colorfully in a wet state, so that the slender shells appear like mirrors, reflecting the shimmering sediment on the shell halves.

The subject was photographed fresh and colorfully in a wet state, so that the slender shells appear like mirrors, reflecting the shimmering sediment on the shell halves. The sand is reflected in the shells, and the observer is surprised by this discovery.

Tidal currents dominate the habitat of mussels along the coasts of Portugal. To survive in these regions and avoid being washed out to sea, mussels possess a kind of "superglue." With this adhesive, the mussel can adhere to almost any surface.

With this image, the photographer managed to bring the mussel back into my focus and allow me to examine its life form more closely. Mussels, which are at home in many waters and are sometimes viewed as a burden, are taking on a new meaning. They are therefore no longer a nuisance, spreading species or a food source. Mussels are now shimmering and colorful objects of nature's art.

In this image, Theo doesn't focus on spectacular natural phenomena, but rather captures the special things that any viewer could normally see. He manages to amaze by focusing on the extraordinary nature of an ordinary shell. With this image, Theo opens up new perspectives on our increasingly neglected natural world and encourages us to pause and be curious.

Do you have a favourite image that you would like to write an end frame on? We are always keen to get submissions, so please get in touch to discuss your idea.

Bonnie Lampley – Portrait of a Photographer

By Matt Payne | March 13, 2025

Abstract photography has always held a unique place in visual art. Unlike traditional forms of photography, which aim to capture the world as it appears, abstract photography transcends representation, diving into the essence of texture, shape, light, and emotion. For me, it has always been one of the most expressive sub-genres of photography, offering an opportunity to interpret the world in deeply personal and creative ways. It invites viewers to pause and explore the unexpected, to look closer, and to embrace the mystery of what might not immediately reveal itself. In this spirit, the work of Bonnie Lampley shines brilliantly, offering a distinct and inspiring vision of nature’s abstract beauty.

Bonnie Lampley is a photographer based in Northern California, splitting her time between Shasta County and Mendocino County. Her background as a geologist has profoundly influenced her approach to photography. With a trained eye for noticing details in the natural world—how landforms shape vegetation and water patterns—she brings a layered understanding of nature into her art. Bonnie’s ability to bridge her scientific background with her artistic endeavors allows her to craft photographs that are as thoughtful as they are captivating.

Xavier Lequarré

By Xavier Lequarré & Tim Parkin | March 13, 2025

Xavier's image of the two condor flying above Patagonia really stood out in our Natural Landscape Photograph Awards last year. I saw his website and was again impressed with the range of quality of photography on display and really wanted to find out more. Thanks to Xavier for letting me translate his words into English. If anything reads oddly, it will all be my fault (and googles!) - Tim

Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what you went on to do?

My name is Xavier Lequarré and I am originally from Belgium. At a very young age I developed a taste for travel and exploration. Given my constant enthusiasm, some people described me at the time as a big kid constantly looking for a new treasure.

I found everything fascinating and from a very young age my dearest wish was to share with those around me this beauty that I saw even in the most absurd things like a dilapidated building reflected in an oil stain or in the simplest things in life like a flower that opens.

I admit that today I look back on that time with a little nostalgia because although my love for photography has not changed, I often find myself a little jaded, even uninspired.

Later in this article, I will share with you how my spiritual practice, which is a combination of yoga, meditation, breathing, allows me to continue to see things with a certain freshness despite the years that have passed and the hundreds of thousands of photographs I have taken.

Direct to Plate Photogravure

By Michael Allan | March 11, 2025

Collegiate Peaks Wilderness
Rock Stars

After success with carbon ink printing by Cone Editions, I noticed they had a lot of photogravure classes and I was curious. How would photogravure compare to carbon ink? Does it look different? Would it get more attention? Is it more durable? So off I went to Vermont for a week to learn and make prints by etching steel plates, rubbing ink all over them, and then smashing them into paper. It sounded simple, but the devil was in the details.

Photogravure is a very old art form based on intaglio printmaking. The artist etches a metal plate and the removed metal holds ink which is then pressed hard against wet paper to transfer. Relief printmaking is the opposite. Ink is rolled on the top surface and lightly pressed on dry paper.

There are numerous ways to etch metal, such as hand tools or chemicals. Traditional photogravure uses a film and photosensitive copper plate along with a mesh to form small cells that hold the ink by exposing the plate to ultraviolet light.

Direct to Plate Photogravure uses an Inkjet printer to print an image on a photosensitive steel plate, which is also exposed to ultraviolet light.

The main advantage of Direct to Plate is radically improved resolution of Inkjet printing. The Cone Editions process uses Piezeography and Green Mountain Plates to achieve the highest fidelity prints.

On Engagement with ‘Form’ Part Two

By Douglas Butler | March 8, 2025

[One may] discover how new and beautiful the familiar can be if we actually see it as though we had never seen it before. ~ Joseph Wood Krutch

The local is the only universal, upon that all art is built. ~ John Dewy

In Part One, I offered a roadmap of sorts that I suggest could lead anyone to artistic discovery in expressive image making and creative engagement generally. Here, I explore my journey along that map through my relationship built over years of engagement with a nearby wildlife refuge.

Engagement with Place and Place

Joe Cornish in his masterful Scotland’s Mountains, A Landscape Photographer’s View, described his engagement with Scotland’s “heart and soul . . . its mountainous landscape.” In his introductory essay, Cornish explains that, with respect to his image making, “My goal has been a feeling for place, for mood, depth, intimacy, grandeur, beauty.”

Joe Cornish in his masterful Scotland’s Mountains, A Landscape Photographer’s View, described his engagement with Scotland’s “heart and soul . . . its mountainous landscape.”

His approach to achieving this goal included an examination of his relationships with those places, professing that “I have tried to learn from the mountains, to make pictures that reflect, even in some small degree, their heart and soul (or perhaps more truthfully, mine).”It was through this exploration of and communion with “a landscape both complex and beautiful,” that Cornish explored the edges of his own image making form. He confessed that his exploration of the “wildest edge of edges” had an impact on him and his image making, admitting that “On the way, I have discovered a new level of patience, application and acceptance to fulfill my ideas of what makes a picture,” substantiating with these words and his magnificent images Galen Rowell’s conclusion that “The most interesting parts of the natural world are the edges, places where ocean meets land, meadow meets forest, timberline touches the heights.” Or known meets unknown.

One foundational aspect of form in expressive landscape image making must be place. Place is typically integral to most of the outcomes we landscape photographers seek. Even for intimate landscape images, Place has its place. Ultimately, we strive to present to the viewer our interpretation of, engagement with and emotional responses to the places we go, whether or not we reveal or make recognisable those places in our images. We do this, in part, in order to arouse in the viewer an engagement with and an emotional response to an image—their own interpretation of our experience in that place.

We do this, at a basic level, to transform an image from a deliberate documentary representation of a place into a presentation of our intention to create something more, that is, to make art. Critical to best achieving the presentation of our interpretations to a viewer, image makers must, at a fundamental level, unreservedly engage with the places in which we work. In order to foster and grow our relationships with the places we go, that engagement must go beyond that afforded merely through the intermediaries of camera and lens. As Cedric Wright put it, “to try to cover the relationship of photography to our serious reactions to nature” remains “the most important considerations” when image making. As a result, our relationships with Place and the places we go warrant diligent and continual examination.

Critical to best achieving the presentation of our interpretations to a viewer, image makers must, at a fundamental level, unreservedly engage with the places in which we work. In order to foster and grow our relationships with the places we go, that engagement must go beyond that afforded merely through the intermediaries of camera and lens.

Place is a cornerstone of the form that circumscribes, fundamentally, all outdoor expressive image making. Though exceptions abound, as a documentary instrument, the camera must adhere to a certain, if not nearly comprehensive, fealty to the “reality” of what is encountered on the other side of the lens. Of course, that fealty is fundamentally informed by “how film sees the world” so to speak—a foundational aspect of form. However, because of that fealty, we are bound to a considerable degree within the “reality,” that is, the form, of the places we encounter when image making. From the scenery to weather and atmosphere, to the topography and accessibility, to seasonal changes of rebirth in spring, summer’s boom, the decay of autumn and winter’s icy deprivation, these aspects of place literally frame our efforts.

For those of us who, over time, visit and revisit the same places again and again, we do so in lockstep with the incessant march of entropy, where blemishes of time appear and leave scars that add or take away from the character of the face of the land. Even after we leave with our data, analog or digital, we are bound by the place from which it came as we move to the next phases of attaining the outcomes we desire as image makers. While processing an image one may be able to remove or even add features and qualities lacking in the field, we certainly are not afforded the latitude of J.M.W. Turner or Richard Wilson or Thomas Cole—or any other landscape painter—and must adhere to a relatively great degree to what was or was not present in the field. Exceptions abound to this statement and the degree of allegiance to the “reality” of any given place any image maker carries through to the final image, print or digital, is a wholly personal aspect of form.

Nevertheless, Place is more than the physical space—the landscape—from which we build images. Place encompasses all that is beyond the lens at any given time—including the image maker—and includes one’s relationship and engagement with those places, beyond that of mere image making. It involves not only those things listed above that you can see, but the history of the place, the uses put to it, if any, and any threat or benefit those uses pose to a place.

Place encompasses all that is beyond the lens at any given time—including the image maker—and includes one’s relationship and engagement with those places, beyond that of mere image making. It involves not only those things listed above that you can see, but the history of the place, the uses put to it, if any, and any threat or benefit those uses pose to a place.

Place for the expressive outdoor image maker includes the smells and sounds encountered and the feelings evoked in that environment at any given moment. It also includes the image makers engagement with the creative process when in a given place. It even includes and is shaped by our hopes and the purposes we bring to a given place, the expectations laden in those purposes and the outcomes we desire from engagement with the creative process while in that place at that time.

Creative engagement with a place encompasses one’s ability and desire to leave or bring with them into the frame, into the image, their expectations, thoughts, emotions, sentiments and history—photographic and otherwise—with that place. In expressive image making, the importance of the attributes of any given place to the process and the outcome achieved are, to a relatively great degree, up to the image maker and the circumstances they face when setting out to make images. All these and more encompass the essence of Place in expressive image making. This process, this engagement with Place is part and parcel of the form that must be examined, made familiar to the point of intimacy, and that we must strive to master in order to push our photography to the realm of magic beyond the “wildest edge of edges.” But how? The inimitable nature writer Barry Lopez, in his short essay A Literature of Place, provides a wealth of insight into fruitful engagement with Place and the places we go.

Lopez was “a lyrical writer who steeped himself in Arctic wildernesses, the habitats of wolves and exotic landscapes around the world for award-winning books that explored the kinship of nature and human culture.” Author of the acclaimed Arctic Dreams: Imagination and Desire in a Northern Landscape, Lopez, in A Literature of Place, submits that,

If you're intimate with a place, a place with whose history you're familiar, and you establish an ethical conversation with it, the implication that follows is this: the place knows you're there. It feels you. You will not be forgotten, cut off, abandoned. . . . How can a person obtain this? How can you occupy a place and also have it occupy you? How can you find such a reciprocity? The key, I think, is to become vulnerable to a place. If you open yourself up, you can build intimacy. Out of such intimacy may come a sense of belonging, a sense of not being isolated in the universe.

Significantly, with respect to my efforts concerning engagement with Place and the places where I make images, Lopez adds that,

A succinct way to describe the frame of mind one should bring to a landscape is to say it rests on the distinction between imposing and proposing one's views. With a sincere proposal you hope to achieve an intimate, reciprocal relationship that will feed you in some way. To impose your views from the start is to truncate such a possibility, to preclude understanding.

This is a frame of mind I try to bring into my relationships with and my work in all places I visit including Poland Brook Wildlife Management Area, where the images included here and with Part One were made. Poland Brook is an area I have visited scores of times since I first went there in the summer of 2020, only a fraction of which outings resulted in any effort at image making. For me, it has been the feelings and emotions evoked when in places with which I have forged such relationships that I have been drawn to most of my life. When in them, including Poland Brook, I pursue the vulnerability Lopez speaks of so as to build an intimacy and form a reciprocity that can only serve to enhance my experience and find “a sense of belonging, a sense of not being isolated in the universe.”

It is Lopez’ belief that “a human imagination is shaped by the architecture it encounters at an early age.” He notes that “[t]he visual landscape, of course, or the depth, elevation, and hues of a [land]scape play a part here, as does the way sunlight everywhere etches lines to accentuate forms.”

Beginnings

It is Lopez’ belief that “a human imagination is shaped by the architecture it encounters at an early age.” He notes that “The visual landscape, of course, or the depth, elevation, and hues of a [land]scape play a part here, as does the way sunlight everywhere etches lines to accentuate forms.” For Lopez, the visual landscape’s role is not singular in the development of one’s imagination from an early age. “The way we imagine is also affected by streams of scent flowing faint or sharp in the larger ocean of air; by what the North American composer John Luther Adams calls the sonic landscape; and, say, by an awareness of how temperature and humidity rise and fall in a place over a year.” If we credit Lopez, my imagination was molded by the fact that early in my life, before, at the age of 9, a family move entombed me in the confines of an urban landscape, I encountered the rural settings in which my family lived both in upstate New York and later in the northeast corner of Massachusetts wedged between the New Hampshire border and the Merrimack River.

From my earliest memories, we lived in a farmhouse on a nonoperational farm in the rolling countryside of Stillwater, New York. On three sides of the house were unmanaged fields overrun with thickets of bramble amid overgrown grasses, weeds and wildflowers. The fields were peppered with dilapidated outbuildings, a mouldering bulldozer and a very old car somehow embedded, upside down, in a small, dirt cliffside. Beyond, the farm was bounded to the west and north by acres of forest through which a fire road edged with blackberry bushes led to Plum Creek.

To the south, an unruly meadow lay, submitting only to our rowdy play and to the yearly visits from the hay tedder and baler—the bales scattered like throw pillows across the field, the only produce the farm yielded. Below the meadow, cutting into the hillside was a gravel pit, strictly off limits to me and my brothers—a rule we broke, jumping from the grassy edge to slither down the soft sandy expanse exposed by excavation. During the summer, in an undulating field across the street stood an army of cow corn, arrayed in a formation as organised as any battalion, frozen in a march that would cease only with autumn’s scything.

My earliest memories come from this place, the “architecture” that I encountered during the reverie in my wandering and play with my brothers in the expanse of the terrain surrounding our home, shaped the imagination that shapes my image making today. Hour upon hour we roamed, and we rambled, wholly unsupervised living in the only house for miles on a street with few passersby. Summer play, bounded only by our imaginations—and the road running by our house—was embroidered with the sonic landscape of birdsong. The rhythmic “cheery, cheery, cheery, cheery, cheer, cheer” vocals of the American Robin, ever accompanied by the chirpy, “see bee, see bee” backing of the Black-capped Chickadee and the melancholy croon of the Mourning Dove’s “hooOOA, hoo, hoo, hoo.” And from the balcony of the upper branches of the Sugar Maples sentineled before our home, the heckling of the Crow’s “caw, caw, caw, caw, caw!” rounded out the soundtrack to our juvenile melodrama.

Scents varied from season to season and place to place in the acreage we wandered, our sensory experiences defined by where we went, when we went and what we did in the land. Loam and an earthy, damp heaviness scented the air in spring from soil upturned for the corn’s impending procession, an aroma that returned more pungent with fall’s decay. The appearance of sweet grassy aromas in the spring and summer morphed into a sharpish, woody tang wafting in the air after the fall reaping of the little bluestem, Indiangrass and switchgrass in the meadow to the south of our house. Summer brought fragrances of golden rod, common milkweed and Queen Anne’s lace, whose subtle aromas demanded from me the same intimacy of a flitting Monarch butterfly in order to appreciate their elusive scents: licorice, a delicate vanilla and a fresh carroty smell, respectively.

After a summer rain, a concoction of moist freshness spiked with the electric tang of ozone permeated the air, greeting us as we bolted from the confines of the house. Winter’s knife-sharp cold scraped our nostrils with an astringent paucity of odor that amounted to an aroma as distinct as any, escaping our faces in an atmospheric vapor.

When we surreptitiously explored the upturned sedan, embedded, inverted in a small dirt cliffside, we were assaulted by decay’s overripe perfume—clammy, loamy and cloying in the summer; shrill, strident and claylike in the winter.

When we roamed the edge of the yard to the north in summer, we were greeted with wild rhubarb’s “tart, zingy and sharp, at the same time refreshing, sweet, fruity and green” scent, bringing teacups of sugar to dip our freshly plucked stalks, cutting its overbearing tang. When we surreptitiously explored the upturned sedan, embedded, inverted in a small dirt cliffside, we were assaulted by decay’s overripe perfume—clammy, loamy and cloying in the summer; shrill, strident and claylike in the winter.

Undoubtedly my imagination was shaped by these surroundings, by the “architecture” I encountered outside my door. But it was one incident in particular that took place mere steps from that door that has left an indelible mark on me, becoming a runestone stood in my imagination to this day, inscribed with the otherworldly wonder, magic and majesty that one may encounter in even the most familiar and ordinary of places. It was Easter Sunday. I couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6 years old. We boys glumly readied for church, the delight of leaving church with a memento of a woven palm cross the week before a distant memory, the doldrums of a lengthy sermon in the offing. As we boys dribbed and drabbed out of the house and onto the porch, waiting for our adult subjugators, a cool springtime air, fragrant with the season, and laced with a foggy mist, blanketing the countryside, rendering much of it hidden.

As we stood on the porch, shuffling our feet and fidgeting with tight collars and clip on ties, we heard a distant, rhythmic rumble, soothing in its cadence as it neared, its source concealed in the haze. The rumble became ever louder hinting at menace and intrigue to my young mind. I walked down the porch steps, stood in the gravel driveway, and stared into the blank face of fog as the rumble neared. Like lightening incongruously following thunder, the approaching roar entered my body through the soles of my feet, surged upward, through my tremulous legs and set up shop in my stomach, fluttering the wings of butterflies uncocooned. Mere feet from where I stood, the mist was split by the regal muzzle of an unbridled horse, its wild main flailing over a brindled, bobbing neck. Like chiseled marble in motion, its muscled haunches clenched a tail that thrashed in front of an ensemble of cohorts—a conductor’s baton leading an orchestra of chaos. Frozen in place, rooted as a runestone by a grave, the string of horses, too numerous for my young mind to comprehend, split and flowed around me like rapids around a stone, all force and brawn in roaring, cacophonous movement, regimented yet frenzied, sublime and unconstrained by even the hint of domesticity, disappearing into the fog once again.

Even though I cannot doubt now that those horses, surely fewer than I believed then, were steeds of a local farmer escaped from a nearby stable, the legend of the wild horse stampede engulfing me on a foggy Easter morning remains as a reminder to expect the unexpected even in your own yard.

reminder to remain open to what is offered in the rumble of the unseen that approaches in the fog in which we wrap ourselves in the guise of those preconceived notions and expectations we carry with us everywhere we go. I try very hard to carry that experience with me whenever.

A reminder to remain open to what is offered in the rumble of the unseen that approaches in the fog in which we wrap ourselves in the guise of those preconceived notions and expectations we carry with us everywhere we go. I try very hard to carry that experience with me whenever I engage with Place, for whatever purpose, endeavoring to remain open, to propose rather than impose in a search for Lopez’ reciprocity. For I, like Lopez, “long to become the companion of a place, not its authority, not its owner” most especially when engaged creatively with any given place, including Poland Brook Wildlife Management Area.

Gaining Intimacy

Lopez’ offers practical advice as to how to go about fashioning a meaningful experience in and forging a reciprocal relationship with any place. It is advice that I and, I am sure, many have followed to a degree innately while engaging with the places in which we make images. It is advice that should form the bedrock of any excursion into any “geography” whether local or far flung, near field or far field.

How does one actually enter a local geography? . . . To respond explicitly and practicably, my first suggestion would be to be silent. Put aside the bird book, the analytic state of mind, any compulsion to identify, and sit still. Concentrate instead on feeling a place, on deliberately using the sense of proprioception. Where in this volume of space are you situated? The space behind you is as important as what you see before you. What lies beneath you is as relevant as what stands on the far horizon. Actively use your ears to imagine the acoustical hemisphere you occupy. How does birdsong ramify here? Through what kind of air is it moving? Concentrate on smells in the belief you can smell water and stone. Use your hands to get the heft and texture of a place—the tensile strength in a willow branch, the moisture in a pinch of soil, the different nap of leaves. Open a vertical line to the place by joining the color and form of the sky to what you see out across the ground. Look away from what you want to scrutinize in order to gain a sense of its scale and proportion. Be wary of any obvious explanation for the existence of color, a movement. Cultivate a sense of complexity, the sense that another landscape exists beyond the one you can subject to analysis.

Lopez concludes that “The purpose of such attentiveness is to gain intimacy, to rid yourself of assumption.” His summation that “it should be like a conversation with someone you're attracted to, a person you don't want to send away by having made too much of yourself,” resonates whenever I am in Poland Brook and other such places. My time in the local geography proves to me that “such conversations take place simultaneously on several levels.” I too have found that such conversations “may easily be driven by more than simple curiosity,” and that the forces that drive me to such engagement are much deeper, sustaining and compelling than mere inquisitiveness. And while I share the “compelling desire, as in human conversation . . . to institute a sustaining or informing relationship” with any given place, I seek also to feed my imagination so as to make something from the intimacy gained. [widepullquote]For, like Lopez, the relationships I have forged with the places in which I make images have established in me an unshakable faith that “the power of the human imagination to extrapolate from an odd handful of things—faint movement in a copse of trees, a wingbeat, the damp cold of field stones at night—the human ability to make from all this a pattern, to compose a story out of it fixes in me a sense of hope.”/widepullquote]For, like Lopez, the relationships I have forged with the places in which I make images have established in me an unshakable faith that “the power of the human imagination to extrapolate from an odd handful of things—faint movement in a copse of trees, a wingbeat, the damp cold of field stones at night—the human ability to make from all this a pattern, to compose a story out of it fixes in me a sense of hope.”

Here is where I could tell you about the ethereal echo of the rumble of those stampeding hoof beats that remains with me to this day. An echo that surges up from the soles of my feet, through my legs, across my midriff, lodging a lump in my throat when I am nowadays stood waist high in golden rod, the sun only a hint above the ridge, awaiting the intimate subtle stampede of murmurs and whispers of the sustaining and sustained conversation with Poland Brook Wildlife Management Area to manifest through the fog I carry within. But alas, the magic of such conversations with good friends, the power that resonates within from having had them, diminishes or disappears altogether in the strict retelling. And worse, like gossip, can leave the relationship unsteady, threatening to send Poland Brook away from me by having made too much of myself in the retelling. Some conversations are just private. But the outcomes, the benefits of having those conversations, the benevolence taking root, that I am made better by having such conversations, and the stories that I have made from them in my images must be shared. “We keep each other alive with our stories,” Lopez tells us. “We need to share them, as much as we need to share food.”

Do you have an article idea that you're interested in getting published or a project you've been working on? We are always keen to get submissions, so please get in touch to discuss your idea.

Cleansing the Soul

By Brad Carr | March 7, 2025

Mornings spent wandering amongst the trees with a camera in hand, before the world has woken, offer something of a spiritual cleansing. They are enough to make one forget about the madness of this existence and return ‘home’ to the soul of Nature. They offer, for a short while at least, an escape from the world of ego, and bring forth forgotten feelings of belonging, and a deep, universal oneness, restoring internal balance and harmony.

A fruitful morning of photography presses a reset button inside and allows us to see through the thick smog once again into the clear, icy blue of the vast, expansive ocean. It is enough to make us forget about all the trials and tribulations that we have faced in our day to day lives. Any emotional and psychological pain that we would have inevitably, either consciously or unconsciously, accumulated since the last outing is transmuted into the purest of beauty and given new meaning and purpose. In the precious moments during which our shutters are opened to the pureness of the mornings’ light, we are liberated from the stresses and struggles of life at last, and we add more colour to our soul.

Crossing the Threshold from the Known into the Unknown

Nature photography, as with any other creative and artistic pursuit, can help us transcend beyond ourselves and our limited, thinking minds. The camera is a vehicle that carries us beyond the physical plane; the known world, and into the world of spirit; an unknown world reliant on feeling, intuition and an understanding of energy through which to navigate. It is a world of pure consciousness in which there are no limitations, barriers, or identities. When we stand upon the crest of a mountain at sunrise and look out over the vast, expansive wilderness, we get the sense of a connection with something much greater than ourselves. During this escape from our small, limited, rational minds, we are left to ponder the age-old question, ‘can this really be all that there is?’

A morning amongst the trees, enveloped in the safe embrace of the mist is enough to bring us back home to the core of our existence. We become the witnesses of divinity and observe the process of eternal creation that is at work before our very eyes. We come back home to the feelings of limitlessness and oneness that make this often complex and nonsensical existence so worthwhile and meaningful. In this place of oneness, we come to terms with and make sense of our place here on this swirling rock. It is here, in our ultimate state of spirit, that we are unbound to the minds and bodies that contain us.

As the golden light of morning penetrates the veil of fog and pierces through our lenses, all our photographic senses are heightened, and there is nowhere else that we can be but right here in the ‘now’.

In moments like this, we escape the dreaded world of thought and lay on the brakes that temporarily prevent our descent into the darkness of chaos and destruction. The resulting photographs, created from the souls’ intuition and, therefore, enriched with depth and meaning, is the order that is needed to deal with the chaos of our egoic existence and the madness of modern society that seems to be, all too often, so focused on division and separation. In the moments that we open the shutters of our camera to capture the beauty of these sacred hours, we choose the path of creation instead of that of destruction, and we make the daring ascent from darkness into light.

Society Divides, Nature Unites

Following mornings like these, I can’t help but contemplate some of the deeper questions about this human existence and the current state of our co-created world of society. I often wonder why it seems to be that, overall, humanity is so intent on dividing itself and creating enemies out of another. Everything we know seems to be a game of two sides.

Either we are black or white, Christian or Muslim, left or right, right or wrong, good or bad, awake or asleep. Isn’t it an irony that our quests for community and belonging so often force us to cut ourselves off from certain people and demographics? For us to belong somewhere, we must not belong somewhere else. Why does a human being have this innate tendency to think in such dualistic ways?

Outdoors in the natural world, there is no place for division, hierarchy, or competition. In Nature, there is only unity. Everything works towards one common goal. The pursuit of Nature is one of growth and expansion. What would our world look like if more people prioritised their own personal and spiritual growth and the expansion of their own consciousness over the expansion of only their houses, bank accounts and businesses? When did this disconnect from our soul’s growth and true purpose begin? What if we all realised that the real competition is the one that lies within; for us to transcend the ego and live from the soul that seeks for nothing but joy, love, and peace, and finds all of this in the freedom of its’ own authentic expression?

When we look towards the beauty of the forest networks, we see such unity and come to realise that everything is divinely connected and perfectly balanced. There are no arguments of right or wrong, good or bad. The ‘woodland’ itself is an entity, made up of what we label as ‘trees’, ‘fungi’, ‘moss’ and ‘ferns’. Through the ‘woodland’, runs a small ‘stream’, in which there are ‘rocks’ and ‘silt’ and all kinds of ‘bacteria’ and other living species. The ‘stream’ runs into a ‘river’, and the ‘river’ into the ‘sea’. At which point, then, does the ‘woodland’ become detached from the ‘sea’? We apply such language to understand the world in our minds. Is it, therefore, our minds, then, that create the division and separation? What happens when we learn, instead, to tune into our hearts and choose to feel instead of think?

Returning Home to the Heart

The act of creating a photograph, for me, is a response to a feeling inside of my heart. I feel compelled to pull out the camera and create when the cogs in my mind cease their relentless turning, and I come to rest in a place of deep, internal stillness.

My heartbeat falls into rhythm with that of the earth and we dance in perfect harmony across the woodland floor. The trees stand as witnesses of my hearts’ truest expression and, in these precious moments, the soul that resides within reunites with the eternal soul of Nature.

Following such moments, it is difficult to look into the eyes of another human and see an enemy. I realise that the same feelings, and the same soul, exists, too, inside of them. It is important, therefore, that mornings like these are experienced regularly. Too long spent away from the soul of Nature and our own true, authentic, expressive nature, might cause a human to become too disconnected from its’ heart. What happens when one spends too long living in the darkness of the mind and falls out of tune with the song of one’s own heart? Could this, perhaps, be the reason that so many people find their only peace and purpose in war? In the same way that the woodland, in our minds, is detached from the sea, so have our minds become detached from our hearts. When did this happen and how can we restore balance and harmony between the two?

The truest test of the human being lies in its’ ability to create harmony between mind (rationality, thoughts & fears) and heart (intuition, feelings & love), ensuring that each remain connected to the other in every given moment, come fear, or love. Perhaps then, given the current state of our world, it is time to return home to the heart on a global scale. What the world needs now, more than ever, I believe, is a deep cleansing of the collective soul as we look to repair our relationship with the earth, ourselves and, therefore, each other, and co-create a better world for tomorrow.

Nature provides the pathway way back to our hearts and soul. I find my own way back beyond the gatekeepers of ancient trees in Eryri during the sacred hours of the morning, and they help me to strip back the masks and peel off the armour, so that I can emerge from the darkness and stand to be seen in all my light once a

Issue 322

By Tim Parkin | March 1, 2025

Click here to download issue 322 (high quality, 69Mb)

Click here to download issue 322 (smaller download, 35Mb)

End frame: Ash tree, Balmacara by Colin Prior

By Ars Silentium | March 1, 2025

I encountered Colin Prior's work in his book 'High Light,' which I bought over a decade ago. 'High Light' features breathtaking panoramic images of Scotland's mountains. However, he not only focuses on grand and sweeping vistas. Colin Prior also has a sharp perception of intimate and less noticeable details.

The scenic splendour did not linger most in my mind. No, though I admire the grand compositions. The quieter photographs, the intimate landscapes, held my gaze longer. They seem to whisper rather than shout. They draw me into their detailed worlds with the subtlety of a half-heard tune.

The panoramic vistas spoke of Scotland's overwhelming vastness. Yet, these minor fragments presented a different kind of poetry altogether. They showcased texture and details, humble moments elevated by Prior's attentive eye. Amidst these, one photograph stood out like a gem nestled within a crown. Its glow shimmers with something more understated.

A stark ash tree against a backdrop of grass and moss commands attention. The undergrowth unfurls as a tapestry woven from umber and flaxen threads. Despite the background's charm, the tree's skeletal fingers possess an unshakable magnetism. Soft light caresses the ancient bark like a long-lost lover.

Any Questions, with special guest Paula Pell-Johnson

By Tim Parkin & Joe Cornish | March 1, 2025

The premise of our podcast is loosely based on Radio Four's “Any Questions.” Joe Cornish and I (Tim Parkin) invite a special guest to each show and solicit questions from our subscribers.

Anne Campbell

By Anne Campbell & Michéla Griffith | February 28, 2025

I came across Anne Campbell’s work browsing an exhibition, a fitting way to find someone motivated by experimentation and the creation of unique prints. Anne specialises in traditional and experimental darkroom processes, using a variety of techniques – lith chemistry, mordançage, bromoil – as well as infrared film and pinhole cameras. She describes working with chemistry as a sensory experience with its low light, running water, and the gradual development of an image.

Dalmore, Lith

Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what you went on to do?

I grew up on Clydeside in the West Coast of Scotland in a working class environment, where many of our neighbours either worked in the shipyards or the Singer sewing machine factory. Community was everything, and we grew up with a keen sense of the importance of social justice and the huge inequalities that impacted on the lives of those around us.

My father loved the outdoors and any spare time was spent walking in the hills nearby and learning about nature. Close friends moved to the Outer Hebrides, so we spent our summer holidays there, where the crystal clear waters, empty beaches and flower filled machair left a lasting impression.

I guess to sum up my main influences growing up and working pre-photography were:

Being brought up on Clydeside – poverty, shipyards, unions, sectarianism.
Spending time in the Outer Hebrides gave me a love of the sea and wild remote places.
Work experience - includes nursing, working in a hospice, working with a disabled theatre company,
Being a counsellor for 20 years, working with drug users, families, sex workers, people who are socially excluded, people with mental health issues, visiting every prison in Scotland.
Working for a band, touring Europe and North America – sitting in a van watching the world go by and wishing there was time to stop…
Working in a vegetarian cafe run as a workers’ co-operative, watching the northern lights, camping in Scotland, listening to geese.
Standing on a stage in front of 5,000 people, being in both Barlinnie and Buckingham Palace, being homeless, holding someone’s hand as they’re dying, giving birth to a child.

One good thing about getting older is that, if you’re lucky, you get to experience a lot of stuff!

Can You Hear the Music?

By Eric Bennett | February 27, 2025

As a skateboarder in high school, I had an eclectic group of friends to say the least. Apart from our mutual love for skateboarding, many of us had other random talents and hobbies that we would practice when we were too hurt, tired, or hungover to skate. One of my closest friends was an incredibly gifted musician, and was capable of playing virtually any song on the cello, piano, and electric or flamenco guitar. Just for fun, I would find the hardest songs I could and challenge him to play them, only to watch in disbelief as he learned them in a matter of minutes.

While I am by no means a gifted musician by any stretch of the imagination, I too enjoy playing the guitar—but for a different reason. I first picked up an instrument, not just to try and replay the songs that others have made, but to play the songs I was hearing in my head. As a teenager, I found immense satisfaction in coming up with my own riffs and finding ways to string them together into melodies. I was constantly writing my own lyrics as well (they sucked). I was always dumbfounded that, despite my friend having so much skill as a musician, he never ever once wrote a song of his own. He didn’t even feel the slightest desire to try.

Winter Colour

By Alex Roddie | February 23, 2025

A dive into the lessons the mountains teach us, proving that we’re real, and human experience through photography

It began when my stove exploded on the summit of Ben Macdui in the Northern Cairngorms late on one freezing evening just after New Year.

I’ve always found Ben Macdui an enigmatic place. Although it lacks the sheer grandeur and hint of remoteness projected by Braeriach, its neighbour across the Lairig Ghru, Macdui, is just far enough from the ski centre to feel like a place with an identity of its own, and there can be a delicate aura of… something… around its summit. Would it be stretching things to say an awareness? A personality? Especially around dusk or dawn, the place’s character is tangible. Why does it keep drawing me back? What does it want, and what do I want while I’m there? What experience is it I’m seeking?

I had felt a little vulnerable a couple of hours before in the winter twilight as I stamped out a tent platform in the snow. My plan: to camp on the summit in deep winter conditions, then get up early to photograph the dawn light show over Braeriach and its accompanying peaks away to the west.

Actually, that’s not quite true. I’m going to make an important distinction. Although I’d gone there with a camera and tripod and fully intended to return with some quality images, photography was not my main goal.

My philosophy of photography has evolved a few times over the last decade, but there’s a core question I keep coming back to: am I doing a thing in order to create images, or am I doing it to have an adventure and maybe create image opportunities along the way? Connected to this, what does adventure even mean now that it has become so thoroughly commoditised and commercialised? What higher purpose does it serve, if any?

On this summit camp, as I sat in my tent porch swaddled in my down jacket and heard the spurt of fuel from my stove’s faulty valve an instant before it turned into a fireball, such thoughts were far from my mind. I wasn’t thinking about the anticipated dawn light show the next morning, either. I was thinking, ‘Holy hell, my tent is about to burn down, and I’m in the middle of the Cairngorms after dark.’

The Challenge of Over Shot Locations

By Cody Schultz | February 21, 2025

A photographer can make their image transcend its literalness and become their’s by recognizing something that no one else has seen or photographed in that way. This is the alchemy at the heart of any great photograph. ~David Ward

Most of the photography I have done over the course of the past decade has been within a few hours’ drive from my home. This was, in part, due to my inability to travel outside the state, both because of being in high school for much of that time as well as not having the confidence to travel alone. That last bit, in particular, held me back from experiencing a lot of unique opportunities that could have helped me grow both as artist and individual.

There was a time in high school when my German class organized a week-long trip to Germany, where we would be staying in hostels and experiencing the country. When I broached the subject to my parents, they provided me with an ultimatum: I could either go on the trip or they would give me the money that would otherwise go toward it.

I spent the longest time in this mindset, believing that staying local was the best—and cheapest—option. Travel wasn’t something I was particularly fond of, least of all when I was alone.

My greedy teenage self took the money, figuring it to be a better investment. Looking back, a part of me regrets that decision, as I now have a better understanding of the value of experiences. Still, I didn’t think much about it, particularly as I didn’t believe the trip would lead to many great photographs—at least, not any which would make it in my portfolio at the time.

Issue 321

By Tim Parkin | February 16, 2025

Click here to download issue 321 (high quality, 131Mb)

Click here to download issue 321 (smaller download, 92Mb)

End frame: Papaver Nudicale by Tine Poppe

By Carolyn Cheng | February 14, 2025

In a world where we are inundated with thousands of photos daily, it is a rare and delightful pleasure to see an image that is genuinely creative, visually arresting and imbued with meaning. When I first came across Tine Poppe’s series, Gilded Lilies, I was immediately enthralled and could sense the purpose and power within the images. (Note: I encourage you to view the full series as it tells the story even more powerfully.)

At first glance, the images are strikingly atmospheric, beautiful yet foreboding and magically complex. The flowers, just past their peak and beginning to wilt, are set against the smoky, foggy and greyed landscape backgrounds, which evoke the tumult and terror of Romantic era painters working in nature’s Sublime.

As I read about the work, I understood that Tine was inspired by a TED Talk called Not So Rosy, which highlighted the environmental impact of cut flowers, now more commonly grown in industrial-scale greenhouses in Africa and South America. This resonated with me as I recalled, seemingly oddly at the time, that my local florist mentioned their poppies came from New Zealand. In these greenhouses, plants are engineered to look prettier, bloom earlier and last longer. They are then flown thousands of miles in the refrigerated holds of airplanes, only to find their way into our homes for a brief period of time before being casually thrown out. Unfortunately, all of these “improvements” come at great cost to our environment in the pursuit of an artificial perfection, obfuscating us from genuine natural beauty.

Charles Millen

By Charles Millen & Charlotte Parkin | February 14, 2025

Large format photographer David Tatnall contacted us and suggested we interview Charles and upon seeing his work we wholeheartedly agreed! David is the editor of View Camera Australia, a site dedicated to the promotion of large format photography and Charles wrote an article for them back in 2020. Charles's work in the mining industry in Australia gave him access to the wilderness as the mining roads cut through many parts of the landscape. We got in touch to find out more about his work in Australia and Tasmania.

Could you tell us a bit about your love for landscape photography, what your early passions were, what you studied, and the career path you ultimately pursued?

My passion for the landscape and photographing it began when I left my home state of Tasmania and moved to Western Australia in 2004. I had completed university, and a friend and I decided to have a complete lifestyle change. We drove across the country to a mining town called Kalgoorlie to look for work. At that point, I was only familiar with photography at a very basic level. I wanted a camera with manual controls because I thought it might be interesting to learn how cameras worked. That proved to be a great idea because I quickly came to enjoy photographing our trip and our subsequent explorations while living and working in a remote mining town in the Goldfields.

You completed a Fine Arts degree at the University of Tasmania, focusing mainly on the digital process of image-making, sound, and video. Did this inspire your passion for photography, and why did you choose to pursue landscape photography?

University provided the foundation for my eventual move into landscape photography, though at the time, I hadn’t found the medium for my personal work. During my final years of high school, I used an Apple QuickTake camera, which I found revolutionary. It allowed me to capture digital images and upload them directly into a computer to create composites. I always thought film photography seemed cumbersome compared to the immediacy of digital. Ironically, over the years, I’ve gravitated toward film photography, which now dominates my process.

At university, I was drawn to the video studio in the basement of the Art Building. The studio was a dimly lit space filled with patch panels, studio cameras, and audio equipment, overseen by a video and sound artist befitting a space like that, with his shock of grey hair and temperament that mirrored the environment. I also enrolled in digital imaging, drawing and graphic design classes. In hindsight, I should have enrolled in photography classes too.

By the time I graduated, I didn’t have a clear career path. I imagined working in a technical role in television but ended up taking the opportunity to travel across the country. That decision led me in time to landscape photography, and the associated pursuits that tie in with it.

Who or what has been the biggest source of inspiration in your growth as a photographer—whether photographers, artists, or individuals?

My biggest inspirations have been Peter Dombrovskis, Bruce Barnbaum, Paul Wakefield, Chris Bell, Christopher Burkett, Ansel Adams, David Tatnall, Peter Clark, Ragnar Axelsson, and Magnum and National Geographic photographers for inspiring both landscape and personal family-based documentary work. I also credit my family as a great source of inspiration.

I find it deeply rewarding to document family life, and it provides a great contrast to the landscape. Without the support and understanding of my wife, Caroline, I would not be venturing solo into the wilderness nearly as frequently as I do! On occasion, Caroline joins me, and I try not to bore her too much by wandering around in circles and looking for a composition! Much credit also needs to go to David Tatnall and the Australian large format photography community, particularly those that exhibit on View Camera Australia’s online exhibitions. It is an honour to show my work on the same web pages of some incredibly talented artists.

Can you share any books that inspired or deepened your passion for photography?

I highly recommend these books to any aspiring or seasoned photographer:

The Landscape by Paul Wakefield
The Negative by Ansel Adams
Using the View Camera by Steve Simmons
The Art of Photography by Bruce Barnbaum
Peter Dombrovskis: A Photographic Collection
Primal Places by Chris Bell
Gold by Sebastião Salgado
Last Days of the Arctic by Ragnar Axelsson
Intimations of Paradise by Christopher Burkett
The Pilbara by Hugh Brown
Magnum (a collection of works from the renowned photo agency)

Your photography journey began with images captured in the Pilbara region of Western Australia. How did the unique landscape of the Pilbara influence your photographic style and the way you express yourself creatively?

The Pilbara’s vast, ancient landscape had a profound impact on my photographic style and inspiration. The region’s iron ore laden oxidising rock, dramatic light, big open skies, wet season storms, fires, floods, spinifex plains and ancient gorges taught me to appreciate light and contrast, texture and form. It is a place that also taught me to also look inwards, not just outwards. Working in such a remote and strikingly beautiful area heightened my sensitivity to the interplay of light and shadow and, at the same time, the seasons within, concepts that remain central to my work today. I think I can credit the Pilbara and the impact it has had on how I now see my work as a series of self-portraits, the camera capturing what is behind the lens as well as what is in front.

4×4 Landscape Portfolios

By Enzo Crispino, Goran Prvulovic, Mika Stetsovski & Peter Berlinghof | February 14, 2025

Welcome to our 4x4 feature, which is a set of four mini landscape photography portfolios which has been submitted for publishing. Each portfolio consists of four images related in some way. Whether that's location, a project, a theme or a story.

Submit Your 4x4 Portfolio

Interested in submitting your work? We are always keen to get submissions, so please do get in touch!

Do you have a project or article idea that you'd like to get published? Then drop us a line. We are always looking for articles.

Enzo Crispino

Meeting with William Turner

Goran Prvulovic

Over the Waves (Part 3 – Crashing the Rocks)

Rhythm & Color

Mika Stetsovski

Unromantic River Rhine

Peter Berlinghof

Unromantic River Rhine

By Peter Berlinghof | February 14, 2025

When people think of the Rhine they usually have pictures in mind of romantic castles, lovely vineyards and steep hills on both banks of the river. This is especially true for the Upper Middle Rhine valley between Bingen and Koblenz. Further down the stream where I live, the landscape is completely different as the river enters the North German lowlands and the Lower Rhine region begins. The area is densely populated and the banks of the river are full of industrial compounds and settlements. Not much nature is to be found. Grand scenic views almost always contain traces of human activities. It does not seem to be the favourite playground for landscape photographers.

Why did I nevertheless try to take pictures there? I have always found the Rhine kilometrage very interesting, which accompanies the Rhine from Konstanz, where the river leaves Lake Constance (kilometre 0) until it flows into the North Sea after 1033 km at Hoek van Holland. At each kilometre, there is a big sign showing the position you are at, and between the kilometre signs, there are small signs in 100 m steps.

I selected a small area between kilometers 657 and 683 with Bonn at the southern end and Cologne at the northern one. My plans were to take a picture at or near each kilometre sign on both banks of the river and to capture the images with a camera converted to take infrared pictures.

I used the resulting pictures for having a photo book printed for myself in which each kilometre was given four pages and each section started with a picture of the kilometre sign. Some of the pictures also appeared in a German Photo magazine (Schwarzweiß, issue 149).

Rhythm & Color

By Mika Stetsovski | February 14, 2025

For the last couple of years, I've been living in the beautiful country of Armenia. During this time, I’ve travelled across almost the entire country, experiencing its diverse landscapes and seasons.

What fascinates me every time is how different the mountains can be. Even within a relatively small country where everything is close together, the mountains in different regions each have their own distinct patterns. They seem to have their own unique rhythms and colors, like different songs recorded on one great album.

Over the Waves (Part 3 – Crashing the Rocks)

By Goran Prvulovic | February 14, 2025

The most exciting part is when waves crash the rocks of the shore. It looks like the rocks are winning, but over time, waves are shaping the rocks, too. There is no winning side; it is just a beauty created by nature and a moment captured in the camera.

See my previous submissions in this series:

Meeting with William Turner

By Enzo Crispino | February 14, 2025

For a few years now, since 2019 to be precise, my attention and photographic research have been directed towards Pictorialism and Citationism, on which I have already produced photographic projects, two dedicated in particular to English Vedutism with the following titles: "On the trail of John Constable" and "Meeting William Turner". I have subsequently implemented photographic production on this theme in recent years with other projects, which can be consulted on my personal website.

The photographic project, Meeting William Turner, was intended as a homage to the great romantic landscape painter and master of capturing light. My intention was to photograph the best-known part of this city, its famous Brighton Pier. Before leaving on holiday, I had studied English landscape painting, focusing on its two greatest exponents: John Constable and William Turner. With the project on Turner, I closed my personal research on English landscape painting, which consisted of two separate projects; the first was entitled In the Footsteps of John Constable, where I paid particular attention to the refined and bucolic atmospheres that Constable imprinted on canvas, photographing three English parks, Richmond Park, Greenwich Park and Saint James Park. In Turner's project, however, I was deeply attracted by the romantic depiction of his landscapes, where nature is predominant in all its powerful beauty.

Brenda Tharp – Portrait of a Photographer

By Matt Payne | February 14, 2025

In the world of nature and landscape photography, there’s often a pull toward capturing the grandeur—the majestic mountains, sprawling valleys, and dramatic sunsets. But every so often, we encounter an artist whose work reminds us that some of the most profound beauty lies in the smaller, quieter moments of the natural world. Brenda Tharp is one such photographer, and her attention to the intimate details of nature offers a masterclass in seeing and storytelling.

Brenda’s journey into photography began early, nurtured by a childhood steeped in outdoor adventures.

Growing up in New Jersey, she found her playground in the woods surrounding her family home. Whether hiking, camping or simply wandering her backyard, Brenda developed a keen eye for the subtleties of the natural world—a skill that would later become central to her artistic practice.

Her connection to nature deepened over the years, and she ultimately carved out a career in editorial and commercial photography. Yet, it was her passion for outdoor and nature photography that called her back to her roots. This return to nature fueled her soul and allowed her to develop a visual language that celebrates the interplay of light, texture, line, and pattern in the natural world.

The Art of the Print

By Bill Ferngren | February 12, 2025

Entering photography competitions brings its own set of unique challenges. While outcomes can sometimes feel swayed by personal taste and the judges' moods, working with physical prints introduces its own complexities. Over the years, I've learned to approach these contests with patience, focusing on personal growth rather than rankings. In this piece, I’ll share my recent experience at the Swedish Photography Championships — from preparing my prints to embracing the process and gaining valuable insights along the way.

Can Photography Really Be Judged?

Is photography truly something that can be measured, or do the results simply reflect the mood of the judges that day? It might sound like I'm questioning the value of competitions, yet I still find myself participating. Why, you ask? It’s the challenge—a chance to present my work without my identity as the photographer influencing the outcome. It also allows me to test my visual language and push my creative limits. And honestly, it's a refreshing alternative to posting on social media, where images often get lost in the endless scroll anyways.

For me, the key is to approach competitions with a light heart. I never judge my work based on its placement. Photography isn’t just a competitive pursuit for me; it’s a form of therapy, a way to connect with nature, hone my compositional skills, and keep my curiosity alive. Sometimes, I return home with stunning shots; other times, the results aren’t quite what I hoped for. But that's the beauty of the process—whether I'm fine-tuning a composition or pushing myself beyond my comfort zone.

Blue Embrace

A New Kind of Challenge: The Swedish Photography Championships

Recently, I had the opportunity to participate in the Swedish Photography Championships, where I was thrilled to win in the Landscape/Nature category. The competition begins with a digital qualification and transitions to a print final. Competing with physical prints was a new experience that required considerable effort—not to mention the costs for test prints and ink, which often feel more precious than gold!

The print judging occurs in two stages: an open jury session during the event, followed by a closed session to determine the top placements. Scoring is based on a point system, with prints required to meet specific size standards (either 40x40 cm or 40x50 cm, with a margin of ±5 mm) and mounted on cardboard or foam board. Judges evaluate not just the print quality compared to its digital counterpart but also the mounting, paper choice, composition, originality, and overall creativity. Out of the five images I submitted, four advanced to the print final. Besides my winning print, I also received an honorable mention for the other three.

The Process

Printing the images myself ensured the final results aligned with my vision. While I don’t use a top-of-the-line monitor, my calibrated screen serves me well for most prints. However, knowing the prints would be viewed under controlled lighting, I took extra precautions. I purchased a lamp with a matching 5000K color temperature and relied on natural daylight to ensure color and light accuracy. The controlled lighting revealed a few inconsistencies between what I saw on the screen and what appeared on the print.

Interconnectable

One of the prints, "Reach," had previously been exhibited, and I had developed a master file that looked nearly perfect under controlled lighting. I only needed to slightly lighten the darkest areas. However, the biggest challenge came with the next print, 'Interconnectable,' which required about twelve test prints and two full-size prints to perfect. This image features a wide range between highlights and deep blues, requiring adjustments to accurately capture tones in the dark areas and achieve the right shade in the yellow/golden highlights. While I typically handle post-processing in Lightroom, I found that accessing the subtle nuances of this image surpassed its capabilities. So, I turned to a luminosity masking panel for Photoshop. I followed a similar approach for "Excellence of Light" and the winning print "Blue Embrace," both showcasing a wide dynamic range, though I didn’t need nearly as many test prints for those.

Excellence Of Light

For this competition, I used A5 pieces (148 x 210 mm) of the original paper intended for the final prints. This smaller size made it easy to spot any flaws that needed correction. For the final prints, I left a 3 cm (at the widest part) white frame around the photos to compensate for the requested aspect ratio, which didn’t align with the originals.

Crafting with Care

My experience in the media industry has given me valuable skills in image mounting, which proved essential during this process. I wanted to do as much of the mounting myself as I could. Dust is your enemy, and achieving a dust-free environment can be tricky, but it’s crucial. Thinner paper is particularly sensitive to dust and imperfections, and glossy papers are no exception; even the slightest flaw can impact the surface during mounting.

Over the years, I’ve come to trust certain papers. I use MediaJET papers, which I’m very happy with, thanks to their knowledgeable and customer-focused team. I rely on four of their papers, each selected to suit different images and moods.

Printing Process

For screen calibration, I use the Spyder-X Pro, a hardware color calibration tool for monitors.

My experience in the media industry has given me valuable skills in image mounting, which proved essential during this process. I wanted to do as much of the mounting myself as I could.

My current printer is the Canon imagePROGRAF PRO-1000, which features 12 ink tanks and operates like a charm. I’ve never experienced clogged ink. While it can handle print sizes of 420 x 1200 mm (with a firmware update), I primarily use A2 sheets these days. Printing panoramas can be tricky, as there’s no roll holder available for this model.

For "Blue Embrace" and "Excellence of Light," I selected MediaJET PhotoArt White Baryta, 310 g, renowned for its exceptional color depth that enhances deep blacks—an essential quality for these shots. For the other prints, I opted for MediaJET Museum Natural Silk–300 g, known for its classic pearl finish, giving the images a rich, textured feel.

Tools and Equipment

For trimming the prints, I use a DAHLE rotary trimmer 448, which delivers clean cuts for large formats. I mount the prints on 5 mm Kapafix 600 g boards with adhesive backing. These lightweight boards provide a polished look at an affordable price. Although I ordered four 70x100 cm boards, the first batch arrived poorly packed and damaged. Thankfully, the company replaced them at no extra charge, and I repurposed the damaged boards into a practical box for transporting the finished prints to the event. To cut the boards, I used a sharp, sturdy utility knife along with a cutting mat and a metal guide rail—à la Festool.

Mounting Techniques

Mounting these relatively small images didn’t require special tools for applying them to the adhesive surface. The key is to avoid scratching the paper with materials like plastic or wood; I even used my eyeglass case, made of soft felt! For larger prints, it’s important to use a textile-covered squeegee that spans the entire image to help avoid trapping bubbles when applying the print to the adhesive side.

Reflecting on the Process

I’ve discovered that competing with prints deepens my understanding and respect for the craft. From this experience, I’ve learned that for future print competitions, I will ensure to do test prints before submitting my entries. This allows me to tweak and improve not only the prints but also the overall process.

A paper print has a more limited dynamic range than what we see on screens, meaning details in very bright or dark areas can be lost. This became especially clear when I critically examined the prints under controlled lighting. As part of my routine, I regularly calibrate my monitor to ensure the colors are as accurate as possible. Installing the correct ICC profile for the chosen printer and paper is equally important. The ICC profiles from MediaJET are of high quality, so I’ve never felt the need to create my own color profiles.

Over time, I’ve improved my ability to recognize what will and won’t work as a print, even while capturing the image. However, my approach to photography remains the same: I always aim to create a refined master print file that is exclusively used for printing.

Reach

This has also led me to reconsider my previous exhibition choices. I used to customize frames with matting and the most expensive non-reflective art glass. However, for my next exhibition, I’m thinking about mounting the prints on Kapa boards with simple hanging. This approach allows me to showcase the prints as I truly envision them, letting the carefully selected paper take center stage without distraction.

However, for my next exhibition, I’m thinking about mounting the prints on Kapa boards with simple hanging. This approach allows me to showcase the prints as I truly envision them, letting the carefully selected paper take center stage without distraction.

Besides, using art glass can change the color experience and create unwanted reflections. The lightweight method would also be a fraction of the cost compared to producing new framed and matted pieces.

Recently, a non-photography friend said, "When you started out sharing your images, I understood your vision. But now, I feel completely lost; I don’t quite grasp what you’re doing anymore." Rather than seeing this as a disconnect, I took it as a sign of how my work has grown. My creative path has moved away from the familiar toward something perhaps less accessible but much more aligned with what resonates with me now. This shift will undoubtedly shape my prints for the next exhibition, where I’m eager to share this new direction and what truly drives my work.

After completing this article, I was honored to learn that I’ve been chosen to represent Sweden in the World Photographic Cup (WPC), set for March 2025.

: Blue Embrace

: Excellence Of Light

: Interconnectable

: Reach

The Big Move

By Mark Littlejohn | February 8, 2025

So, MrsLJ and I have entered our fifth year in the wilds of Wester Ross. Leaving the comfort blanket of our home in Cumbria far behind us. Why did we even contemplate such a move. I’m not sure that I’d even scratched the photographic surface of Cumbria in that time. People, and by people I mean photographers, think of Cumbria in terms of its lakes and the various views that surround them. But Cumbria is so much more than that. There’s the quiet, pastoral beauty of the Eden Valley, the vast open spaces of the Pennines and the East Fellside. The Cumbrian views are quite polished. Civilisation is obvious at every turn. The dry stone walls, the boats that ply its lakes, the chains of pubs that open all year round.

Golden Reeds Bad a Crotha: A favourite of our time here. A view thats glimpsed every time we head through to Gairloch for supplies. An awkward spot for the right perspective, but I wanted to capture what my eye saw.

If Wester Ross has a layer of civilisation, it's skin deep, a thin veneer only. The mountains are bigger. More rugged. Instead of manicured fields, there are miles of bog and rock.

If you dropped me anywhere in the Lakes, I would know exactly where I was, and I would be able to walk easily to the comfortable safety of the nearest pub. In contrast, I could get lost just about anywhere in Wester Ross. I could get lost ten minutes from my back door. I fondly imagined that the move would be great for my photography. In a way, it would just be more of the same things I’d always done. Just on a larger scale.

I thought I’d be exploring the relationship between mountains, Scots Pines, tumbling streams and bottomless lochs. But in truth, I failed miserably in that task. I found that photographing the (even bigger) view was not my forte. I can’t do it. Joe Cornish and the like can do it with ease. But my attempts to capture the grandeur of my locale left me seriously underwhelmed. Instead, I found that my head was being turned with greater regularity by the smaller view. Views that I’m fairly sure I would have walked past in the lakes.

Grudie Pines: The sort of scene that I regressed to after failing with the bigger views. I’ve always believed in the ‘less is more’ principle, but that meant I was just taking the same pictures as before.

Wall Holm: Ullswater was five miles from my home when I took up photography. With views like this, thought wasn’t really necessary. I literally wandered around in point/shoot mode.

Views that were as nothing to the grand views. But continued to hold my gaze the longer I looked at them. I’ve always said, “See with the heart, shoot with the head”. Perhaps it was time to take my own advice. To shoot the smaller view.

Every image I make is intimate. They’re all a labour of love. And that love, that feeling of awe at the smaller and smaller world around me, led me to take all sorts of images that would have been beyond my more narrow minded Cumbrian persona.

I’m not going to say the ‘intimate view’ as I hate that phrase. I love our landscape. Photographing it is my passion. Every image I make is intimate. They’re all a labour of love. And that love, that feeling of awe at the smaller and smaller world around me, led me to take all sorts of images that would have been beyond my more narrow-minded Cumbrian persona.

Do I question my failure at capturing the bigger view? No. It's just the way it is. If I dwelt on that failure, I might question our move to the desolate wastelands of the North. Instead of basking in my failure I’d rather look back at some of the images over the last three years or so with a smug feeling of pride. Having said all that, I’ve no idea what is next. But whatever it is, I’m looking forward to it.

Sea Haar on Bad a Crotha: It's a rarity when we get a cold mist sweeping in from the sea, but when it does, it changes our little world. It gives the reeds such a wonderful sense of separation.

Kelp on Opinan beach: The reeds had set me off. And the culmination was shooting seaweed. And the culmination of the reeds was wandering our own beach at an incredibly low tide. This image was made 200 yards from our house. The emotional attachment to the images I made that day is profound.

Reading the Landscape

By Murray White | February 7, 2025

Like growling water grows
into a drowning swell,
this scarp of buckled waves
pound more than they expel.
The screams of molten Earth
blast through ruptured jaws to Hell;
no doubt the horrors beneath,
wreak darkly stories as well.

I’ve long held the regrettable belief that landscape captures of a traditional genre are rarely seen by the non-photographic community as anything more than visual selections – sometimes captivating, even thoughtful selections, but selections made of those largely inanimate objects considered by many to be neutral elements. For the eyes of these viewers journey only to a place and time of presumed authentic origins, where beauty or perhaps darker moods prevail, but little separates this understanding from those intentions (and actions) perceived of the photographer. There may be a feeling of having simply being privy to a view of singular worth, as witnessed by another.

To say that a fleeting pictorial only assessment of that landscape is all that is justified almost certainly devalues a photograph’s true potential, as even the most casual of images evolve from a unique perspective.

In the making of a photograph, we all consciously or otherwise prioritise features, exclude elements and wish to acknowledge something of a more subliminal presence in the composition, however elusive that desire may be in reality.

Titling an image is one way to draw your viewer away from an otherwise purely visual interpretation and into a mindset where a declared artistic intention brings additional weight. A few well chosen keywords may stimulate our pictorial objectivity and metaphorically rearrange a photograph’s architecture into an alternative understanding. For me, choosing to title a landscape with information other than a location or time has helped both present a parallel understanding to a viewer and, indeed, challenge my own sense of place in relationship to the environment.

In recent years, that familiarity with landscape for me has become more engaging, more intimate, and, I believe, more communicative. Those once descriptive titles have now morphed into increasingly multi-layered phrases and, ultimately, into poetic pairings. Today, I find verse without any titling at all offers a rewarding exchange between the image and its latent meaning – at least to me as the maker. Perhap,s too, a viewer now possessing another perspective will find a passing visual encounter to no longer be conclusive; this interaction must be approached as if a meeting of minds, where involvement is clearly encouraged.

How far away
does space go on
… to astral graves,
where light rays shone?
Or further still,
beyond these tombs.
Where nothing leaves.
But space resumes.

Look first to light
for what is sure,
lest that unseen
doubts what we saw.
But feel the truth
that sight ignores:
when darkness breathes,
our soul explores.

To those visual folk uneasy with a word and image pairing, it is worth mentioning that diptychs and similar photographic mechanisms of association have long served as very effective vectors for viewer interaction. In their simplest form, such pairings provide evidence of visual or emotional similarities (or differences) while more complex examples can explore those conceptual landscapes where the meaning or question may be more nuanced. In either guise, it is the exchange itself that confirms of a deeper link, an idea that the partnership holds more value than the sum of its parts.

A poetic pairing can exhibit these same mutually beneficial qualities. Sympathetic verse blends effortlessly with an appropriate image to either broaden the scope of its understanding or narrow the focus to a specific aspect of the subject. In some instances, both outcomes can be simultaneously true – in my mind, the capacity for an ambiguous pairing to evade description or be different things to different people only amplifies the possibilities for us as the creator.

My eyes are invariably drawn to cryptic subjects and puzzling features, especially those that mimic human behaviours or suggest bodily forms, and I enjoy the holistic flavour that verse can bring to these studies. Anthropomorphic images invite the use of text to further that interpretation or even imply conscious communication.

Less overt imagery can still suggest of a link, elevating otherwise random pictorial forms into a perceived living relationship, where poetic words can sustain that ephemeral transition between the abstract and reality that we photographers crave.

In an underworld of polish,
like an opal cut by trolls,
the weary hone of time
shines its gloss in jagged knolls.
Water skips a starry glint,
on that trickling chime that rolls;
through endless velvet echoes,
so smoothing to our souls.

Using words as a catalyst to extend the artistic merit (both real or projected) of our landscape is no different to any other mechanism we may reach for. But just as alternative processes or dramatic Photoshop editing, for example, are unlikely to transform a mediocre image into a more meaningful print, poetic verse can only pass on that which the photograph is capable of holding. An inadequate image will not be redeemed by poetry alone. And vice versa.

Despite the overlap of this media driven collaboration, the photograph must still provide an engaging visual experience without the aid of verbal direction. Ideally, any words should remain meaningful and uncoupled from the image. (Although it could be argued that as visual layers always exist, they will be self-evident to the viewer; however, words, particularly poetic sequences, are often vague and therefore rely on context for clarification.) Either way, the best work is made when each component is singularly strong, gathering even more power in concert.

In my practice, I have chosen to only use two rhyming quatrains to accompany an uncropped 4X5 format monochromatic image. Somewhat paradoxically, I find the limitations that accompany these self-imposed creative boundaries actually broaden the scope of the pairing. Using only a Mamiya 7 and 4X5 Ebony, I force myself to identify landscape elements compatible with standard silver gelatin paper sizes rather than allow the most obvious subject or compositional framework to dictate how I should treat it. Similarly, by containing my text to a specific length and format, I must explore alternative and unexpected arrangements of verse because I have found that which initially links most conveniently to the image often contributes the least inspiring content.

Should belief respond to cues
that vision yearns to see;
to assume that curves must flow,
like roots support a tree?
Or shall form beyond clear sight,
as shadows may promote,
then pose another truth -
or sink what seems to float?

Choosing to follow an instinctive rather than intellectual pathway through an image and its supporting text does not necessarily weaken the veracity of the subject matter either. I remain committed to a faithful reproduction of the natural environment (notwithstanding the B&W capture), but happily respond to those unexpected possibilities that emerge from the visual authenticity.

Choosing to follow an instinctive rather than intellectual pathway through an image and its supporting text does not necessarily weaken the veracity of the subject matter either.

Perhaps reverence for landscape demands that we not confine its potential to only specific visual practices but allow providence and imagination to coalesce in a more enlightened tribute.

Indeed, one of the most rewarding aspects of pairing words with photography is being able to explore the visual world as a participant and redefine our own sense of landscape. In many instances, the basic concept and its artistic intention at the time of exposure remain fixed, but the breadth of interpretation, and importantly, those boundaries we may have consciously set, need not restrict a richer understanding of the scene. Perhaps choosing to find words may also find a depth we have not visualised before.

: Like growling water grows
into a drowning swell,
this scarp of buckled waves
pound more than they expel.
The screams of molten Earth
blast through ruptured jaws to Hell;
no doubt the horrors beneath,
wreak darkly stories as well.

: How far away
does space go on
… to astral graves,
where light rays shone?
Or further still,
beyond these tombs.
Where nothing leaves.
But space resumes.

: Look first to light
for what is sure,
lest that unseen
doubts what we saw.
But feel the truth
that sight ignores:
when darkness breathes,
our soul explores.

: In an underworld of polish,
like an opal cut by trolls,
the weary hone of time
shines its gloss in jagged knolls.
Water skips a starry glint,
on that trickling chime that rolls;
through endless velvet echoes,
so smoothing to our souls.

: Should belief respond to cues
that vision yearns to see;
to assume that curves must flow,
like roots support a tree?
Or shall form beyond clear sight,
as shadows may promote,
then pose another truth –
or sink what seems to float?

: When vision cedes to darkness,
(assuming of Nature’s flaws),
that divine jade of cactus
can savagely bare its claws.
But flowers erupt from quills
proffered light by Summer days.
Full blooms now bound like armour
– and those talons reveal bouquets.

: I paused where time had ended.
There on the beach that day.
It wasn’t clear just when,
or why it chose to stay.
And for moments held so still,
no more did come my way,
but in the rolling march of tide
– this stop… was just delay.

: Light stirs the mind uncertain,
from water’s gathering glint.
Where inky stains fluoresce
… and time bleeds that hazy tint.
Wave plumes beneath swirl foreign
– more liquid than bubbled air;
of fluid and lyrical thoughts,
that swim to a world elsewhere.

: Who tastes the blood of Nature
to recoil from soil so sweet?
Or watches pleading echoes
tumble down an empty street?
For neither blowing kisses
nor by proxy should we greet,
but embrace our Earthen pulse,
then surrender to its beat.

: Can numbers mark the milling wind,
or compare the glare of dew?
Would quieter flame prove love is less
… or just glow a different hue?
Love measures not through size or weight.
Nor scores by arrows Cupid drew.
For the arms of Earthly passion
reach beyond our Earthly view.

: Does Creation shade its magic,
as a hat may hide a hare?
For that water spun by rock
conjures light from thinnest air!
In truth there is no puzzle;
just a twist to so declare.
No sleight of hand in Nature?
– but eyes may choose to stare.

: The danger of nothing,
should ambition shun the call,
is certainty of loss,
not fear to scale the wall.
With emptiness ahead
when dreams take in the fall,
what risk can be greater,
than taking none at all?

: While knowledge writes its pitch
to explain of all things known,
so strength of hope signs on,
to books of text unshown.
For faith invites a vision,
that lecture may not demand
– to understand of our belief:
not believe we understand.

: What fearsome creatures,
estranged from view.
With dark they conspired,
to crush its curfew.
Any rustle or roar,
stoked visions that grew
– for terror chose night.
But that’s all they knew.

: For what do we strive
in haste to begin;
could sparkle and want
bring joy without win?
For contentment smiles
on a race well run –
to treasure your dreams,
but live more with none.

Issue 320

By Tim Parkin | February 1, 2025

Click here to download issue 320 (high quality, 172Mb)

Click here to download issue 320 (smaller download, 145Mb)

End frame: Big Horn Sheep and Mesa Arch, Canyonlands National Park by Whit Richardson

By Bret Edge | January 30, 2025

When Charlotte at On Landscape asked me to select a favorite image and write an End Frame article about it, I accepted without hesitation. Almost immediately, I began scrolling through a mental slideshow of images I’ve viewed over the last twenty-five years as a photographer and I rea quickly realized that this would be no easy task. Fortunately, On Landscape was patient with me as that slideshow continued for several weeks during which time I’d been apparently been stricken with a decision-making disorder. Ultimately, though, Whit Richardson’s outstanding image of a regal bighorn sheep standing before Mesa Arch at sunrise kept popping up over and over.

I call it iconography; the act of photographing the icons of landscape photography. Though these locations have been photographed millions of times, rarely does something truly unique emerge, and that’s what made Whit’s image such a standout. Mesa Arch, in Canyonlands National Park, is a popular sunrise location and is most commonly photographed with wide-angle lenses from a position very close to the arch.

Exploring Sumi-E

By Krister Berg | January 30, 2025

It's exciting to ask oneself how few lines, surfaces, or objects are needed for something to become a photograph. Is a single line enough? A point? Where is the boundary? And how much can a subject be reduced? Would it still be a photograph if I only captured a white surface? Yes, perhaps in a strict sense, but hardly meaningful. Something more is required.

My interest in these questions began with an image I took in 2018. I saw something different, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I tried to replicate the idea in the following winters without success. It's very difficult to capture the conditions needed for such images. However, I continued to explore the theme over several winters and dove deep into the art world to find what had inspired me.

Exploring Sumi-E

An art form that has spent centuries exploring the question of how little is needed to create an image is the Zen Buddhist Japanese/Chinese Sumi-e tradition. Here, we often find delicate ink paintings that seem to float in the air. They appear temporary, short-lived, and random in their fragility. We've all seen these images—spindly bamboo leaves and silhouettes of mountains and trees against an eternal white sky.

An art form that has spent centuries exploring the question of how little is needed to create an image is the Zen Buddhist Japanese/Chinese Sumi-e tradition.

The paintings are created in the moment, following a set formula, and can never be repeated.

René Schädler

By René Schädler & Michéla Griffith | January 30, 2025

In this interview, René Schädler talks to us about the inspirations and experiences that have shaped his photography, from a fascination with art to the landscapes of Switzerland and beyond. Through solitary travel and an increasingly minimalist approach, he aims to reflect the emotional resonance of large scale, peaceful spaces in his carefully composed images.

Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what you went on to do?

I grew up in Switzerland, more precisely in central Switzerland, in the city of Zug, where I still live today. My childhood was characterised by a lot of freedom and proximity to nature. Growing up near the lake, and the countless hours I spent in the nearby mountains and in the forest, awakened my thirst for discovery and my imagination at an early age. During my teenage years, I developed an increasing interest in creative forms of expression, be it drawing, painting or photography. I suspect that this freedom and the many experiences I had were the basis for my preference to be creatively active.

At the same time, sport played an important role in my life. With the ice hockey stadium just around the corner, I developed an enthusiasm for this team sport at an early age. This passion led to a career of several years as a professional player at the local ice hockey club. Back then, it was still common to combine professional sport with a business career. In my case, this path led me from graphic design to architectural illustration to interior design and later to marketing, where I still work today.

Fontainebleau – Intimate Landscape: A Book Review

By Tim Parkin | January 29, 2025

If there is a single place that could be considered the home of the modern landscape, I’d have to choose Fontainebleau. Note that I say landscape and not landscape photography because the modern approach to our landscape was really born in the 19th Century when a range of painters left romanticism and drama behind and moved to a more intimate approach to art with nature at its core. These changes happened near Paris, and if you want to read more about them, Francesco, whose book this review is for, has written an excellent article in one of his series about early painters, “Past Masters - The Barbizon Painters”.

This group of painters started a movement that looked to the landscape as their muse, particularly the wooded landscape of Fontainebleau. Not only was their work seen as the catalyst for the Impressionist movement, but Fontainebleau became a locus for experimentation and self-expression for the newfound technology of photography. Photographers like Cuvelier and Gustav Le Grey used the newly installed railway from Paris to make repeated visits to the area and produce some of the first recognised landscape photographs. If you want to see a few artworks and photographs from that period, there is a great article on the Incollect website that is worth a perusal.

Francesco has used Fontainebleau in much the same way as many artists before him and has created a book that combines a personal take on photography with extracts and impressions from his research on the related art history of the location. There are a range of short essays throughout the book that discuss the history of the Barbizon school and combine it with Francesco’s thoughts on how it relates to his own photography.

Intimate Landscapes

It’s easy to think that the idea of the Intimate landscape is a new trend when, in fact, we can see some of its origins from nearly two hundred years ago. Some of our foundational ideas on landscape photography actually come from the romantic period, possibly via the Hudson River School and Ansel Adams, but there’s a parallel, intimate thread that runs from the Barbizon, via impressionism and through photographers like Eliot Porter to the present day. Francesco’s photographs won’t reveal new geographic marvels or amaze with extraordinary atmospheric optics because they’re not intended to. They’re a personal response to a landscape that doesn’t impose itself.

I like the quote from Renoir in one of Francesco’s short Essays: “The disadvantage of Italy is that it’s too beautiful. Why paint when you have so much pleasure in looking? To resist what is beautiful, not let yourself be squandered, you have to know your job”. This idea that objective beauty is a distraction is one that is difficult to understand for many photographers, after all, who doesn’t want to share natural beauty? But sharing our response to the intimate can be much more personal and more likely to reveal the artist.

The Book

Francesco’s book is beautifully created and goes beyond being a simple portfolio by revealing a threadlike connection with the past that rewards following. The images draw from historical influences without slavishly adapting them. There are inevitably some standout images, and I’ve tried to include a couple in this review, but the pacing of the whole works well and is difficult to represent in extractions.

What comes across most is a sense of connection, of someone allowing the landscape to craft them as much as they’re crafting their own interpretations. Francesco has allowed his passion and connection with the forest and its historical denizens to mediate the way he’s discovered the forest.

As an observation, I’ve also noticed that this type of landscape may be familiar to photographers from the UK in that it looks a lot like the gritstone of the Peak District (take a look at Matt Oliver's work in this issue as an example). It was no surprise to discover that some of Francesco’s formative moments were spent in that area, and I wonder whether this has had an influence on his work.

It’s a book well worth discovering for yourself, and I’d also highly recommend looking at Francesco’s series of articles on the history of art and landscape (a series that will continue in 2025!). You can buy Francesco’s book directly from his website for 65 Euros (~£55, ~$68).

Book

Sample Images

Photographing in Fiordland National Park of New Zealand

By Mike Langford | January 28, 2025

Awaking amid the stillness of Bradshaw Sound early one morning, shrouded in mist with the sound of a waterfall somewhere off in the distance, I already know that I'm in my photographic heaven. It is here that photography is the expression of all my sensory elements. Through photographing, I can hear crisper, smell cleaner, taste richer, feel with sensitivity and see beyond my eyesight.

It's the being here that does this for me, tucked away in a very small corner of the most wonderful part of the planet, deep in the very heart of Te Wahipounamu, 'Fiordland National Park' in the South West of New Zealand.

It's photography that brings me back here year after year, rising to the challenge of trying to photograph how it feels compared to just being there.

Any Questions, with special guest Morag Paterson

By Morag Paterson, Tim Parkin & Joe Cornish | January 26, 2025

The premise of our podcast is loosely based on Radio Four's “Any Questions.” Joe Cornish and I (Tim Parkin) invite a special guest to each show and solicit questions from our subscribers.

Reflecting on February

By James Rodewald | January 24, 2025

Like many artists, I find creativity to be a consistently inconsistent presence in my life. It waxes and wanes with some sort of odd schedule. Arriving unannounced at times. Nowhere to be found at others. That can be frustrating for sure, especially if you depend on it financially. It has taken a great deal of time, but I have come to embrace it and accept it for what it is. Like a long-term friend who you rarely hear from, but when you do, you just pick up where you left off, and all is good.

Much has been written about the subject of creativity for artists, musicians, and writers. It would be exhausting to expand upon what has already been said elsewhere. It’s all helpful and informative, for sure. It’s even consoling at times when that old friend's creativity has been absent a bit too long for comfort. My experience is not much different from all of those who have struggled with its comings and goings.

That all said, over the past three years, I have participated in a unique project that I have found to be particularly helpful in stimulating creativity. It’s my genuine hope that other artists may benefit from it, too.

In early 2021, an artist colleague of mine, Takeyce Walter, shared a series of paintings she was creating each day during the month of February. Small pastels of scenes from across the Adirondack region of New York. She called it Creative February and it was fascinating to watch it unfold across the month. She had been doing this annual project for several years. When January the following year arrived, and I began seeing her preparations, I wondered how I could do such a project with photography. My long-term marriage had recently ended in divorce, so I was at a pretty low point at the time, and my photography felt like it was falling apart. My focus seemed missing, and my inspiration felt like it had never even existed. Simply put, my creativity was gone and I was struggling to see a way out. I decided to give the project a try and committed myself to giving it my best through February 2022 on the chance it may help me with my struggles.

Before starting I decided I would add some constraints so that the images might become cohesive and my creativity would be pushed. It sounds self-punishing, but I suspected some constraints might be helpful. This is especially so since I had hoped to create some sort of body of work from the month that made sense. After some thought, I decided to limit myself to 1x1 black and white photographs of nature. An image a day taken from my surroundings, wherever I may be that month. To make it even more challenging, they were to all be taken with my iPhone 13 Pro and processed on whatever apps were available for that smartphone. Definitely not my primary camera. I had not used this phone camera for serious photography, but I had enjoyed its free form ease of use in thinking through compositions.

The first week of this project was definitely rough. I struggled to find the time it seemed to demand of me. With each successive image that week I thought about stopping the project. It was creating more stress than I was willing to take on.

The first week of this project was definitely rough. I struggled to find the time it seemed to demand of me. With each successive image that week, I thought about stopping the project. It was creating more stress than I was willing to take on.

Once that first weekend arrived, however, I found myself getting more interested in the project. Creative ideas began to flow, and I began looking forward to each new day’s challenge. By the end of February, I actually wanted to keep going and felt like I had a collection of images that I was proud of!

I enjoyed the first Creative February project so much that I decided to give it a second try when February arrived again. That month was a real joy, especially since I was striving to avoid repetition and forced myself to photograph places I had not explored before. To my surprise, the projects were helping pull me out of the creative slump I had been lingering in. What had started off as a chore had evolved into a productive flow of creativity.

When the third year arrived, I was hesitant to take on the challenge out of concern for being repetitive. I was not confident I would be able to avoid the issue with such a tight work schedule. I fretted that finding new subjects would be more demanding. Like the first year, it was a bumpy start, but as time set in, things began to flow as they had in previous years. As the third year was concluding, I began wondering how the images from the past three “Februaries” could be connected with each other in some sort of collection. To my surprise, some connections emerged. Excited by this discovery, I sent all eighty-six images through my printer and laid them out on my studio table. After an hour or so of sorting and shuffling, it was clear that four themes emerged. Ice, Trees, Flow, and Shore. To my amazement, they could all be arranged in couplets like opposing pages in an opened book. That came as a complete surprise because it was not something I had thought of as I was recording any of the photographs. This discovery was the genesis of my latest eBook, “Reflecting on February.”

Maybe my words could help someone who is also struggling with pain? Past all the image couplets, “Reflecting on February” also presents some short essays addressing these questions in the hope to be helpful to those in need.

It was a pleasure putting the book together since it allowed me to review all the work and connect with it on a more meaningful basis. I did not want the book to be merely pictures, however, because I felt there were some lessons I had learned over the course of the past three years. Maybe my experience could help others in their own creative journey? Maybe my words could help someone who is also struggling with pain? Past all the image couplets, “Reflecting on February” also presents some short essays addressing these questions in the hope to be helpful to those in need.

You can buy James's ebook "Reflecting on February" from his website

Do you have a project that you're working on or have completed that you'd like to submit an article on? Please get in touch as we're always interested in new contributors.

Issue 319

By Tim Parkin | January 17, 2025

Click here to download issue 319 (high quality, 200Mb)

Click here to download issue 319 (smaller download, 146Mb)

End frame: Flow, by Simon Baxter

By Brian Northmore | January 16, 2025

I’m delighted that I was asked by On Landscape to write this End Frame article. It's not often that you are given the chance to share your views with such a knowledgeable and passionate readership. It’s daunting to comment on a photograph made by a true master of the genre. So, thank you Simon Baxter for agreeing to this.

When I was asked to write this piece and given the freedom to choose any photograph, I chose the photographer first. It's the photographer who makes the image never the other way around. I admire Simon’s approach to photography. It is clear in what he says, how he works, and in the photographs that he makes the subject come first. His connection to the woodland landscape has deep roots, from childhood adventures to more recent rejuvenating and therapeutic strolls with Meg - his four-legged companion. His subject-first, photograph-second approach leads him to take images that are deeply satisfying to him, and his photographs are highly regarded by the landscape photography community, something to aspire to for all woodland photographers.

Choosing the photograph wasn’t so easy. If you have never visited Simon’s website I urge you to look as soon as possible. It's not easy to skim through the portfolios as each photograph draws you in. So, out of the many possibilities, why did I choose Flow? There are many reasons I felt a strong connection to this photograph; I kept returning time and again. For me, that is the mark of a great image. But it wouldn’t be an end frame article without gently peeling the layers back; to do this, I had to spend a good few hours with the photograph.

Technical excellence is evident in all of Simon’s photographs. In Flow it can be seen in the careful and clever use of colour, the subtle and gradual desaturation of the greens as the woodland is consumed by the blanket of mist. With so much green it would be easy for the photograph to have taken on a very monochromatic feel. But the dusting of coppery tones adds enough interest to strengthen the base of the image, leaving a resting place for your eyes. It's not restricted to just the colour, the handling of shadows and highlights, or maybe, I should say, the absence of any deep shadows or highlights adds to the gentle ethereal feel that this photograph has. The subtle lighting of the centre of this image invokes a sense of depth, a classic technique skillfully done to draw the viewer in. Is this why I chose Flow for my end frame? Partly.

Mastery of the technical allows the photographer to bring their creative vision to life. Surrounded by the chaos of woodland, being able to pick out complementary shapes and combining them into a cohesive composition is one of the hardest sub-genres of Landscape photography. Flow works on many levels; the repetitive motion of the trees from right to left mimics the slope of the ground and the way the branches gently exit stage right, none of them connect with the top corner; how many photographers would have had the branches exit here as a powerful compositional element? But here it would have caused a point of visual tension capturing the viewer's eye. The natural vignetting of the corners using the tree canopy is enough to ask the viewer to return to the lighter centre of the frame. Subtle detail can be drawn out by peering through the mist, inviting you to linger a little longer. Notice how the centre is underlined by the subtle, unbroken carpet of autumnal ferns. The subtle vignette, depth, use of colour and gentle flow from left to right would be enough on its own to choose the photograph.

But there is one more visual delight, a compositional stroke of genius that disrupts the flow. The upright broken branch in the distant centre frame is mimicked and powerfully matched by its closer cousin, top and centre. They share a compelling connection and play off each other, bouncing the viewer back and forth until there is no choice but to look away. This is what kept me coming back and why I chose Flow as my end frame.

Now, I dare you to look at the photograph again.

On Engagement with ‘Form’

By Douglas Butler | January 15, 2025

“[C]reativity is inherently . . . tied up with process, you cannot escape it. ~Joe Cornish

“Form: manner or style of performing or accomplishing according to recognised standards of technique ~Miriam-Webster Dictionary

The Pioneer Valley consists of the three counties through which the Connecticut River—the longest river in New England—flows down Western Massachusetts from Vermont to Connecticut. The “Pioneer Valley” was dubbed by nameless travel writers a century ago to draw tourists into the area, an invention that adds a deceptive veneer to an area suffused with over 6,000 years of human history. Accounting for its fertile soils and arboretum feel, the Pioneer Valley is situated on a former seabed snugged in an ancient rift valley, sat between the once rugged Berkshire Mountains and an unnamed ridge of peaks to the east. It is in this rather narrow former ocean floor turned terrarium that I, nearly exclusively, make images, and in which I have come to hope for and rely on the unexpected in doing so. Making images on an ocean floor turned veritable botanical garden, where over 6,000 years of human experience has been expunged and from a name contrived by forgotten advertising men, it seems fitting that a random quote from surrealist novelist Tom Robbins has provided a key for unlocking a more considered approach to my image making.

It is an approach that I have applied for some time and that has allowed me to start pursuing, as acclaimed American photographer Ralph Gibson puts it, a “visual signature” and to evolve the artistic outcomes I seek (and the methods by which I achieve those outcomes). This renewed approach — a roadmap of sorts — could lead anyone to artistic discovery in expressive image-making, and creative engagement generally. For, as Paul Strand put it, “If the photographer is not a discoverer, then he is not an artist.”

Edges

Robbins, a renowned novelist who the New York Times called “a cosmic lounge lizard,” morphed from a strict Southern Baptist upbringing, “into a moonbeam of the counterculture” of the American 1970s and beyond. Robbins seems never at a loss for the enigmatic, if not oddball, prophetic turn of phrase (or entire novel). Robbins, largely known for works that are “very weird . . . hilarious and curiously moving,” (like Jitterbug Perfume and Still Life with Woodpecker), is by all accounts a meticulous writer who “knows words the way a pool hustler knows chalk.” One of Writer’s Digest “100 Best Writers of the 20th Century”, Robbins was a well-known art critic in Seattle, Washington, before turning to novels. It was an experience that seeped into his fiction. In “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues”, Robbins gave sound instruction to the artist.

If you take any activity, any art, any discipline, any skill, take it and push it as far as it will go, push it beyond where it has ever been before, push it to the wildest edge of edges, then you force it into the realm of magic.

Enticing tuition for the artist, for who among us does not desire entry into the realm of magic? This directive to push art to the “wildest edge of edges” has given me a key to unfurling a vast expanse for exploration and discovery in my expressive image making.

When speaking of pushing any discipline beyond the “wildest edge of edges”, Robbins is speaking of form, that is, “manner or style of performing or accomplishing according to recognised standards of technique” — what Cornish calls process and what Gibson refers to as the protocols of photography. Robbins' invitation to the artist is to go beyond the limitations confronting all manner of creative engagement, including those “recognised standards of technique.” Form (process/protocols) are the parameters within which all photographers must work. However, I see form — Robbins’ form — as something broader than merely recognised standards of technique, process or protocols. Robbins’ form is virtually bespoke for each of us and encompasses aspects spanning the unique to the universal. This form concerns the methods employed by the artist, rather than the goal, the achievement, the outcome. This form is that distinct space — physical, emotional, material and metaphoric — in which we dwell as creatively engaged artists. Form includes limits, boundaries, that confine that space — frontiers for exploration, at the outer limits of which lie Robbins’ “wildest edge of edges.”

I imagine this broader version of form as the structure in which an artist must dwell and work while creatively engaged, and includes all that bounds our efforts as artists. It involves every aspect of the creative process. Among myriad others, form for the photographic artist includes our chosen genres, our subjects and thematic approaches, the choices we make with respect to our gear and processing, our decisions whether to practice predominantly near field or far field, digital or analog, our intimacy with the areas and the conditions in which we work. It also includes the thoughts, feelings, emotions, preconceptions and expectations we bring to each and every step along the process of creative engagement. Expressive image making is bound on all sides with the parameters of this more expansive version of form.

We must assess and reassess our gear and technology, our ability to achieve desired outcomes with the tools we employ, our intimacy with their means and their machinations’ breadth, and how those limits determine the outcomes we seek.

These boundaries include what is achievable with whatever gear is in one’s kit and the proficiency one has with it — our understanding of and proficiency with, so to speak, “how film sees the world,” as Ansel Adams put it. They include the ability and aptitude to access, interact and commune with desired locations and subjects, and one’s capacity to work in the conditions met. They include the personal constraints we all have as people, such as our physical condition, our locality and our ability or willingness to travel, and monetary limitations that directly shape our creative efforts. These various strictures and boundaries all apply their forces on our output as creative agents. For me, however, the ultimate importance of form lies not in its structure, per se, not the boundaries that hem us in. Rather, form’s significance lies in a purposeful, contemplative engagement with that framework and its limits, that is to say, the critical and ever-evolving relationships we build and cultivate with that space in which we are bound, in which we dwell while creatively engaged with image making.

Applying this broader interpretation of form, Robbins’ edict becomes a personal invitation to explore unreservedly that structure or space we all inhabit while engaged creatively. It is an invitation inveigling me “to push my art beyond where it has ever been before, push it to the wildest edge of edges” that limit me, and the outcomes I seek, from creative engagement. It is an invitation that perhaps should be accepted by anyone engaging with creativity, with artistic expression. Robbins’ edict is to explore the imaginative space that form provides, that space we inhabit as individual artists, such that we evolve, grow and move toward that realm of magic. To evolve as artists, we must assess and reassess our expectations from and our relationship with this comprehensive form, from the mundane to the esoteric, from form’s universal aspects applicable to all engaged in expressive image-making to those completely unique to our individual efforts.

We must do so with our gear and technology, our ability to achieve desired outcomes with the tools we employ, our intimacy with their means and their machinations’ breadth, and how those limits determine the outcomes we seek. It means examining freely and with regularity our relationships with and connections to our creative environs, whether near or far afield, before we arrive, in situ and after we depart, and how those relationships and connections enhance or inhibit our creative efforts. For those of us engaging with the landscape, it means examining and gaining an understanding of the history of a place and our history with that place as it evolves over time. It means ever striving to gain a better understanding of what we can expect when in those environs in which we choose to make images — weather, mood, atmosphere — in order to foster an ability to engage with the creative process when expectations are altogether met, when those hopes are not met or prove altogether unfounded, or when we choose to leave all expectation behind. And importantly, it means examining our relationship with ourselves, our goals and aspirations, writ large and small, and our engagement with those things I list, and others, that is, our engagement with form.

Following Robbins’ guidance to push art as far as it will go could provide the artist a route to those edges of form where I would suggest, the artist may coax art “into the realm of magic.” It is this engagement, this process, that I believe could be a foundation from which any artist to pursue any goal, any outcome, they seek to achieve, both in any given moment and over the long term of committed creative engagement. This requires a commitment to probing our relationships with form and its innumerable facets unrestrainedly, becoming so well versed in form as it pertains to our efforts that its boundaries become inviting, enticing us to explore those edges. We must see our limits not as a threat to achieving the outcomes we desire, but rather we must see them as an invitation, calling us forward so we can push ourselves and our art toward those “wildest edge of edges.” For, as film critic and essayist Phillip Lopate promises, “The fulsome confession of a limit carries the secret promise of an almost infinite opening-out.”

When we, as expressive image makers, examine deeply and regularly our engagement with form and our relationships with its components, no matter “how trivial or mundane” those things can seem, we open a path that can take our art “to such extremes that we illuminate its relationship to all other things . . . to that point of cosmic impact.” Once open, that path sets a bearing on the “wildest edge of edges” and perhaps a glimpse, if not entry into, that “realm of magic.” As grandiloquent as this may sound, I am convinced of the practical impact such an approach can have in the creation of meaningful images. I am not alone, it would seem. Joe Cornish has said that “photographic creativity, is also inherently a reflection of process, from both the science of photography itself and the limits on the materials, the methods and the equipment that are available to you at the time. I think that is a very important lesson to learn and is a great springboard because you can use to your advantage the limitations and the oddities that are the photographic process. . . . Process and creativity to me are intrinsically linked and importantly so.”

At this point in my development as an image maker, entering the “realm of magic” remains largely aspirational. I have, however, glimpsed Robbins’ edge of edges and the distant realm of magic beyond through my purposeful engagement with those intrinsic and important links between my creativity and the processes and protocols of expressive image making. There is no doubt there are countless image makers who regularly dwell in that realm, but there seem few, if any, external signposts pointing the way to it. However, in his approach to his writing, Robbins offered some direction as to the state of mind conducive achieving such engagement with form—a state of mind that would certainly aid any image maker in going beyond the mere glimpse and may even plunge them and their work deep into that realm of magic.

Zen Universe

Michael Dare, a screenwriter and movie producer, assisted Robbins with writing a screenplay, an adaptation of one of Robbins novels that never made it to the screen. During that period, Robbins described his writing process to Dare. In his essay How to Write Like Tom Robbins, Dare discusses that guidance in some detail. Dare explains that when Robbins starts a novel, it works like this. First he writes a sentence. Then he rewrites it again and again, examining each word, making sure of its perfection, finely honing each phrase until it reverberates with the subtle texture of the infinite. Sometimes it takes hours. Sometimes an entire day is devoted to one sentence, which gets marked on and expanded upon in every possible direction until he is satisfied. Then, and only then, does he add a period. Next, he rereads the first sentence and starts writing a second, rewriting it again and again until it shimmers. Then, and only then, does he add a period. While working on each sentence, he has no idea what the next sentence is going to be, much less the next chapter or the end of the book. All thoughts of where he is going or where he has been are banished. Each sentence is a Zen universe unto itself, and while working on it, nothing exists but the sentence. He keeps writing in such a manner until he eventually reaches a sentence which he works on like all the others. He adds a period and the book is done. No editing or revising in any way.

Or, as Robbins himself put it, “I try never to leave a sentence until it’s as good as I think I can make it.” Dare thought Robbins’ methodology was senseless for any writing project, declaring it “was no way to write a book, much less a screenplay.” Robbins himself confessed his approach was “painting myself in corners and seeing if I can get out.” If one wants to aspire to approaching and transcending “the wildest edge of edges” to gain entry into that “realm of magic,” Robbins’ approach of treating each sentence as a “Zen universe unto itself” during which “nothing exists but the sentence” seems a most suitable way to approach image making, what Thomas Joshua Cooper, among others, refers to as building an image.

As Cedric Wright, photographer and mentor to Ansel Adams, said, “[a] secret to fine results is to enjoy the most luxurious deliberations in each step of the work.” He warned that “there is a contagious contentment . . . out of which is apt to flow more of the spirit and qualities needed” to make an image. Wright determined that, “ideally, it should be as if on that one part of the work alone were focused the entire essence of a lifetime.” To strive to engage with this approach when light is fleeting and other limitations are encroaching, or when distractions abound, can reveal for us that “edge of edges” and thereby lead us to that place where creative transcendence may be glimpsed or, perhaps, even realised. Approaching any creative endeavour — except perhaps writing according to Dare — as close to this method as you can seems one route to achieving creative fulfilment, of approaching that realm of magic. While there may be some well-placed reticence to painting oneself into a corner as a routine, Robbins was on to something in his approach to writing that seems perfectly applicable to making images and our engagement with the form. It is through engagement with form that will lead us toward a comprehension and, ultimately, an intimacy with the boundaries that shape our efforts — both those that we all share and those specific to ourselves — such that we can dare to aspire to enter that realm of magic. Committing to such engagement is something that I have explored for some time, but still struggle with. The first step seems to be finding those edges of edges, wherever they may lie. As Lopate suggests, the artist must be “iintrigued by their limitations, both physical and mental [because] what one doesn’t understand, or can’t do, is as good a place as any to start investigating the borders of the self.”

Anamorphosis

From what vantage point must one be positioned to discover the boundaries of form? Where must one be stood in that unique space we each inhabit as creatively engaged artists in order to delineate those edges of form that limit us? What does it mean to and how does one explore those boundaries of form individual to our efforts as expressive image makers? For the artist there seems to be no more of a personal question, one that will elicit unique and individual responses. However, some general steps to those ends seem apparent. First, we must become proficient in those aspects of form necessary for attaining our desired artistic outcomes. We need not master every facet of the recognised standards of technique employed in photography generally, just those necessary to make the images we want to make, to attain the outcomes we desire. And once proficiency with the aspects of form applicable to our particular efforts is attained, those edges become delineated, made ready for exploration, for in order to explore edges of form we must know what they are and where they lie. We must not only know those limitations, we must become intimate with them so that we may strive to master those aspects of form that apply to our unique approach. As Gibson admits, “I have always, always, always worked within a set of specific limitations that led me to an infinitely broader horizon than I would have otherwise arrived. It’s the limitations that open the doors.”

To strive to master form, we must appreciate form as it pertains to Wright’s “luxurious deliberations” throughout image-making. Form in expressive image making is bespoke to each and every expressive image maker. Form is individual. Form is founded upon and bounded by the methodology, aptitude, attitude, psyche, aspirations, desires, gear—and more—that we each bring to our image-making and how we each choose to employ and incorporate those elements into our efforts. Form redefined here is the “[unique] manner or style of performing or accomplishing according to [more than merely those] recognised standards of technique [and includes everything that shapes those efforts].”

Examples of intentional restriction of some aspect of form abound. Henri Cartier-Bresson famously used only one camera, a Leica rangefinder, and one focal length, 50mm, for nearly all of his work. For Guy Tal, much like me, the restriction of where he works applies to his image-making, as he confesses to working “primarily in the landscape of my home, the high deserts of the Colorado Plateau.”

Where does one begin to explore this form when it includes all that which bounds the methods of engagement with the creative process of image making—from the basic to the advanced, the mundane to the esoteric? It seems that the application of a restriction to our craft is widely accepted foundation from which to explore form. Like Gibson, who “always, always, always” applies of “specific limitations” to his work, renowned Australian educator, artist and environmental advocate Len Metcalf, known for his transcendent square sepia images (as well as Len’s School and Len’s Journal), has said that “By having restrictions . . . I find immense freedom and so much extra room to explore.” Examples of intentional restriction of some aspect of form abound. Henri Cartier-Bresson famously used only one camera, a Leica rangefinder, and one focal length, 50mm, for nearly all of his work. For Guy Tal, much like me, the restriction of where he works applies to his image-making, as he confesses to working “primarily in the landscape of my home, the high deserts of the Colorado Plateau.”

As these few examples show, the choices of a starting point for defining and applying some restriction to our work, whether temporary or permanent, are myriad and run the gamut from those that are universally applied to all image makers to those that only affect a given photographer at a given time in a given place. From the basic to the advanced form is all that binds, controls or contorts—desired or not—our efforts. Engagement with form is pervasive and unavoidable. That engagement is where we may begin to seek and, once found, push the boundaries, the edges of form. That engagement will take you from awareness to comprehension and mastery of all that limits our image-making efforts. By applying a restriction, such considered and purposeful engagement with form may allow one to find and surpass the “wildest edge of edges” of form so that we may create something that “reverberates with the subtle texture of the infinite.” Under these circumstances, setting off and exploring the edges of form seems formidable. Being one who engages with the land and landscape nearly exclusively where I live, my interactions and relationships with and connections to Place and the places I go in the Pioneer Valley of Western Massachusetts are foundational components of form that provide fertile ground for me to grow as an artist. The “restriction” of repeatedly making images in one specific location, not for days or weeks, but over the years and under varied conditions and circumstances, has afforded me a vital starting point for exploring the edges of the form within which I create images.

In Part Two, I explore my relationship with Poland Brook Wildlife Management Area, a nearby wildlife refuge, where the images accompanying this essay were made. I tell how my repeated visits over the years have enhanced my efforts to grow as an artist and offer that the same effort could help anyone grow through engagement with form.

Matt Oliver

By Matt Oliver & Tim Parkin | January 14, 2025

Matt's work has reminded me of many days spent with friends (and alone) in the birch woods of the Peak District. It's a particularly beautiful and accessible place with a lot of history. I was interested to see how he interpreted the peculiar connection of the rock, the woodland and the history and I think he's done a really nice job. I sent Matt a few questions about the project and he kindly responded at length as you will see here. The Peak District should hold a place for everyone with a passion for the landscape as the birth of the access movement and this transition from quarry to national park is a key aspect of that progression. Thanks Matt!

Could you tell us a bit about your love for landscape photography, what your early passions were, what you studied, and the career path you ultimately pursued?

I fell in love with photography after taking GCSE art in my last two years at school. Quickly finding out that I lacked any talent with brush or pencil. In the back of the classroom was a darkroom. After seeing one of my terrible images appear in the developer tray, I was hooked by the magic. Deciding I wanted to make photography my career, led to studying for a further 4 years, working for various studios as a (very underpaid) assistant, and eventually setting up my own studio in December 2000. Two years of my studies where in Sheffield, this is were I began to practice landscape photography.

Around 1993/94 I remember trips out to Padley, amazed by this rugged landscape, and twisted trees. In younger days, I also remember the same area from walks with my Dad on weekend trips. Throughout my life, and now later reflecting, I've realised this whole area has given me lots of enjoyment and so many different memories. Growing up has coincided with the changes in this landscape. It's now fundamental to me as a person and a photographer.

I now live just a stones throw away from where I studied 30 or so years ago in Sheffield, just a coincidence, and certainly wasn't planned…It does feel like I have come full circle.

You are a commercial photographer, too and have a studio based in Nottingham. Has your commercial work influenced your style and approach to photography?

In many ways, I have a different approach to each discipline. Commercially, I am often working to someone else's vision or brief and then putting my take on this to achieve what is required. Time is always a pressure, never enough, of course, so the day-to-day can be stressful. Landscapes on the other hand, I try to remove the stress and pressure. Although not always successful, this is something I constantly try and improve on. The outdoors is my escape, something I cherish, so enjoying being out is really important. Again, there is never enough time.

The overlap between the two disciplines is using light. Observing light in the landscape has 100% influenced my commercial work. It sounds obvious, but it's a constant learning curve, even after all these years. Where you stand in relation to the subject in the land is as important as to where you place the light to photograph an object. Subtle movements and placement have huge differences.

Reflecting on your images over the 28 years you’ve been a commercial photographer, what do you think the biggest change in your work has been?

To simplify. In my early days I would definitely over complicate things, way too many lights - 5 or 6 flash heads, is now 2 or 3. Trying to make images appear more natural.

Observing light, especially in nature, has led me to try and improve how I use light in the studio and in the landscape.

My History with the Wetlands

By Benjamin Dimmitt | January 8, 2025

Palms in Creek, 2017

The Environmental Issues

The Chassahowitzka National Wildlife Refuge is a very fragile, spring-fed estuary on Florida’s Gulf Coast, 70 miles north of Tampa. I was overwhelmed by its lush, primaeval beauty on my first visit in 1977 and have photographed there extensively since 2004. The dense palm hammocks and hardwood forests were festooned with ferns and orchids, and the spring fed creeks were a clear azure. There are other similar estuaries nearby but the Chassahowitzka River and the surrounding wetlands are protected as part of the federal National Wildlife Refuge system and the river itself is designated by the state as an Outstanding Florida Water.

Along this part of Florida’s flat west coast, crystal clear fresh water rises up from springs inland and meanders slowly for miles through a hardwood swamp, through brackish marshes and then out into saltwater bays where it merges with the Gulf of Mexico.

Friends of mine had a simple, remote cabin on stilts 30 minutes from the boat launch ramp and just outside of the refuge boundary. I visited them often in the 1980’s and 1990’s and had my bachelor party there.

I began photographing the Chassahowitzka in earnest in the 1990’s, bringing bags of equipment in an open outboard boat. It was a beautiful and pristine subject. I had never seen any place like these wetlands.

In 2004, I began a project, Primitive Florida, photographing landscapes in Florida that I felt were vulnerable to development, rising seas and worsening storms. The Chassahowitzka was a favorite subject for the project. I lived in New York City at the time and made certain to visit the swamp whenever I was in Florida. In 2014, when my host pulled around a creek bend in his skiff, I was horrified to see miles and miles of dead and dying trees in every direction. This devastation is the result of rising sea levels caused by global warming. I hadn’t visited the swamp in 2 years and wasn’t aware that this impact of climate change had arrived at these gulf shores. In the 1970’s, I learned in college that, due to global warming, glaciers would soon begin melting, that sea levels would soon rise and that storms would worsen worldwide. I assumed, without reason, that these changes wouldn’t occur for many generations. On that day in December, 2014, I learned that the future had arrived and I began photographing the ruin around me.

Blue Run Still Life 2, 2020

Expired Palm Sapling, 2019

Early on, I made a commitment to myself to convey this story of degradation. It was difficult to witness the environmental ruin increase year after year. A primary goal for the project was to show what climate change looks like and to make it clear that it is happening now. I didn’t shy away. This is my native landscape, and I had been photographing it for decades before the inundation began. I saw the project as an elegy and a lament.
In order to fully understand what I was seeing and what I was photographing, I sent my photographs of the ruined wetlands to marine scientists working at nearby universities. They confirmed that my photographs depicted the impacts of rising seas and saltwater intrusion.

Ruined Forest, 2015

The Chassahowitzka is a rare first-magnitude spring system originating many miles inland that flows into the Gulf of Mexico. The source of the spring’s discharge is groundwater in the aquifer, which is now only partially replenished by rainfall soaking into the ground. Millions of gallons of fresh spring water are pumped from the ancient underground limestone and sprayed on lawns and fields, run through showers and flushed down toilets and used to generate electricity. What’s worse, Florida’s politicians permit private corporations to siphon millions more gallons into plastic bottles for sale as drinking water around the country. As a result, water flow emerging from the Chassahowitzka spring system has declined by more than half: from 138 cubic feet per second before 1980 to less than 61 cubic feet per second in 2017.

Secondly, the water that still bubbles out of the spring is polluted by nitrate, a plant-growth nutrient that originates mostly from fertilizers and animal and human waste deposited on the land surface or via septic tanks. Nitrate pollution fuels the growth of algae blooms which are smothering springs and the creeks they feed and putting human health at risk. These algae blooms block sunlight from entering the creeks and springs, killing all plant and animal life. What were only recently lively, clear waters have become dead zones covered over by large thick blankets of chartreuse algae.

Large Mat of Toxic Algae, 2021

Finally, the fresh water coming out of many springs is showing signs of a growing saltiness; for Chassahowitzka, the salinity is now 45 times greater than it was in 1980. Historically, fresh water flowed to the coast through spring creeks and rivers, holding in check the landward encroachment of salty Gulf waters. This balance protected upstream waters and the underground aquifer from saltwater intrusion for thousands of years. But in the past forty years, as enormous quantities of water have been pumped from the springs and aquifer, salt water has migrated landward, killing freshwater ecosystems and rendering the drinking water unusable. The problem has become compounded by rising sea levels in the Gulf. Coastal springs like the Chassahowitzka are particularly vulnerable to sea-level rise and increasing storm surges from the Gulf.

The problem has become compounded by rising sea levels in the Gulf. Coastal springs like the Chassahowitzka are particularly vulnerable to sea-level rise and increasing storm surges from the Gulf.

Fallen Palm & Fog, 2015

Although many arms of Florida’s government measure and attempt to protect our springs, there is no political will to mark the situation of the springs as the emergency that it is. No politician is willing to lay out to the people of Florida why the rivers and springs are dying and what must happen to change that trajectory.

: Ruined Forest, 2015

: Blue Run Still Life 2, 2020

: Expired Palm Sapling, 2019

: Palms in Creek, 2017

: Three Palm Stumps, 2017

: Brent’s Savanna, 2015

: Skip’s Canopy, 2015

: Roof View, 2016

: Collapsed Oak & Sawgrass Prairie, 2016

: Wendell’s Fog, 2018

: Diagonal Trees in Creek, 2021

: Creek Bend & Dead Trees, 2018

: Dead Palm in Creek, 2019

: Blue Run, Late Sun, 2020

: Impassable Creek, 2022

: Large Mat of Toxic Algae, 2021

: Fallen Palm & Fog, 2015

Calvin Chiu – Portrait of a Photographer

By Matt Payne | January 3, 2025

This iteration of the Portrait of a Photographer column was inspired by outreach I conducted on Instagram, where I asked people via my stories to recommend photographers who inspire them. One such photographer mentioned is Calvin Chiu.

From his first childhood encounters with film photography to his ambitious projects capturing the Sierra Nevada’s grandeur, his work is as much about documenting landscapes as it is about embracing their fleeting essence.

I was immediately impressed by his approach to making landscape photographs from difficult-to-reach locations using his film camera.

Calvin Chiu’s path as a photographer is deeply rooted in exploration, history, and a passion for the natural world. From his first childhood encounters with film photography to his ambitious projects capturing the Sierra Nevada’s grandeur, his work is as much about documenting landscapes as it is about embracing their fleeting essence. Along the way, Chiu has blended personal growth with artistic ambition, producing photography that inspires awe and also reflects the environment’s fragility.

Dream Hunter – The Genesis

By Nicolas Raspiengeas & Tim Parkin | December 24, 2024

Nicolas informed me that he was making a book for his work some time ago and I know he has a varied portfolio and exacting standards, I was interested in his approach. He agreed to send me some information about his choices which you can find below - Tim

The idea was to present all my photographic work from 2014 to 2022. However, as I'm interested in a lot of very different subjects and I didn't want to restrict myself to one theme, I asked myself, ‘What links all my photographic work’?

I put all my images on the same screen and simply looked at them together. Without necessarily paying particular attention, I noticed similarities and links in the images. This could be the case for a similar subject but also for images that, at first glance, have nothing to do with each other.

Which, in a way, makes sense because I just photographed what I liked, letting my imagination run wild. I did this unconsciously, without thinking in terms of a series. Looking for the same hues, lights and textures, whatever the subject matter over the years. When I think of it, I even think that working in a series can drag a photographer's work down.

The process of printing my book has been a profound learning experience. From selecting the right printer and paper to deciding on the number of copies, I discovered a wealth of information over the past few months. Here’s a summary of my journey.

Choosing the Printer

To closely oversee the printing process and be present during the critical makeready stage, I opted for a printer near my home—a fortunate decision, as I’ll explain later.

Deciding on the Book Format

I selected a 30x30 cm format for the book, as it strikes an excellent balance. This size accommodates both panoramic and vertical photos—the formats I use most frequently. When considering your book’s format, it’s essential to match it to the types of visuals you typically create.

Selecting the Paper

Initially, I leaned towards using art paper for the book. However, after researching binding methods and reviewing other art books, particularly in landscape photography, I realized that coated paper was a better option. Not only is it more cost-effective, but it’s also more flexible—an essential feature for landscape photographers. Flexible paper allows the book to open flat, making it ideal for showcasing panoramas. For this reason, some photographers even prefer Swiss-style binding.

Funding and Promotion

Instead of launching a crowdfunding campaign, I decided to finance the project entirely on my own. While it’s too soon to determine whether this was the optimal choice, I had specific reasons for this decision.

Lower Costs: By taking out a loan from my bank at an interest rate of 5–6%, I avoided the higher fees of around 8% charged by crowdfunding platforms.
Accessibility: Many potential supporters might find creating an account on a crowdfunding platform cumbersome, which could deter participation.
Direct Engagement: Selling the book directly through my website not only promotes my work but also introduces people to my services, potentially generating additional revenue.
Navigating Challenges
During the printing process, I faced a significant setback that proved both stressful and expensive. I’d like to share this experience as a cautionary tale.

During the printing process, I faced a significant setback that proved both stressful and expensive. I’d like to share this experience as a cautionary tale

Before scheduling, the printer provided a preview of the book after converting the mock-up and photos into CMYK format. This conversion step is critical as it ensures the final rendering is accurate. I was particularly concerned about the aurora borealis photos, which showed some unusual aberrations. My graphic designer assured me this was normal, as CMYK renderings are inherently less vibrant than RGB. Trusting her expertise, I proceeded with the makeready.

Unfortunately, my fears were confirmed during the print run—the aurora photos looked dreadful at the end of the line. Production had to be halted. After discussions with the management, my graphic designer, and the technicians, we decided to redo the process the following day. That evening, I re-edited all the aurora photos, applying less processing to them. The next day’s conversion yielded significantly improved results with no aberrations.

Technicians explained that the aurora’s colors—green, red, and purple—pushed the technical limits of what offset printing could reproduce. Additionally, neither my graphic designer nor the printers flagged the issue earlier because they had never seen an aurora borealis in real life; even with aberrations, the photos seemed “normal” to them.

Lessons Learned

If you have doubts about a CMYK conversion, always request test prints on an inkjet printer to verify the rendering. This precaution can save you significant time and money. In my case, between the costs of proofing and reprinting the faulty books, this error set me back nearly €2,800.

By sharing my journey, I hope to provide insights and help others avoid the pitfalls I encountered. The printing process is as much about meticulous preparation as it is about creativity and vision.

The book is called “‘Dream Hunter - The Genesis” what does this mean, and how did you choose the images for the book based on this title?

It evokes two things at once. The path I chose to take nearly 10 years ago. For years, I wandered from job to job, unable to find my place. And it was during a trip to Australia in 2012 that I discovered what I was made for! Since then, I've been creating a ‘tailor-made’ path for myself, which is also a reference to my first plane ticket, which said ‘Check My trip’.

The genesis, as I describe my beginnings in photography and how I got into it. The images are taken from all my photography work from 2014 to winter 2022. The images were chosen firstly for their quality and the accomplished aspect that they represent for me, and then by working on the principle of associations.

The path I chose to take nearly 10 years ago. For years, I wandered from job to job, unable to find my place. And it was during a trip to Australia in 2012 that I discovered what I was made for!

From the book spreads we’ve seen, you’ve spent some time sequencing photographs so they complement each other. Did you have to include pictures you wouldn’t have otherwise to allow this, and did you exclude any images you loved because of this

That's a very good question! With very few exceptions, I wanted to include all the photos here. On the other hand, there are some strong images in my portfolio that I've never managed to combine. I call these ‘orphan’ images. This may be due to the uniqueness of the subject, the colour, the shapes, the light - to my mind, they're well done, but in my attempt to associate them, they haven't found a ‘parent’ image.

Was there any sequencing of images across the length of the book, i.e. seasons, dark to light, details to sublime, etc?

In addition to the image association approach, my graphic designer and I also wanted to punctuate the reading of the book to avoid a certain monotony. That's why, every four double pages, the reader will intermittently discover either a panoramic photo or an image with the story behind it.

Success with a book always involves an audience. Have you spent time building this up already and hope to sell it to this audience, or are you hoping to use the book as a way to expand it?

Yes, even if it wasn't initially my idea, building a community is essential! How else would you sell an art product to people who don't know you? It's a lot more difficult. I also took advantage of the client database of my photo travel agency ‘Renardo & Puffinou’, who were the first people to take an interest.

Usually, photographers choose to go through a fund-raising campaign before the book is released. This means they don't have to advance any money, and they can pre-sell a number of copies of the book, thus securing the project.

Is there anything you would have chosen to do differently? What are you key learnings in the process (excluding those mentioned above).

Yes, just one! Usually, photographers choose to go through a fund-raising campaign before the book is released. This means they don't have to advance any money, and they can pre-sell a number of copies of the book, thus securing the project.

In my case, I chose to finance myself and sell directly via my website www.checkmydream.fr. The gamble was that by doing this, visitors to my site who ordered the book would also discover all my photography work and my other services/products. So I was expecting some direct spin-offs, and judging by the initial figures, it hasn't had any effect for the moment.

Secondly, unlike a fundraising campaign where the photographer's community ‘participates’ directly by supporting the project, my approach has bypassed that stage. As a result, there's inevitably less commitment. The other aspect is that unlike a fund-raising campaign, which is spread over several weeks, my book is available immediately, so I don't have the same scope to promote it.

Issue 318

By Tim Parkin | December 19, 2024

Click here to download issue 318 (high quality, 90Mb)

Click here to download issue 318 (smaller download, 52Mb)

End frame: Nuevo Laredo, Mexico 1996, by Alex Webb

By Chris Pattison | December 18, 2024

“It looks like a painting,” said my youngest, the instant I showed her this photograph by Alex Webb, having chosen it to discuss as my favourite image.

I asked her why she thought this, and she replied that it was the way the people were arranged in the photograph.

My wife chipped in and suggested it looked staged. It isn’t, but I can see why she would think that. The theatrical light illuminating the amorous couple on the right and the man and child in the background silhouetted against the bright, pastel wall of the registry office. It’s also the almost perfect placing of all the players across the canvas.

Alex Webb has been capturing the world in vibrant colour for over 40 years, since a trip to Haiti in 1979 transformed his practice; leaving behind the monochrome of many street photographers before him. In central America he discovered a world of cultural crossroads, vibrant colour and febrile politics. Magnum Photos took note and he became a full member that same year.

Any Questions, with special guest Matt Payne

By Matt Payne, Tim Parkin & Joe Cornish | December 18, 2024

The premise of our podcast is loosely based on Radio Four's “Any Questions.” Joe Cornish and I (Tim Parkin) invite a special guest to each show and solicit questions from our subscribers.

4×4 Landscape Portfolios

By David McCulloch, Henk Goossens, Terry Wier & Valentina Parente | December 18, 2024

Submit Your 4x4 Portfolio

Interested in submitting your work? We are always keen to get submissions, so please do get in touch!

Do you have a project or article idea that you'd like to get published? Then drop us a line. We are always looking for articles.

David McCulloch

Pendle Hill (mood and seasons)

Above 4000 meter in Ladakh

Henk Goossens

Empty Spaces full of life

Terry Wier

Songs of the Sea

Valentina Parente

Songs of the Sea

By Valentina Parente | December 18, 2024

Everyone has a special place where the soul feels at home and you just breath the energy of that special place being at peace. For me that place is the sea.

This project wants to be an homage at the poetic beauty of the sea and how my eyes see it and feel it. The photos are all took with the ICM technique because I think it represents perfectly the perennial movement of the waves and the fickle nature of its heart.

Empty Spaces full of life

By Terry Wier | December 18, 2024

I was born in a desert region of the USA called the Permian Basin. Mostly desert, sand dunes and lots of oil wells. Most people thought of it as a place you had to be to make money, not a place to be because you wanted to be there.

I always felt at peace about the open spaces. First where I grew up, then others like it in New Mexico, Arizona and Utah. Even as I travelled for work and moved to NYC, I always felt a pullback to the open spaces.

Never thought about it much as my business grew and travel took a strong hold on my life. Always somewhere new to go and a new project to complete lifestyle pushed the things I loved to the back of my mind and oﬀ of the calendar.

Yet even when I traveled I seemed to find places that were open and felt the urge to explore and photograph them. First the sand dunes of Death Valley, California, then the mysterious slot canyons of Arizona. The images just piled up in my darkroom over the years.

Then, when the time in NYC was over, and we moved back to Texas, I was once again pulled to the open spaces.

First, I realized that the only time I wanted to be out was the first light of morning or the last light of evening. I would hike out five to ten miles before sunrise then turn around and photograph all the way back to the truck.

Next, I started working mainly in the deepest winter for many reasons. First, the light was low, crisp and clear all day long. Second, there were no snakes, bugs or people around. Now, I work mainly in the second half of January and the first half of February. With the high temperature around freezing and the night well below, I had open spaces to myself.

I began to organize my images and thoughts about the process as I began to teach creative expression in photography now and then. This is what I came up with as a framework for my workflow.

Light
1. Angle of light
2. Quality of light
3. Intensity of light
Shape and form
1. Does the form (rock formation/landscape) have the weight to hold the image?
2. Does the sky frame the image to keep it from floating?
3. Is the form simple or complex?
4. Does the form fit a rectangle or a square format?
5. Does the form drawn me in or just interest me?
The Image
1. Once processed does the image keep calling me back to look at it?
2. Can I live with it on my wall for years without getting tired of seeing it?
3. How do people who see it react?
  1. Confused
  2. Bored
  3. Drawn in

I have one of my images printed very large in my oﬃce. When friends or family come to see us, I always take note of how they respond to it. For my family, who have seen it for years, some don’t even look at it, while others always pause and stare for a moment. I have one grandson who said, “ I don’t get it, it’s just a picture. Why do people pay so much for it?” He does not realize it, but he is drawn to it without understanding it at all.

The image is the “Alien”, a rock formation with an alien hiding within. The last exhibit there were several people looking at it for a long while. Finally one of the woman shouted, “I see him, he is looking at me.” She then bought the print. For a brief span of time, she could understand the language of my passion.

Another grandson wanted to go with me on a trip to the open spaces to see it for himself. The impact changed his view of many things. He is now carrying a camera and working on his own language.

So, the lesson learned for me is this: you will never reach everyone, move everyone or impress many. That is not the point of the urge to go and photograph. I do not expect people to understand my work, and I just hope to move them to respond from the heart.

Photography is a language by which we express the part of us that words cannot define. It is our language. It cannot be twisted like words, it is far more black or white in terms of response. It is not a business, even if we make money selling prints that is not the point. It is the language of our heart, shouting in a hurricane wind of words what those words cannot express.

We go and photograph because we must, not because we want to. It is the beautiful mystery of the expression of art.

Above 4000 meter in Ladakh

By Henk Goossens | December 18, 2024

Ladakh has a fascinating mountain landscape with sand dunes, salt and freshwater lakes and some rivers such as the Shyok and Indus. It is a diverse mix which makes for a beautiful high altitude landscape that is very beautiful. For many, it seems very dull and rugged and desolate, but there are flowers growing in the spring as well as shrubs and sometimes you come across hidden groups of trees. You do not realize at times that you are above 4000 to 5000m. The earth and rocks have diverse colors ranging from dark earthy, green, purple to soft yellowish. Some peaks are covered with snow year round. The snow line is generally higher than in, say, Europe.

Pendle Hill (mood and seasons)

By David McCulloch | December 18, 2024

Pendle Hill is a landmark steeped in legend, with the notorious witch trials of the 17th century painting the darker side of its history. Pendle is set in the glorious Lancashire countryside, with the industrial history of Burnley on one side; and Clitheroe, leading towards the Ribble Valley, on the other.

We moved back into the Pendle area over five years ago, and this small portfolio captures the changing moods of the dominant hill. The portfolio is created around Barley, a small Lancashire village with an interesting micro climate – varying between mist, wind, rain, snow and sun.

Despite its dark history of the Pendle witches, the hill offers a majestic presence, dominating the surrounding lush landscape that is popular for leisure and exercise. A great place to visit and to enjoy the outdoors. The variable conditions around Pendle make it a place that the photographer must revisit: the surrounding reservoirs add foreground interest, so wind levels play on the water to add even more variation to the mix of weather conditions, testing the artistic interpretation of mood and atmosphere that we strive to convey.

Eric Busch

By Eric Busch & Michéla Griffith | December 17, 2024

In this issue, our featured photographer is Eric Busch, who lives in Canada. Our conversation with Eric takes us from skateboarding in North America to South Korea and a fascination with traditional Chinese painting and poetry. The latter has fed into Eric’s photography: minimalism, mystery, and absence, and continues to influence him.

Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what you went on to do?

I grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, where I spent my time skateboarding, racing mountain bikes, backpacking, fishing and practising photography. After completing a degree in marketing, I knew that career path wasn’t for me, so I moved to South Korea to teach English. I spent the better part of the 2000s teaching, photographing and rock climbing there. It was there that I met my Canadian wife. It was also where I taught myself web design and programming. Shortly after moving back to Canada, I started a software business with my Belgian business partner. We ran that business for 14 years and sold it in 2022. I’m currently head of product and strategy at the software company which purchased our business.

You’ve a photo that shows your first camera and lenses on your website; it looks well used. What sparked your interest in photography, and where did you take your kit in those early years?

Skateboarding first sparked my interest in photography. By the time I hit my teens, I had traded my baseball glove for a skateboard and spent much of the late 80s building ramps and skating. My bedroom walls were covered with photos ripped from skate magazines… super wide-angle shots where the photographer was inches away from getting a slab of wood stuck into their lens (or worse).

Those images inspired me to learn how to use my dad’s 35mm camera, twist on his fisheye lens and lie underneath the skate ramp to shoot my friends as they launched themselves over me. The images were so much fun to make, print and share.

At some point in high school, I received my own 35mm camera as a gift (the one pictured on my website) and a couple of lenses. I loved it! I primarily shot colour slide film such as FujiChrome Velvia 50 or Kodachrome 64.

I took that camera everywhere: state parks in Missouri, mountain bike races, backpacking in the US Southwest, hitchhiking from Canada to Mexico, travelling throughout Asia and exploring the rural and urban areas of Korea.

I even scanned old slides and negatives from decades prior and edited those images in Lightroom to finally create the images I had seen in my mind when I snapped the shutter so many years before.

But photography lost its appeal to me when I added a D to my SLR. No longer did my images have that magic look which film provided. Instead, the images were dull and lifeless. I didn’t know how to post-process and didn’t try to learn. If adding more contrast and saturation in Photoshop didn’t “fix” the image, I discarded it. Over the next few years, I shot less and less.

Fast forward to 2021, one of my relatives mentioned they knew an amateur photographer. I thought to myself ‘Why am I not an amateur photographer?’ (whatever that means). Since I already owned a DSLR, knew the exposure triangle and had a day job, I wasn’t too far away from being an amateur photographer. I spent the next few weeks watching hours of post-processing videos.

Once I was able to process an image to match the vision I had while shooting, editing became an extension of the creative process, not an afterthought or chore. Editing reignited my love of photography in a way I did not expect!

I even scanned old slides and negatives from decades prior and edited those images in Lightroom to finally create the images I had seen in my mind when I snapped the shutter so many years before.

The Perfect Failure

By Theo Bosboom | December 17, 2024

Sometimes, you have to dare to dream big to really achieve something! As a photographer, I occasionally find it nice and challenging to dream about innovative, impossible photos and then seriously consider whether it might be possible to actually realize the image. The biggest obstacles are often in your own head, aren't they?

On the road to Landmannalaugar, the first part of the trip went smoothly

For years, I had been dreaming about a very special Northern Lights photo. This miraculous natural phenomenon gives me goosebumps every time I see it, as fortunately, it happens quite frequently during the Iceland trips that I make in fall or winter. But from a photographic point of view, the Northern lights are usually a source of frustration for me because I don't manage to translate my feelings of euphoria and admiration into an attractive photo in my own style.

Of course, I have a number of images that show the aurora well, sometimes in combination with the spectacular landscape of Iceland. But for me they remain just registration photos in which I have not been able to put something personal or any photographic vision in. And that is what I often strive for in my photography, I like to make personal work and every now and then I hope to be innovative as well.

And then a few years ago there was suddenly that – if I may say so – brilliant idea! Since my project The Journey of the autumn leaves I was the proud owner of underwater gear for my photography and I had a number of ideas for new underwater projects. One day, I realized that the green strings of algae in the geothermal wells at Landmannalaugar in the heart of Iceland looked quite similar to the green streaks of northern lights in the night sky … And how cool would it be to be able to connect those two elements together in one photo: underwater the dancing strings of algae in a crystal clear pool and above water the snowy landscape of the Landmannalaugar valley with the dancing northern lights on top of it! Two bizarre and completely different worlds, visually connected by wonderful green lines and shapes.

So close but still far away, one of the moments, we got stuck and had to clear the car to get us going again

Once I had this image in my head, it wouldn't let go. I knew it wouldn't be easy. But somewhere deep inside, I felt that it was possible to realize the image with a lot of patience, persistence, and luck. So I decided to go for it!

One of the biggest challenges was getting into the area at all. In summer, Landmannalaugar can even be reached by a normal car, although I wouldn’t try this with my own car. But in the long winter – normally lasting from October till May – the interior is completely covered by a thick layer of snow, and it is completely inaccessible.

But with some research, I found out that there were some Icelandic adventure travel agencies that could drop you off at the Landmannalaugar cabin with a so-called super jeep. They have the driving skills, the permits and the cars that are needed for such a trip. It costs a small fortune, but of course, I would earn it all back later if my dream photo was published worldwide. The cabin is closed and unguarded in winter, but you can get the key and use it for a small fee per day. It didn't take much effort to persuade my good friend Michel Lucas to come with me, which would not only make the trip a lot safer but also much more enjoyable.

Stranded around midnight, the rest of the journey, we had to walk

The moonlit landscape. The only partly clear skies we encountered on our trip

And so we left in mid-January in our super jeep with our driver Barni, with food for a week and a ton of photo equipment (for me supplemented with my bulky underwater equipment needed for the shot). We took about ten charged batteries per person because there was no electricity in the hut. I am not sure why we didn’t take a power bank; that would have been much easier (also for our phones). The days were very short; the sun rose around 11 am and set again around 3:30 pm. Ideal for long nights with dancing aurora!

The journey – which should take about four hours from Reykjavik – went very smoothly as long as we were still driving on the main roads. But as soon as we got on the F-road to Landmannalaugar, we got stuck continuously in large piles of snow.

Landscape and all that Jazz

By Keith Beven | December 15, 2024

Art is how we decorate space; Music is how we decorate time.~ Jean Michel Basquiat

I was recently at a jazz concert by the piano trio PrismE from Geneva who played a piece called Bokeh (which required an explanation of what was meant by bokeh from the bassist Stéphane Fisch¹). This made me wonder about the links that might be found between photography and jazz. There are, of course, many celebrated photographs of jazz musicians, taken by many celebrated jazz photographers such as W Eugene Smith, Gjon Mili, William Gottlieb, Herman Leonard, Chuck Stewart, Lee Tanner, Roy DeCarava, and Michael Howard. Many of those photographs were taken during rehearsals and concerts but one of the most famous is that taken by Art Kane and titled “A great day in Harlem”, featuring 57 different jazz musicians from Art Blakey to Count Basie (as well as a fine collection of children).

Art Kane, A great day in Harlem²

Searching for more information about photography and jazz, there is some about artists who have been influenced by jazz, particularly in the early to mid-20th century, such as Otto Dix, Piet Mondrian, Romare Beardon, Stuart Davis, and Jackson Pollock, but very little to be found about photographers influenced in their style by jazz, or jazz compositions influenced by photographs. There have certainly been jazz musicians (as well as more classical composers) influenced by nature, including an interesting double album by the Azerbaijani saxophonist Rain Sutanov with the title Influenced by Nature (I was prompted to find a copy). Back in the 1950s the multi-instrumentalist Yosuf Lateff had a track titled Jazz and the Sounds of Nature (rather freeform in nature and seemingly mostly inspired by birdsong).

The Jan Garbarek album Dis includes sounds from a wind harp, and he has many other tracks with names reflecting nature. PrismE also talked of being influenced by nature, and the titles of their tracks include, for example, Ammonite, Baleines and Cirrus. There must be many others. There are also a surprising number of YouTube videos of “ambient” jazz linked to calming landscape images, sometimes complete with background sounds of waves lapping onto a beach³.

So nature and landscape have, to some extent, influenced jazz, but what is missing here is any apparent influence of jazz on landscape photography. That seems a little strange since surely ALL landscape photographers love some type of jazz⁴? Many photographers are also musicians, perhaps most famously, Ansel Adams again and his early ambition to be a concert pianist. But that is in the classical tradition and it is perhaps easier to see some analogy between classical music of the romantic period and classical landscape photography. In fact, the only reference to jazz musicians being influenced by photographs that I have been able to find is the Dave Brubeck 2009 orchestral work, composed with his son Chris, and called: “Ansel Adams: America” (but it has to be said that the piece is indeed much more classical in style and does not seem to show much jazz influence)⁵.

Jazz is commonly defined as an improvisational musical form, characterised by complex syncopated rhythms, deliberate deviations of pitch and timbre, dissonances and polyphonic ensemble playing. It is certainly possible therefore to draw analogies with photography. The jazz photographer Nick Clayton has written in an article about Photography and Music,

I tend to photograph like a jazz musician. I don’t control a scene or situation, I adapt to it and search for themes in the apparent chaos of it all. I would define mastery of both music and photography as the ability to find meaning where others may not, and reveal it to an audience. That’s the goal anyway.⁵

That could equally be applied to revealing things in the landscape too. Others have referred to the idea of both music and photography containing rhythm, both containing light and dark, or positive and negative, and to the “subject” being the focus of either piece or image. There is also the analogy between playing notes “in the pocket” and the “decisive moment”, and between the choices made in the notes to start and end a piece with the framing of an image. A comment following that same article also noted:

It’s interesting how so many words can be applied to both music and photography…..Composition, Tone, Balance, Timing, Culture, Harmony, Subject, Narrative, Dedication, Artistry, Technical, Analogue, Digital, Retro, Avant-garde, Experimental, Expressive, Transcendent, Contrast, Vibrant, Sombre, Darkness, Lightness…⁶

While a Tim Parkin article from 2011 suggested:

“Can I create a more pleasing final result through the inclusion of dissonance than in the straightforward application of beauty?”. To me, I would say yes - it’s the dissonances in a picture that keep your eye moving around, the inclusion of ‘tensions’ that keep a viewer looking. (This could be taken to another step when putting together a series of photographs such as in an exhibition or book). ⁷

But when it comes down to jazz performance:

We just have to live with these labels... I mean, what we're doing, if you have to call it something... I guess it's jazz, but it's not what jazz was……It's nothing we're fighting for, though. It's just what we play—and we play how we feel. ~ Esbjörn Svensson, 2004⁸

So there are analogies (admittedly rather simplistic), including trying to take images to reflect how we feel at the time, but there is the very obvious difference that music exists over an extended period of time (from the tens of seconds of the “Eight pieces for piano” of György Kurtág to the 639 year composition of John Cage called “As slow as possible”) with only limited extent in space, while photography is a static representation of space that refers to a particular choice of moment in time.

We can make longer exposures, of course, but they will always integrate through time, not differentiate, and so have the effect of blurring any motion. Those improvisations, syncopated rhythms and deliberate deviations that define jazz would, therefore, need to be drawn in space rather than in time.

That is certainly possible – improvisations are necessary for intentional camera movements or double exposure techniques, for example. There are also successful landscape photographs that can show interacting rhythms or dissonances (there are many examples in images of trees or waves for example). And most of us will sometimes make use of extreme wide angle or telephoto lenses to produce creative deviations in ways that the eye would not normally see. In emotional terms too, we might see in a minimalist image the equivalent of the jazz influenced pieces of Erik Satie (which have been reworked by many jazz musicians since) or the quieter pieces of Miles Davies from the period of Kind of Blue or In a Silent Way. Another example that you might already be aware of would be the minimalist images chosen as the artwork for many of the jazz albums issued by the ECM label¹⁰ by Manfred Eicher working with the designers Barbara Wojirsch and Dieter Rehm¹¹.

Jan Garbarek, Dis album cover photo by Franco Fontana, ECM

Peter Esrkine, You never know, album cover photo by Gabor Attalai, ECM

Perhaps more interesting, however, might be to explore any landscape images that could be more equivalent to the Miles Davis double album of Bitches’ Brew from 1970. There is a certain difficulty there, of course, in that Miles Davis and his musicians start with a blank sheet. The intense creativity of those albums is developed in rehearsal over time (even if many jazz tracks are recorded as one improvised take).

Our experience might help us to be in the right place with the right equipment at the right time, but to be jazz-like in our images we are limited to choosing the right sorts of subjects.

It also depends on the interactions between a group of musicians with their own individual skills and histories (Miles Davis was notoriously demanding in his choice of and demands on his collaborators).

As photographers we largely work alone and depend on what nature puts before us in terms of subject and light. We may also have our individual skills and histories, but our creative control over nature is limited to framing and exposure and waiting for the right moment. Our experience might help us to be in the right place with the right equipment at the right time, but to be jazz-like in our images we are limited to choosing the right sorts of subjects.

And musical rhythm is not so different from visual rhythm. A progression of notes over a period of time is a fraternal twin to the layering of shapes, light, and dark that form a photographic image. The most successful photographs are almost always those that have a rhythm, giving the viewer’s eye a coherent path. Music is a play between ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ objects—notes and the silence between. I believe it was Debussy who said that “Music is the space between the notes”; and negative space plays an equally important role in composing (aha) a photograph ~ Leah Damgaard-Hansen¹²

Guy Tal, in the On Landscape article that refers most to Jazz also suggests that there is more to the process when it comes to producing a print. He refers to the Ansel Adams quotation (rather remarkably from an interview in Playboy magazine) which in full reads:

Yes, in the sense that the negative is like the composer’s score. Then, using that musical analogy, the print is the performance. ~ Ansel Adams, 1983

But then Guy comments:

I know myself to be a “jazz photographer”—a real-time improviser, not a disciplined performer of pre-written scores (not even ones I wrote myself in other times). When I set to make a print for myself or for an exhibition (i.e., not a print purchased by a customer expecting it to match the appearance of a digital version or of a previous “performance”), I consider it as an opportunity to make a new creation—new “visual music,” not necessarily aiming to re-perform my original visualization by some singular, fixed, “right” interpretation. Each “performance” is for me a chance to make something new and original. ~ Guy Tal, 2022¹³

He also contrasts that with the many photographers who, rather than producing a new performance, are happy to only repeat the images they have seen produced by the original artist.

When it comes to such separation of roles between composer and performer, photography lags considerably behind music. Most photographers and viewers of photography make no distinction between composer and performer, assuming implicitly that they are always the same person, despite this often not being the case. In landscape photography, especially, the case is almost always the opposite: few original composers make meaningful, novel creations, which are then performed repeatedly by many others (who usually have no qualms about claiming the entire production—composition, performance, and all, as their own). ~ Guy Tal, 2022

My own preferred subject for photographic performance, as has been seen in many of my previous articles in On Landscape, is water¹⁴. Water can be musical in the sense of having rapidly changing dynamic rhythms and sounds over time. It inspires many landscape photographers both in its forms (of waterfalls, rapids, waves and gyres) and its interaction with light (in reflections, caustics, landpools and skypools)¹⁵.

But, particularly in the latter case, there can be some jazzy elements of complex rhythm, deviations of tone and colour, and dissonant interactions between parts of the subject.

But in taking images of water we always have the impossible challenge of capturing those dynamics in a still image. In doing so, we can frame the space, but we can only give an impression of the changes in time. In some cases that involves using a longer shutter speed to emphasise the forms, in other case we can capture a near-instantaneous moment and leave the dynamics to the imagination. But, particularly in the latter case, there can be some jazzy elements of complex rhythm, deviations of tone and colour, and dissonant interactions between parts of the subject. There is an advantage of the still image in this respect, in that we can take time to study the details recorded in some depth. As in other forms of still visual art, such images often reward such study before we move on, even if there is a tendency nowadays to look and move on too quickly, either by swiping online or in exhibitions.

Syncopating caustics, Lauterbrunnental, Switzerland, 2024

Leucocyte dissonance, Lauterbrunnental, Switzerland, 2023

Crystal illusions, Durnand River, Val d’Arpette, Switzerland, 2024

Music is again somewhat different here. Even when only sampling online fragments of 30 seconds, it takes time. Listening to whole pieces and albums requires a greater commitment of time. Indeed, it sometimes requires repeated listenings to appreciate a piece, particularly for more difficult pieces (some of Charlie Parker, or the younger Sonny Rollins, or the string quartets of Bartok come to mind).

Music is again somewhat different here. Even when only sampling online fragments of 30 seconds, it takes time. Listening to whole pieces and albums requires a greater commitment of time.

They are, we could say, an acquired taste, even more so for those of us without a solid education in musical theory who must resort to “knowing what we like”. So there needs to be something on first listening to bring us back. That is perhaps not so different to the first time we see an image presented by a photographer – there has to be something there to make us want to see more even if, with most landscape photographers at least, we might not have to work so hard to acquire the taste. We like, or don’t like (swipe), almost immediately, particularly when faced by thousands of images as competition judges.

But we should not perhaps push this analogy too far. Creating good jazz is really difficult, requiring both a high degree of talent and long hours of practice and experience in making choices in working with other musicians. Creating a good image also requires some combination of talent, practice and experience in the choices we make, but I am not sure we can claim to reach the same level of difficulty. We frame and we click. We bring our experience and emotions to bear in doing so, and we may have to make an effort (or get up early) to be in the right place at the right time, but in the end we frame and we click. That is our act of creation. If you can see a jazz riff in the results, then perhaps the best that we can hope for might be a quiet smile of recognition (or else just a swipe on to the next one …..).

In a mellow tone, Hauterive, Switzerland, 2023

High Top Notes, Hautrive, Switzerland, 2024

Change of key, Hauterive, Switzerland, 2023

5/4 with harmonics, Lauterbrunnental, Switzerland, 2023

Play Misty for Me, Hauterive, Switzerland, 2023

So what (natural dissonance), La Sonnaz, Switzerland, 2023

Take 5 (reflections and skypools), La Glâne, Switzerland, 2024

Competing Rhythms, Hauterive, Switzerland, 2023

Chromatic scales, Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland, 2023

Blue Notes, Tessin, Switzerland, 2024

Coda (Natural Rhythms), Hauterive, Switzerland, 2024

References

You might remember my own definition from the Devil’s Dictionary: Bokeh [n]: A result of using expensive lenses wide open to distract from an uninteresting main subject in an image. See https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2021/03/devils-dictionary-photography/
Just search on “jazz and nature” on YouTube and then go relax!
Ok, so some Free Jazz sax solos from the 1960s are really rather difficult to love!
See https://www.anseladamsamerica.com/about-the-work (with extracts) and https://www.npr.org/2009/04/02/102656153/dave-brubeck-composing-ansel-adams
See https://casualphotophile.com/2021/04/05/music-and-photography/
A comment by David W. on the article by Nick Clayton in 5. The article also has some other thoughtful comments.
Tim started to explore the links between musicians and photographers in his 2011 article https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2011/05/photography-and-music/
From an interview with All About Jazz in 2004, https://www.allaboutjazz.com/esbjorn-svensson-what-jazz-is-not-was-esbjorn-svensson-by-joshua-weiner
See, for example, the On Landscape article by Cheryl Hamer and Glenya Garnett at https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2019/04/multiple-exposure-layers-textures/
These have their own Flickr site at https://www.flickr.com/groups/ecmrecordcoverphotographs/
See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbara_Wojirsch and https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dieter_Rehm_(Fotokünstler) (in German). A book of their album covers called “Sleeves of Desire” was published by Lars Müller in 1996 (ISBN: 978-1568980645 but now out of print)
Again from https://casualphotophile.com/2021/04/05/music-and-photography/
See https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2022/05/classical-photographers-jazz-photographers/
As in the two books The Still Dynamic and Panta Rhei. The first is still available in PDF format; just a few hard copies are left of the second – see https://www.mallerstangmagic.co.uk/?post_type=product. All the images shown in this article were taken after the books were produced.
See, for example, https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2017/04/the-science-and-art-of-hydrology/ https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2019/01/physics-of-caustic-light-in-water/ and more recently https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2023/11/a-little-piece-of-eden/

The Lech

By Mark Robertz | December 11, 2024

The wild, pristine river in the Tyrolean Lech Valley between Weißenbach and Forchach shows its wild side. It clears the gravel banks exactly as it needs them, piles up dead wood on dry gravel banks and shapes strips of riverbank as it sees fit. Here at the Johannesbrücke bridge, the alpine wild river has been given space to develop freely again, as it did in earlier times. This also has an effect on the habitat along the banks.

"Iller, Lech, Isar, Inn flow to the right towards the Danube." Not only a tried and tested mnemonic, it also tells us the origin of the rivers just quoted. With the exception of the Inn, the first three have their source in the Northern Limestone Alps, between Lake Constance and Lake Königssee.

The special feature of the Lech can be quickly recognized here: Firstly, it has its source much closer to the main Alpine ridge than the Iller and Isar. And unlike the Isar, it flows almost vertically to the north, towards the Franconian Jura, while the Isar drifts eastwards towards the Bavarian Forest.

The Lech Valley was once a biotope bridge of European importance for flora and fauna, connecting the Mediterranean region with Central Europe.

Similar to the Iller, Isar and Inn valleys, the Lechtal also took on its present form during the last ice age, the Würm Ice Age (comparable to Devensian, approx. 115,000 - 10,000 years before our era). Characteristic features include the steeply rising hanging valleys from which the tributaries flow to the left and right of the river in the alpine 'Oberes Lechtal'. Moraine landscapes with their typical ground forms such as drumlins, dead ice holes or ridges characterize the 'Middle Lechtal'. There are also traces of former ice reservoirs that formed on the edge of the Alps at the end of the Ice Age, which can be seen today in the Füssen Bay. The 'Lower Lechtal', originally characterized by wide gravel plains and broad alluvial forests through which the river meandered on its way to the estuary delta. The appearance of the gravel meadows and alluvial forests never lasted long, the dynamics and creative power of the river were too great. The floods that occurred in spring and early summer at the latest, caused by melting snow and thunderstorms, reshaped the countless water arms that carved their way through the valley.

River kilometer 17 | A touch of wilderness can be found parallel to the Lech at the hamlet of Ötz (Thierhaupten) along the Vorderer Brunnenwasser (later Münsterer Alte). Here, at dawn, you can get an idea of how lively the floodplains near the river once were.

If you start a journey along the Lech these days, my tip would be to start at the mouth. In my opinion, this best symbolizes the state of the Lech today: from the present to its origins. You start with the state to which the Lech, like many other rivers, was transferred at the beginning of the 20th century and end in the sublime, majestic, Arcadian-looking backdrop of the Zuger Tal valley in the Lechquellengebirge mountains.

The journey takes you from the mouth at Marxheim below the Franconian Jura along the Bavarian Lech, which, constricted and canalized, is more like a dammed river than a flowing water from power station to power station. Occasionally, the river is accompanied by remaining floodplains. In its lower course, the river is also divided into two watercourses for around 20 km: the Lech Canal for consistent power generation and the original riverbed with a residual flow. With its wide gravel banks, between which the residual water meanders, this is reminiscent of the former gravel meadows of the original Lech.

Verbliebene Wildflusslandschaft Am Lech Nördlich Von Augsburg

River kilometer 32 | A look at historical maps of the Kingdom of Bavaria north of Augsburg reveals extensive gravel plains with numerous branches of the original Lech. Today's gravel banks, between which the Lech sometimes meanders back and forth, are due to the Lech Canal built at the end of the 19th century. Today, the bulk of the river flows through it, with only a residual amount of water remaining in the actual Lech bed.

Augsburg, the largest city on the Lech, presents itself in the splendor of the UNESCO World Heritage “Augsburg Water Management System” with a proud 22 individual objects in the city area as well as in the surrounding area. Also worth mentioning is the Augsburg city forest (nature reserve, Forest of the Year 2024), which is Bavaria's largest remaining alluvial forest.

If you follow the watercourse further upstream, it is increasingly accompanied by steeply rising valley slopes near Landsberg am Lech. Here, various hiking trails invite you to take extended tours along the river.

Der Lech An Den Ehemaligen Hurlacher Wasserfällen.

River kilometer 74 | On the Lechfeld at the Hurlacher Heide (between barrages 18 and 19, or Kaufering and Schwabstadl), the Lech encounters rock walls of sintered limestone deposits along a west-facing slope, also known as the “Hurlacher Wasserfälle”. The limestone tuff, which is interspersed with plant and animal fossils, formed here between the Riss and Würm glacial periods. Covered by glacial bed load, erosion gradually brings the rocks formed in this way back to the surface.

River kilometer 95 | The impact slope northeast of Mundraching shows in a very impressive way the forces that can act here when landslides occur between the upper cover gravels and the underlying layers of the Upper Freshwater Molasse (alpine debris consisting of gravel, sand or fine sediments).

At the height of Schongau, you leave the 'Untere Lechtal' and enter the moraine landscapes followed by the Füssener Bucht in the 'Mittlere Lechtal'. Above the Schongauer See (reservoir!) follows the Litzauer Schleife - a real gem. Here you come across a river landscape that once spread along many of the river bends in the Lechtal. To the left and right of the chain of dams that the Lech still forms here, you can discover traces of the Ice Age in the landscape. For example, the dead ice landscape in the hills around the baroque gem of the Pilgrimage Church of the Scourged Savior on the Wies” (east of Steingaden) or the Drumlinfeld near Prem.

Mrobertz Lech 05 Km 135 Litzauerschleife

River kilometer 135 | The Litzau loop with its meanders stretches between the wasteland of Dessau (on the left) and the hamlet of Kreut (on the right bank of the Lech) at the entrance to Lake Schongau. Along the Bavarian bank of the Lech, this is the closest you will come to discovering the formerly wild Alpine river in its original form.

Where Lake Füssen once stretched out is now home to Lake Forggensee, Germany's largest reservoir with a water surface area of around 15 km². This corresponds to around a quarter of the size of the former ice reservoir. Although silted up, the Bannwaldsee, Hopfensee, Schwansee and Weißensee lakes have survived the test of time. The view from the royal castles near Hohenschwangau offers a proverbial royal view of the Füssen bay and the old-established cultural landscape of the Künigswinkel. With the Lech Falls above Füssen, you now leave the Alpine foothills and the 'Middle Lech Valley'.

As you enter the Tyrolean Lech Valley, you enter the 'Upper Lech Valley', where the scenery and the landscape experience change fundamentally! From Füssen, the route follows the banks of the Lech for 125 km towards the source region. From now on, you will be accompanied to the left and right by rugged, steeply rising mountain peaks, at the foot of which the Lech flows towards you, interspersed with gravel banks. The view from the Johannesbrücke bridge between Weißenbach in Tirol and Forchach is always breathtakingly beautiful. The weather, as it is at the moment, can only enhance your perception of this landscape. Over the next few kilometers, countless side streams flow into the Lech from both sides, constantly feeding gravel and dead wood into the alpine Lech river.

River kilometer 167 | The Füssener Lech just above the Lech Falls: just an alpine wild river, shortly afterwards a corrected and enclosed chain of dams.

Am Hornbach Im Hornbachtal, Naturpark Tiroler Lechtal.

River kilometer 199 | At Vorderhornbach, after approx. 17 km, the Hornbach flows from the Allgäu Alps into the Tyrolean Lech. The wild alpine stream has its source in the mountain streams of the Hornbach chain.

On its way towards the Lech, it spreads out again and again, branching its watercourses into original gravel meadows. Like the previous side valleys with their watercourses, the Hornbach also supplies the alpine Lech with bed load and dead wood, which is needed for a variety of near-natural habitats.

Sommermorgen Im Angerleboden, Bschlabser Tal, Tirol.

River kilometer 203 | Coming from the village of Boden through the forest above the Angerlebach stream, the valley floor (Angerleboden) opens up after a climb. The view in the morning sun over this natural gem is like discovering a long-forgotten “earthly paradise”.

Shortly after Steeg, the valley narrows more and more until the Lech finally disappears into the narrow Lech Gorge. If you follow the pass road in the direction of Warth, the rushing river can only be seen or heard sporadically. Shortly before you reach Warth, a narrow mountain road on the right leads up to Lechleiten. The detour rewards you with an impressive view over the gorge in both summer and winter. Be it down to Tyrol or up towards Lech, the winter sports capital of the Vorarlberg jet set.

From the village of Lech, you now embark on the final stage, which immerses you in an unexpected landscape. The Zuger Lechtal valley, which leads up to the Formarinsee lake, seems to have sprung from another era. Certainly a mountain landscape steeped in culture that could not be more pristine. It is therefore not surprising that Lake Formarin was voted the most beautiful place in Austria in 2015. Below the Formainalpe, you finally reach the source of the Lechur after a good 256 kilometers. If you have the time and inclination, I recommend a detour up to the Steinernes Meer. At its foot, the water collects in small rivulets, which, following the force of gravity, brings the Lech on its way...

Auf Dem Lechweg Oberhalb Der Ortschaft Lech Am Arlberg.

River kilometer 251 | Picturesque and romantic, the young Lech forms its riverbed with unbridled power. Here, above the Spullerbach confluence, it elicits a longing, wistful Rocky Mountains feeling from the photographer.

Oberhalb Des Formarinsees Nahe Der Freiburger Hütte.

River kilometer 257 | At the end of the Zuger Tal valley, Lake Formarinsee is nestled in a basin below the striking Rote Wand. In 2015, the lake with the backdrop of the Rote Wand was voted the most beautiful place in Austria.

Unterwegs Am Vorarlberger Lech Im Lechquellengebirge Zwischen Formarinsee Und Der Ortschaft Lech.

On the way along the Vorarlberger Lech in the Lechquellen Mountains between Formarinsee and the village of Lech.

Issue 317

By Tim Parkin | December 6, 2024

Click here to download issue 317 (high quality, 124Mb)

Click here to download issue 317 (smaller download, 88Mb)

End frame: Alaskan Arctic Circle in spring, Caribou wandering in a herd by Michio Hoshino

By Bruce Herman | December 4, 2024

One evening following dinner in the cook shack at the Alaska McNeil River State Game Sanctuary and Refuge, Michio Hoshino showed me a prepublication book of his photographs. As I leafed through the book, I came upon this photograph of a pregnant female caribou crossing the Arctic tundra in early spring. I don’t recall any of the other photographs in the book or if I even finished looking at the rest of the book. I do know that I immediately said that I would purchase a copy once it was published. He replied that the book would only be sold in Japan but promised to bring me a copy when it was available. Sadly, events intervened before that could happen.

That was about 30 years ago, and I have never forgotten this photograph.

In the intervening years, I’ve seen countless photographs. To be honest, other photographers such as Robert Glenn Ketchum, Shinzo Maeda, David Muench and Pat O’Hara have had a greater influence on my photography. And yet, this is the photograph that first came to mind when Charlotte asked me to write about my favourite landscape photograph. I was concerned that On Landscape readers might not view it as a landscape photograph. I asked her if it would be acceptable, and she agreed.

Juan Tapia

By Juan Tapia & Michéla Griffith | December 4, 2024

In this issue, we talk to Juan Tapia. His early fascination with photography was personal, rooted in childhood memories. In parallel with his career in agriculture, analogue workshops deepened his passion, and over time he gravitated away from grand landscapes to the subtle beauty of nearby environments. Influenced by art and music, his work embraces abstraction and symbolism, and he is continually seeking new ways to express and connect through visual storytelling.

Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself: where you grew up, what your early interests were and what you went on to do?

I was born in Roquetas de Mar, a coastal town in the province of Almería, southern Spain, in 1979. It is where I have lived all my life and where I currently reside. After completing high school, I decided to go into agriculture, working in my parents' greenhouses and growing vegetables. Like many young people, at the beginning I was not sure about my professional future; if I had known about photography earlier, I might have studied Fine Arts. In my spare time, I played various sports, as I was quite good at them. I was also passionate about fishing and puzzles. Eventually, I realised that the patience required for these activities would be an important virtue in my career in photography.

What prompted you to pick up an old camera in 2002 and register for a photography workshop? Had photography previously been important to you?

Photography was always important in my life, especially after the loss of my mother when I was only six years old. Many of these images became visual memories that helped me maintain a connection with her as if each photo captured fragments of her presence. My first photos were taken with an old Minolta film camera in the house; curiously, I photographed my own black and white photos from the family album, looking for new angles and details. It was like exploring a small intimate universe and discovering, in each frame, hidden stories and new meanings.[paid]

Thus, photography began to captivate me deeply, especially because of that mixture of uncertainty, magic and waiting that accompanies developing the film in the lab, as if each image came to life in the shadows. Shortly afterwards, I discovered that my local town council organised annual photography workshops. That brief immersion on my own awakened in me the desire to delve even deeper into this visual world, where the every day can become eternal.

‘Workshop’ doesn’t fully describe the duration and extent of your studies. What led you to continue, and how did your craft and subject matter evolve over the following years?

In those days, people still worked in analogue format. My first years of training were in workshops organised annually by the city council, which were held in parallel with other disciplines such as painting, sculpture, music and more. During this first stage, I acquired general knowledge, delving into the workings of photographic equipment and exploring historic processes, such as solarisation, cyanotype and pinhole photography, each with its own magic and artisanal character. It was then that I developed a diverse range of subject matter, although I eventually became the only student in the workshop to focus on capturing the essence of landscapes and wildlife. Perhaps my passion for nature, cultivated as a child in a Scout group, led me to gravitate towards this.

With the advent of the digital age, I thought that the workshop no longer had much to offer me and decided to leave it, convinced that my path had to take other directions. However, over time I realised that learning never stops and that there are always new details, techniques and perspectives capable of enriching my vision.

Since then, I continued to train in specialised weekend workshops with renowned nature photographers, and discovered in books and photographic talks a vast world full of inspiration. Today, after having taught many workshops with David Santiago and trained numerous students, I have returned as a student to the same workshop where I started, in search of new aesthetics and processes. My teacher is still there, at the helm, after twenty-two years, reminding me that in the art of photography, learning and unlearning is the key to assimilating new knowledge and applying it creatively.

Who (photographers, artists or individuals) or what has most inspired you, or driven you forward in your continued development as a photographer?

As a child, I was fascinated by the elegance with which words could evoke deep emotions, a fondness I inherited from my poetry-loving parents. This early connection to poetic language was a prelude to what, years later, would define my vision in photography. Over time, my artistic exploration evolved into visual poetry, a quest to capture the essence of a moment or scene as evocatively as a poem would.

The work of Isabel Díez, for example, taught me to fragment the landscape, a technique that allows me to discover more intimate and personal perspectives in each natural environment.

Throughout my photographic development, I have found inspiration from numerous photographers, but a few marked a turning point in my creative process. The work of Isabel Díez, for example, taught me to fragment the landscape, a technique that allows me to discover more intimate and personal perspectives in each natural environment. Similarly, Antonio Camoyán's series on the Rio Tinto opened up the world of abstraction for me, giving me a new language to express myself visually. On the other hand, the symbolism of Chema Madoz inspires me deeply. Although he does not work with themes from nature, his way of playing with everyday objects and giving them alternative meanings has taught me to see images as an invitation to reinterpret reality.

In painting, I find constant inspiration in the figure of Pablo Picasso. His tireless ability to reinvent himself, exploring diverse styles and taking risks at every stage of his career, is an example of boldness and authenticity. His work reminds me that artistic growth is a journey that never stops and that every change, however uncertain, can be the bridge to a more genuine and profound expression.

Tell us a little more about your local area and the places that you are drawn back to?

In the early years of my career as a nature photographer, I was attracted by the possibility of travelling to remote and imposing locations, seeking out expansive landscapes that, in themselves, provided visually stunning scenes. Over time, however, that idea began to fade, and I began to notice a certain dependence on scenery.

This reflection led me to an evolution in my photographic gaze, moving towards a deeper exploration of the details and symbolism present in landscapes, leaving aside the idea of the place as the absolute protagonist. Places became simply the backdrop for my compositions, freeing me from that sense of subordination.

Over the years, I have come to greatly appreciate so-called ‘proximity photography’, which invites me to find beauty in nearby environments. In my case, the Tabernas desert and Cabo de Gata, two natural treasures barely an hour away from my home, have become recurring backdrops for my work. Likewise, the greenhouses, which form part of my everyday environment, have provided me with some of the most significant images of my professional career. These experiences have reaffirmed my belief that, while places are important, they are not essential.

Will you choose 2 or 3 favourite photographs from your own portfolio and tell us a little about why they are special to you, or your experience of making them?

Here are three images that have been fundamental in my photographic development. They may not be the best in my archive, but they clearly represent my personal search and artistic evolution. Each of them marks a moment of change, a significant turn in my career that redefined my understanding of photography. Through these photographs, I explored new visual languages and techniques that expanded my ability to express deep emotions and concepts. These images are ultimately milestones that remind me of the transformative power of experimentation and constant reinvention in art.

Alga

This image was taken at Cabo de Gata, shortly after a storm that had left the shore covered with seaweed, witness to the power of the sea. The landscape conveyed a profound sense of desolation, marked by the debris that the heavy swell had washed ashore. During a long walk along that small cove, my attention was captivated by a group of seaweed that, despite the adverse conditions, remained clinging to a rock, showing an impressive resilience to stay in their natural environment.

This photograph has a special meaning for me, as it was one of the first that did not arise from a visual reference or the influence of my photographic references, but was born out of pure and genuine emotion. One of the fundamental principles in the development of a personal gaze is the ability to select the stimuli that we want to transform into images, and this was one of those occasions when emotion dictated the composition.

Eucalipos

This image is part of the series entitled ‘The colour of their skin’, a collection that narrates the transformation of eucalyptus bark over time. Each photograph in this series represents a significant turn in my artistic trajectory towards the world of abstraction. This evolution began after a trip to the Tinto River with the master Antonio Camoyán, where my photographic vision underwent a profound transformation, moving towards abstraction.

Before, when walking through this forest located in the Tabernas desert, my gaze was limited to the trees as a whole. However, over time, I began to discover the hidden details that lie beneath the surface, revealing visual secrets that only emerge through new forms of representation. Thanks to this photographic work, I was able to make a name for myself in the field of nature photography.

Paisaje De Cal Y Plastico

The last image I present to you is a pareidolia that I discovered on the roof of my greenhouse. After the process of bleaching its structure to reduce the temperatures affecting the plants, surprising graphics began to form on the plastic. As the days went by, I captured several of these shapes that evoked natural landscapes: a tree leaning on the bank of a river, a stream meandering over a virgin blanket of snow, or, as in this case, a snow-capped mountain range seen from a zenithal perspective.

Up to that point, I had already made numerous pareidolias in the middle of nature, but this image marked a turning point, as it was the first symbolic representation of nature outside its own environment. It was at that moment that I became truly aware of the poetic power of the image, capable of transporting us to magical places inaccessible to others.

How surprised were you to achieve success in the 2015 Wildlife Photographer of the Year awards with your image Life Comes to Art? Tell us a little about how you came to make this image.

In 2015, I was in a transitional stage between bird and landscape photography when I decided to revisit an idea I had conceived years ago: to break with the cliché of capturing a swallow flying through a window. So, I came up with the somewhat absurd idea of photographing a swallow breaking a frame to fly through it.

I found the ideal frame in my farmhouse, a painting of a rural landscape with a wide sky where I imagined the swallow would fly. This bird, common in rural areas, fitted perfectly with the theme. As the painting was somewhat deteriorated, I made a hole in the sky to allow the bird to pass through.

Months later, in an abandoned warehouse next to my greenhouse, I noticed the return of two pairs of swallows that nested regularly. I removed a sash from the window and placed the painting inside, as if it were on display in the living room of a house. The swallows quickly got used to crossing through the hole I had created.

After a few weeks, I took the first photographs. I placed two flashes at 45 degrees to illuminate the canvas and stop the bird's flight with their partial powers. From my van, about 30 metres away, I used a remote shutter release. After eight hours of intense work, I captured hundreds of images; most with technical errors, but a few were saved, and only one was chosen for its expressive power.

Although I was initially satisfied, doubts arose as to whether the image looked too artificial. I entered it in several nature photography competitions, but only the Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition went for it. It was a surprise, as this competition values documentary style and purity of image capture. However, that edition introduced a new category called ‘Impressions’, which sought to showcase images of nature that broke clichés under a personal gaze. I think this category was tailor-made for my photography, as it fitted perfectly with what was proposed.

What difference did your win in the Impressions category make to your photography – for example, your enjoyment and confidence, the time you devote to it, or the balance between it being a hobby or something more?

This recognition marked a significant change in my photographic career and gave me greater confidence in my ideas, however absurd or unusual they might seem. The win allowed me to break free from the constraints imposed by competitions and their aesthetic policies, which often cause creative blocks. Before, I adapted my photographs to meet the requirements of the competitions, but now I focus on developing my work authentically, exploring each concept without worrying about whether or not it fits within the parameters of a competition. This creative freedom has been one of the most valuable lessons of this achievement and has allowed me to connect with my most personal vision.

In addition, being recognised in such a prestigious international competition as the Wildlife Photographer of the Year gave me unexpected visibility. This recognition transformed what seemed like a hobby into a second job that I now combine with my main activity in agriculture and has opened the doors to collaborations, exhibitions and new opportunities that I never imagined I would achieve

Before, I adapted my photographs to meet the requirements of the competitions, but now I focus on developing my work authentically, exploring each concept without worrying about whether or not it fits within the parameters of a competition.

Can you give readers a brief insight into your set up – from photographic equipment through processing to printing? Which parts of the workflow especially interest you and where do you feel you can make the most difference to the end result?

In my photographic work, the greatest effort goes into the pre-production and production phases, where the creative process really comes to life. The observation and selection of subjects is fundamental, as it is in this pre-shooting stage that ideas emerge and the focus of each image is defined. In pre-production, I visualise the composition in my mind, identify the essential elements and decide how I want to represent them visually. I don't need extensive or complex photographic equipment; many of my photos could be captured with any camera because the value is in the vision, not the technology.

The production phase is where the camera becomes an extension of my perception, allowing me to apply techniques and composition to realise what I have conceptualised. My training in the analogue era taught me that the moment of the shot is where a photograph is truly complete: each capture is the result of careful planning and clear focus. Although digital development is part of this phase, I don't give it too much importance, limiting myself to basic adjustments of brightness, contrast and colour, similar to what we did in analogue labs. I do not seek to alter the image but to polish it and highlight the key elements that were already present in the capture.

Finally, the post-production phase also involves an additional effort, as I seek to give maximum visibility to my work through social networks, exhibitions and books. For me, the art of photography is a language to communicate and connect with others. To create images just for oneself, without sharing them, would be to lose the true purpose of art: the transmission of a message or emotion.

In addition to your love of the natural world, you have said that you try to bring painting and music into your photography. Can you elaborate on this are they influences for what you are drawn to, how you compose your images, or do you also paint or play an instrument?

Although I have never painted, art history is something I am passionate about. Photography and painting have shared key historical moments, influencing each other and shaping their respective evolutions. I find the artistic avant-gardes of the 20th century an endless source of inspiration and learning, as these currents challenged norms and opened doors to new ways of seeing and interpreting reality, allowing the every day to be represented through figurative and abstract approaches.

I find the artistic avant-gardes of the 20th century an endless source of inspiration and learning, as these currents challenged norms and opened doors to new ways of seeing and interpreting reality, allowing the every day to be represented through figurative and abstract approaches

This pictorial influence is reflected in my photography through images that evoke different artistic styles. From impressionistic compositions to abstract and surrealistic approaches, each style brings a visual richness that enriches the viewer's perception and gives depth to the photographic representation. For me, knowing the history of art is a fundamental tool to develop a broader and more diverse view, always in search of new ways of seeing.

As for music, although I don't play an instrument, I am captivated by the serene melodies of the violin and the piano, which convey calm and uplift me. I try to capture that same enveloping and expressive atmosphere in my images, a mixture of deep peace and intimacy, although sometimes I don't know if I succeed completely. Studying the creative process of musicians is also very inspiring for me; their approaches and constant innovations throughout their careers show me that there is always room for reinvention and growth in art.

You have talked about transmitting sensations… trying to find something new each time you go out. You seem especially drawn to abstraction, and enjoy experimenting. What now motivates you?

In my early days, I conceived photography mainly as a tool to capture the beauty of environments, plants or animals. However, over time, I began to reflect on its expressive potential. This evolution arises from the understanding that photography is a means of communication between the author and the viewer, in which each shot can generate different interpretations in the beholder. When I talk about looking for something new in each outing, I am referring to that constant need to find new forms of visual communication that allow me to maintain my motivation in this world and continue to grow.

A key moment in my career was the discovery of the world of abstraction, which opened the doors to new interpretations through shapes, colours and textures. This kind of image invites the viewer to a state of search, where he is torn between what he sees and what those forms suggest to him. I am currently very interested in symbolism, an area that challenges and fascinates me in equal parts. The creation of a universe of meaning that departs from its origin, that defies expectations and proposes new visual readings, is a process that I find extremely stimulating and complex.

Exhibitions and books suggest that it is important to you that other people see your photographs in print. How do you choose to print and present your work and looking ahead do you have a preference for one over the other (exhibitions or books)?

At present, I do not have a definite preference between exhibitions and books, as I consider both forms of presentation to be valuable, albeit limited in scope. The digital environment, with its ability to reach a global audience instantaneously, is undeniably crucial in the contemporary world. Platforms such as social media allow us to share our work more widely and quickly than any physical exhibition or book, which generates a greater impact in terms of visibility.

That said, I also recognise the unique value of more traditional experiences, such as physical exhibitions and printed books. Presenting a work in an exhibition space allows for a more intimate and direct interaction with the viewer, creating a special bond between the work and the audience. Books, on the other hand, offer a lasting, tangible record that allows for a slow and thoughtful appreciation of the work.

Photographs become meaningful when they are seen and generate reactions in those who look at them. While digital platforms broaden our reach, physical exhibitions and books offer a depth that is also important in any artist's career.

In the end, regardless of the format, for me, the essential thing is the interaction with the viewer. Photographs become meaningful when they are seen and generate reactions in those who look at them. While digital platforms broaden our reach, physical exhibitions and books offer a depth that is also important in any artist's career. I believe that both formats complement each other, and I will continue to explore them as the project requires.

What do you feel you’ve gained through photography?

Photography has been my main ally in the exploration of my inner world, a confidant with whom I have shared my tastes, insecurities and concerns openly. I consider myself a naturally introverted and reserved person; I often find it difficult to express what is inside me. However, through photography I have found an authentic and sincere way to channel my emotions, sensations and ideas in a way that would be difficult to express in everyday life without the mediation of the camera.

Photography has taught me to pay attention to small details and to look beyond superficial appearances. In the same way that in life the most valuable essences are often found in the most inconspicuous details, I have learned that not everything is what it seems at first glance, but that the true essence is in how we interpret what we observe. This approach has not only transformed my view of the world, but has also enriched my daily life with valuable lessons about perception and interpretation of reality.

Do you have any particular projects or ambitions for the future, or themes that you would like to explore further?

I am currently developing a personal photographic project that explores the relationship between my passion for nature and my working environment, the greenhouse. Many of the images accompanying this interview are part of this work in progress, which still requires considerable development, but I am excited about the possibility of it becoming a work that innovatively reflects my artistic evolution. Like many photographers, I aspire to publish a book compiling my work, and in this project I have found a theme with which I feel deeply identified. Through it, I wish to highlight the importance of looking closely at the immediate environment, demonstrating through my images that it is not necessary to travel far to discover beauty and establish a meaningful connection with the viewer.

For me, there is nothing more personal than intertwining my daily work in the greenhouse with my photographic passion, as each image becomes a bridge that connects these two worlds.

For me, there is nothing more personal than intertwining my daily work in the greenhouse with my photographic passion, as each image becomes a bridge that connects these two worlds. My project is also an invitation to reconsider everyday spaces to see how work and creativity can feed each other to shape a unique visual universe.

If you had to take a break from all things photographic for a week, what would you end up doing?

Sometimes I feel the need to completely disconnect from everything related to photography. In fact, during my summer holidays I usually spend almost a month without thinking about it. With the current pace, between workshops, conferences, articles, interviews and other training activities, I find it essential to take these breaks to recharge my batteries and keep my balance. From a creative point of view, I also find that these breaks are necessary to disconnect and then reconnect with a renewed perspective.

Disconnecting allows me to return to photography with fresh eyes, appreciating the creative process in a fuller and more open way. Also, by exploring other disciplines and feeding my curiosity outside of the camera, I find inspiration in unexpected places, which adds depth and unique nuances to my images. Each time I return, I feel I have something new to contribute, a vision that would not have emerged without these moments of pause. These reflective spaces not only keep my work fresh, but also help me remember why I started in photography and rediscover the pleasure of capturing moments that reflect my artistic identity.

And finally, is there someone whose photography you enjoy – perhaps someone that we may not have come across – and whose work you think we should feature in a future issue? They can be amateur or professional.

I would like to recommend two outstanding photographers from my homeland whose work I think deserves to be featured in a future issue. I would not be surprised if they have already published with you.

As for established authors, I would like to highlight Isabel Díez, who has been my main source of inspiration throughout my artistic development. Her work, mainly focused on coastal landscapes, stands out for the enormous sensitivity with which she captures the smallest details, transmitting calm, strength and mystery.

In the field of emerging artists, I would recommend César Llaneza. His work is also characterised by a meticulous attention to close framing, as well as a special elegance in the treatment of colour and the emotionality that his motifs evoke. Llaneza's images possess a unique vitality that makes them truly captivating.

Thank you, Juan. It’s going to be fascinating to see how your intermingling of photography with your working environment continues to evolve.

You can see more of Juan’s photography on his website. You’ll also find him on Facebook and Instagram.

We have previously featured the two photographers that Juan has suggested, and you can read these interviews by following the links below.

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Geotagging, Gatekeeping, and Responsible Location Sharing in Landscape Photography

By Matt Payne | December 4, 2024

This week, I had the misfortune of having one of my most unique photographs go viral in a Facebook Group about Colorado Photography. I say misfortune because this explosion in views came with a litany of comments from viewers asking me to provide the exact location of the photograph. Having spent some time at this particular location, I'm keenly aware that it lacks the infrastructure that would need to accompany a mass influx of visitation, so I kept my lips sealed and simply stated that the image was captured in Colorado. This angered a lot of people for a variety of reasons, which we will expand on later in this article; however, I need to explain why so many photographers are keeping location information close to the vest.

This photograph sparked outrage in a Facebook Photography Group because I refused to tell everyone where it was captured.

To paint a picture for you, I need to take you back to 2015. It was the very first time I ever visited what is now known as the most popular alpine destination in Colorado - Ice Lakes Basin. It was a pristine August weekend and my friend Ryan and I wanted to backpack into the basin so that I could climb Vermillion Peak nearby while we both engaged in some landscape photography. We had known about the location's potential for great photography through our meticulous research and were excited to go. Needless to say, we were both able to capture some great images and had a great time. We saw a total of four other people the entire weekend. I was so elated about my experience that I wrote an article about it for a now defunct magazine called the San Juans Mountain Journal. A friend of a friend and local resident of Ophir, Colorado, disparaged me for sharing information about this special place, which I didn't understand at the time. I thought, "What is the harm in sharing this location with other outdoor enthusiasts?"

One of my first photographs from Ice Lake Basin, a beautiful place that has become overcome with visitation thanks to Geotagging on social media

Negative Impacts on Locations from Geotagging and Location Sharing in Photography

Fast forward to 2016 and beyond and it was clear to me that the word was out about this amazing place thanks to the proliferation of Instagram and Geotagging. Several huge and popular accounts with over a million followers had created some viral videos of Ice Lake Basin and the impact was extreme. The basin went from seeing 10-20 visitors a week to over 1,200 a day in a matter of a year. I returned in 2016 to find it packed with crowds of people, which transformed the location from a pristine nature experience filled with peace, solace, and solitude to one of noise, trash, and crowds of people. While this might not be a big deal for some places, it is a huge deal for a place like Ice Lake Basin. This location is above the tree line, where the tundra is quite sensitive to the impact of foot traffic. There is only a short vegetation growing season of approximately 50 to 60 days. Due to the extreme climate and limited opportunities for plant growth, this ecosystem is extremely sensitive to disturbance. Even modest human activity can result in many negative impacts on the ecosystem. Which is exactly what happened. Human faeces accumulated at the lake. Social trails exploded. Now a permit system is being implemented which will limit access, which is counter to what all of the anti-gatekeeping folks hate - more on that later.

This Vanishing World

By Deirdre Slattery | November 30, 2024

This meticulous book celebrates the life and work of Olegas and Melva Truchanas and underpins an exhibition currently in the Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, Launceston (until 16 February). Although both the book and the exhibition are a deeply personal tribute to two remarkable people, they are about much more. In campaigning tirelessly for nature for much of their lives, neither Olegas nor Melva thought it was about them. It was about the recognition and protection of the priceless treasures of South-west Tasmania. One outcome was the use of photography to educate people about the need to protect unique and precious places. As visual images engaged people’s concern for such places, protest at their destruction became a necessary part of campaigns. Thus emerged the world’s first Green Party to represent these views in parliamentary processes.

The book’s 150 Truchanas photographs are part of the QVMAG’s Olegas Truchanas Archive, created largely thanks to Melva’s vision and effort to preserve this work. The exhibition and book have also been supported by the Lithuanian Community: an Acknowledgement by Andrius Domaševicius-Žilinskas clearly establishes the wider importance of the story. The photos are arranged by themes: Resilience, Passion, Artistry and Impact.

A Preface by Rima Truchanas and Commentary by curator Jon Addison place the works in the context of both the Truchanas family and the strong complex legacy that has followed.

Many ageing Baby Boomer bushwalkers and lovers of wild places possibly take for granted the pioneering use of landscape photography to educate Australians and expose poor decisions: it was part of their own history. They treasure Max Angus’ s publication, The World of Olegas Truchanas (1975), published by a group of friends and colleagues as an outcome of Truchanas’s untimely death in 1972. The book became a legend and publishing success because of the dual tragedy of the loss of Truchanas himself and of Lake Pedder. Both have become associated with many people’s commitment to an ideal: respect for nature everywhere and protection of the Earth’s remarkable and vanishing wild places. However, it is now 50 years since Truchanas’s death and 100 years since his birth and this new work places the photos and the times in an historical context.

It recognises developments in the use of photography: most of the images are from 35 mm colour slides, which Truchanas used as a flexible, low-tech tool for his celebrated slide nights. To this educational tool he later added audio visuals using multiple slide projectors and manual faders with background music from Sibelius and Delius. These presentations in Hobart Town Hall to packed audiences extended knowledge and appreciation to many people who would never see these places for themselves, but cared about them.

The story of a refugee migrant who healed himself from the horrors of war in his homeland and found a new purpose in remote country is one that continues to offer an important idea for all Australians.

This publication plays on that idea through its title’s reference to Truchanas’s world. That world unites the two books. The photographs and the story will continue to extend the legacy to people who care.

For bushwalkers like me, perhaps the most powerful images are those that place people in place: an orange japara tent clinging to a cliff, Truchanas’s camp with his gear drying in the sun, and best of all, Lost Playground: the iconic image of five year-old Rima exploring Lake Pedder with joy and freedom reminds us all of the irreplaceable nature of such places and experiences.

The exhibition is at QVMAG Inveresk Gallery until 19 February 2025.

The book is available from Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery bookshop and can be ordered online.

Thank you to View Camera Australia and David Tatnall for allowing us to republish their content.

What Makes a Great Photo?

By Chris Murray | November 29, 2024

A great image is not the same as an image of something great.~Guy Tal

I recently stumbled upon the image below on the internet and saw it was awarded “Best Photograph” in North America by the International & Regional Magazine Association, whoever they are. That it is a beautiful and striking image is beyond question, as is the level of craftsmanship. But, do those two factors alone make it worthy of “Best Photograph?”

But What’s in the Mountains?

By Keith Evans | November 25, 2024

But what's in the mountains?

Just cliffs and brush and rocks and dryness.

Were you ever there?

No.

Has anybody ever been there?

A few people, I guess. It's dangerous, with cliffs and things. Why, I've read there's more unexplored country in the mountains of Monterey County than any place in the United States." His father seemed proud that this should be so.

And at last the ocean?

But," the boy insisted, "but in between? No one knows?

Oh, a few people do, I guess. But there's nothing there to get. And not much water. Just rocks and cliffs and greasewood. Why?

It would be good to go.

What for? There's nothing there.

Jody knew something was there, something very wonderful because it wasn't known, something secret and mysterious. He could feel within himself that this was so.

~Excerpt from The Little Red Pony, by John Steinbeck

Big Sur is renowned for its beautiful, rugged coastline, where the Pacific Ocean meets the Santa Lucia Mountains. However, the features within these mountains are less known. For tourists and photographers, too, much of the beauty within these mountains is unknown, and compared to the Big Sur coastline, little creative photography emerges from the mountains. As photography became increasingly important for me, Big Sur became the primary place to explore both the landscape and my creative abilities. The Santa Lucia Mountains, as a subject for art making, are filled with unique, diverse opportunities to witness indescribable beauty.

Big Sur is renowned for its beautiful, rugged coastline, where the Pacific Ocean meets the Santa Lucia Mountains. However, the features within these mountains are less known.

I love returning to familiar landscapes to make them ever more familiar. Exploring landscapes again and again feels like I’m growing roots in the natural world. With photography, those roots seem to grow deeper and deeper.

Artists who cultivate long term relationships with particular geographies most inspire me. Ansel Adams, Morely Baer, Alexey Titarenko, Michael Light, Guy Tal, William Neill, Colin Prior, and many more honed their creative capacities by returning time and again to familiar places and themes. I aim to develop my own body of work, unfolding themes over time and creating art from a place of familiarity with places I love.

The coastline of Big Sur, though widely photographed, contains many, many opportunities for new creative work. And I love revisiting coastal Big Sur. But after some years of exploring the coast and a bit beyond, like the boy in Steinbeck's story, I wondered "what's in the mountains?”

So my focus turned up and eastward to the mountains of Big Sur. I began to study maps, books, photographs, forums, and blogs. Walking and scrambling up the trails, creeks, and dirt roads, became my primary focus in Big Sur. Both on-trail and off-trail adventures within the wilderness areas offer endless dynamic subject matter for photography.

There is a wealth of local knowledge about the Big Sur mountains.

There is a wealth of local knowledge about the Big Sur mountains. People like Jack Glendening, the late Paul Danielson, and many others, support and preserve the wild qualities of the Santa Lucia Range and maintain recreational access for all.

People like Jack Glendening, the late Paul Danielson, and many others, support and preserve the wild qualities of the Santa Lucia Range and maintain recreational access for all. Forestry and state park staff, volunteers, donors, and tourists all contribute to the maintenance of the walking trails. A rich heritage of ecological responsibility and respectful participation with the Santa Lucia Mountains continues the efforts of Ansel Adams, Henry Miller, Robert Redfield, Clint Eastwood, Paul Danielson and others.

Wilderness access evolves year to year due to storms, fires, understory growth and erosion. Maintaining these trails requires significant effort, and there is not enough budget or foot traffic to support their full upkeep at present. Perhaps electronic devices keep the people of the pavement indoors more than in times past. There are a small handful of backcountry places that receive significant traffic, but many more are becoming lost and overgrown, and many more remain generally unexplored.

These mountains hold many treasures, both big and small. Some seasons there are so many spring flowers that sweet and fragrant floral notes fill each breath for miles and miles. I’d heard of ladybird aggregations but didn’t know that in remote locations some stretch for almost a mile along a creek, millions of ladybirds. Watching the sun set over a heavy marine layer blanketing the Pacific Ocean as I walk down a hillside into that blanket is a blessing each time.

There are many worlds within the world of Big Sur to explore.

Key avenues alongside the wilderness backcountry areas await further exploration by recreationists. Highway 1 is wonderful to drive but there are quite a few other access points to the backcountry that are equally as wonderful to explore and more diverse.

Currently, the journey of the freshwaters is most interesting for me. Six rivers, hundreds of creeks and canyons, and uncounted cascades contour the landscape with intricate pathways and geological stories. These waters bring life to diverse flora and fauna. Fertile riparian corridors of old-growth redwoods, oaks, maple, alders, sycamore, cottonwood, willow, provide a canopy for an understory of revolving profusions of wildflowers, fern, chaparral and wildlife.

Particular locations within these waterways, holding many hidden, beautiful features, are difficult to access. Challenges include poison oak, lots of poison oak, deer ticks, nuanced rugged terrain, waterflow and other seasonal factors. Caution is warranted.

These places are magical. The sounds of wind whistling and waters echoing and bird song alone are enough to make the effort to access them worthwhile.The changing light reflected in the water and filtering through the canopies create dynamic, challenging creative opportunities. Full days spent exploring watersheds are mesmerizing. Each creek is its own world of unique characteristics.

The changing light reflected in the water and filtering through the canopies create dynamic, challenging creative opportunities. Full days spent exploring watersheds are mesmerizing. Each creek is its own world of unique characteristics.

Unfortunately, illegal activities in these pristine areas highlight the need for greater vigilance and enforcement efforts. For decades now, freshwaters have been pumped into illegal marijuana grows on public lands, managed by unfriendly residents. These individuals sometimes use bulldozers to terrace mountainsides for such operations, visible on Google Maps. They have also started fires, closing the forest for years at a time and leaving burnt old-growth trees behind that bear witness to human neglect and apathy. Without broad public awareness and advocacy, it's hard to see this situation changing significantly. The public doesn't know what's being lost in the Santa Lucia Mountains to illegal marjuana cultivation and trail maintenance that generally leaves upwards of 25 percent of the trails difficult or impossible to travel on. This has been the case for decades.

Importantly, proposed updates to the Big Sur land use plan this year are considering new developments of residences and resorts. Ansel Adams worked towards federal protection for Big Sur to conserve its visual beauty and natural resources. The advocacy of Adams and many others informed the current 40-year Big Sur land use plan, approved in 1986. Public support and pressure are needed to keep Big Sur wild and accessible for future generations.

Each of my photographs are invitations to all to explore and participate in the life of these landscapes. To care for wild places well, a measure of respectful interest and public support is needed. Keeping Big Sur conserved and accessible will require many more hands and feet. There are complex cultural histories that need to be respected and highlighted as well. I hope to highlight features not often seen as a promise of what awaits the adventurous and committed.

Big Sur, with its mixed evergreen forests, desert-like flora, rain forest-like canopies, unique variants of pine, ancient Native American village sites, petroglyphs, a Spanish mission, military installations, old telegraph wires, mining claims, resorts, and residences, is a diverse yet threatened landscape marked by monuments to human frailty and beauty. We humans are as much the problem as we are the solution. A complete love for humanity also involves a love and respect for our environment.

My photography project is largely creative in nature, but also includes an intention to encourage respectful participation and documentation. Generally, I don’t have specific destinations for my Big Sur excursions. I’ve learned that encountering the details along the way are as interesting, perhaps more so, than any grand feature. Some phenomena are ephemeral, others ever present though always evolving. And therein lies the fun.

The mountains of Big Sur are calling…

Issue 316

By Tim Parkin | November 22, 2024

Click here to download issue 316 (high quality, 58Mb)

Click here to download issue 316 (smaller download, 33Mb)

End Frame: Autumn Delta by Magnus Lindbom

By Brian Pollock | November 20, 2024

What do our photographs say about us?

The photograph I have chosen as the subject of this article, “Autumn Delta” by Magnus Lindbom, speaks to us as much of its creator as the ephemeral beauty of the landscape he has captured.

It is often asked whether the effort to make a photograph bears on the value ascribed to it. For me, the answer is a clear yes. I would hazard a guess that Magnus would be of a similar mind.

Capturing the raw beauty of wild places, more often than not, takes considerable effort. “Autumn Delta” was the product of 2 weeks spent in Sarek National Park in Lapland, northern Sweden. Magnus’ journey is documented in the wonderful short film “Autumn in the Rapha Valley”.

Perpetual Motion: The Changing Faces of the Sea

By Madeleine Lenagh & Charlotte Parkin | November 20, 2024

We published Madeleine’s article on The Biesbosch Wetlands back in 2020. The project took her almost three years to complete. The aim was to portray a hidden world that most visitors miss, but that forms the soul of the wetlands national park known as The Biesbosch. Madeleine’s latest project, Perpetual Motion, The Changing Faces, pays homage to the Dutch Sea coast, capturing the intricate interplay of wind, water, sand, waves, and tides. Her work reveals an ever-changing, awe-inspiring landscape shaped by the forces of nature.

Could you tell us how you started developing a passion for photography?

I grew up as a quiet, shy child, spending most of my time alone, roaming the woods behind our Connecticut home or with my nose buried in a book. We were encouraged to pay attention to birds, plants, geology, and all the other things that make our natural world so beautiful and interesting. So, even though my childhood wasn’t a particularly happy one, I found fascination and a sense of belonging in nature.

I wanted to emulate my artistic mother and grandmother, but everyone told me that, being left-handed, I couldn’t draw. My mother and uncle were both avid photographers, taking after their father, who had been a member of the New York Camera Club in the 1920’s. When I was 18, my uncle gave me a camera (a Zeiss Ikon Ikoflex). This finally gave me the means to explore visual expression.

Could you tell us what your early passions were, what you studied, and the career path you ultimately pursued?

At this point, we were in the middle of the 1960s, and my first urge was to document the social turbulence around me with my camera. I went to a liberal arts college known for its radicalism. However, I was too restless and unsure of myself to settle into a particular field of study. In my second year, I dropped out and convinced my parents to give me a trip to Europe for my 21st birthday. During my travels, I found an au pair position here in the Netherlands and ended up staying here. I settled down in Haarlem, married a photographer, and had two children. I was awed by my husband’s work and by the successful photographers in our circle of acquaintances, so I put my camera aside. Instead, I became involved in urban renewal, citizen participation, and local politics. (My marriage did impress upon me the fact that photography is a poor way to earn a living!)

After we divorced in the early 80s, I started using my camera again, but only as a hobby. I went back to school, first for a bachelor’s degree in community work, later for a master’s degree in public administrative law, and went to work for a town government. Eventually, I became senior project manager for the City of Utrecht and spent 17 exciting years running various urban renewal and development projects.

During the last five or so years of this work, I also coached fellow project managers. I enjoyed the coaching and went back to school to earn another degree, this time in coaching and counselling.

What inspired you to write your autobiography “Passage of the Stork – Delivering the Soul”

During my counsellor’s training, we did an exercise in writing a two-page autobiography. I was amazed at the degree of insight this gave me into my turbulent and sometimes traumatic childhood and subsequent development. I wanted to use my story to inspire readers to examine and understand their own stories. A small publishing company specializing in expat autobiographies was interested. I’ve always loved to write, and I enjoyed working on the book.

At what point did photography become more than a hobby? Did anything in particular prompt this?

In 2010, I set up a private counselling practice and took early retirement two years later to pursue this full-time.

All I wanted to do was go out with my camera. It was as if the barriers that had held back my urge to express myself through images were finally crumbling. In 2016, I closed my practice and started devoting all my time to photography and other visual arts.

But I soon became aware that I didn’t have time for clients! All I wanted to do was go out with my camera. It was as if the barriers that had held back my urge to express myself through images were finally crumbling. In 2016, I closed my practice and started devoting all my time to photography and other visual arts.

Who or what has been the biggest source of inspiration in your growth as a photographer—whether photographers, artists, or individuals? Are there any books or articles that sparked a deeper interest in photography?

My passion for nature and my passion for photography had finally found each other, and my photography was about the wonder that I felt when I was out in nature. But I was pretty caught up in the desire to make images that would meet with approval. ‘Am I good enough?’ was the foremost question in my mind. It wasn’t until I started working with Theo Bosboom as a mentor that I developed enough self-confidence to understand and follow my own instincts. Expressing the feelings that a scene in nature evokes in me instead of simply registering what I see. Now, when I go out with my camera, I make images that speak to me, and I don’t worry about who else might like them.

This was also stimulated by the fact that I’d started to paint. My paintings were very abstract, and that encouraged me to look for that abstract quality in my photographs. Artists like Mark Rothko and Georgia O’Keefe were (and are) a great source of inspiration for me.

Could you share the story behind how this project, "Perpetual Motion", came to be?

I’ve always loved the sea, and it has played an important role in my life. Three years ago, I moved back to the Haarlem area and now live very close to the shore. So, I started going down to the beach at all hours to take photos. As I mentioned in an earlier article (The Biesbosch Wetlands), I enjoy working on projects.

Working on a recurring theme helps me to dig deeper and uncover what the landscape means to me. In this case, I became inspired by the many swiftly changing moods of the sea. I could identify with this, as it reflects my own changeable moods.

I decided to keep the focus of the project on the Dutch coast, which is seemingly uneventful but shows its changing faces in the movement of water, sand, and sky.

At a certain point, I had collected quite a few seascape images. When Theo Bosboom saw them, he suggested that I make a book. At first, I wasn’t too keen on the idea. Putting together a book sounded wonderful; financing it and marketing it was another matter entirely. But I do want to share my work in another form than just as digital media. I decided that if I was going to publish a book, I was going to go all the way and make a beautiful one.

How did the creative process of producing Perpetual Motion compare to your first book? Obviously your first book was narrative driven, but were there any similarities in the overall creative process?

That is an interesting question, and I have never thought about it this way before. There actually are parallels. My first book emerged as a collection of vignettes that I ended up organizing into a narrative, selecting some and discarding some until I had a storyline that worked. This is very similar to the process of making a photobook. Another similarity is that my first book is very impressionistic and uses a lot of metaphors, often derived from mythology (I’m a great fan of Joseph Campbell’s work). My photography is never obviously metaphorical, but there are underlying layers of emotion and meaning in my images, and certainly those in this book.

Valda Bailey wrote the foreword for your book. How did that collaboration come to happen?

Valda is an abstract expressionist photographer whose work I greatly admire. I joined the Bailey-Chinnery forum, Abstract Rhythm & Blue Notes, about two years ago, and it’s been a wonderful source of inspiration and creativity, merging photography with other visual arts and learning from various modern art movements. I was very happy when Valda agreed to write the foreword!

My first book emerged as a collection of vignettes that I ended up organizing into a narrative, selecting some and discarding some until I had a storyline that worked. This is very similar to the process of making a photobook.

How did you approach the development of this project and the book? Did you conduct much research beforehand, or did your time in the field shape the direction?

The book developed pretty organically, taking its shape from the collection of images I was building. It gained focus once I’d decided to limit the scope to the Dutch coast and the theme of changing moods.

Were there many key photographs that you knew would succeed when you took them? Conversely, did some of your pre-planned images fail in execution?

I hardly ever pre-plan images; I just go with what the landscape offers me. Some of my favourite images emerged during a ‘wow-moment’ in the field when I was so charged with excitement about what I was witnessing that I knew everything would fall into place.

At the other extreme, there was a popular location (Palendorp Petten) that I visited twice but was unable to find enough inspiration to make images worth including. Forcing myself to make something doesn’t work for me.

The book is ordered into sections, with poems at the beginning. What were your initial thoughts about including poetry and please tell us more about the significance of the ordering and quotes.

Valda writes, “This book not only highlights the physical beauty of the Dutch coast, but Madeleine’s words also give us an occasional subtle hint into exactly what this stretch of coastline means to her.” Could you tell us more about the poems in the book and how you paired them with the photographs?

One of the questions I needed to answer when I decided to make the book was, do I add text and, if so, what? I decided that the images needed some kind of textual accompaniment, but they needed to be minimal and only add what was not obvious from the images themselves. There aren’t really distinct chapters, just shifts in mood that form the storytelling aspect. Later, I wrote bits of text (in a lyrical style) to accompany those shifts.

Sequencing plays a crucial role in storytelling. How did you approach organising the flow of images and creating a cohesive visual narrative when you were working on the book? Did you manage the project yourself or did you work with an editor?

The image selection and sequencing was/is one of the most challenging aspects of making a photobook! I didn’t try to do this alone, and I wouldn’t advise anyone to do so. Theo played a prominent role in this stage. We would toss the work back and forth: he’d set up a set of images, I would then make one with my ideas, then it was his turn again, etc.

Gradually, the narrative started resembling a symphony (with the crescendo in the third quarter of the book), and the images fell into place naturally. We also had discussions about what types of images were still missing and whether or not to include images of birds, humans, and anything else that might distract from the main theme of the book.

How did you decide on the format of the book e.g. size and paper, print type?

I designed the book myself, teaching myself to use desktop publishing software. My first decision was a very practical one. I wanted a book that would fit through most people’s mail-slots to keep the shipping costs down! I also wanted something that would sit properly on a bookshelf, which meant avoiding a landscape orientation. After understanding how the pages were put together in bundles of eight, I fixed the number of pages to 112.

I wanted a clear, legible font that would be restful to the eyes, and I didn’t want the text to compete with the images for attention. I also chose a subdued presentation of the images, using only two different aspect ratios.

As I mentioned earlier, I wanted to make a high-quality publication, a book that would be a joy to leaf through. Theo took me to meet his printer in Enschede, and we discussed things like paper, covers, and print processes. That meeting left me inspired and excited. This was the book I wanted to make!

Tell me what your favourite two or three photographs from the book are and a little bit about them.

Blue Wave

Blue Wave is one of the first images that convinced me that the project had potential. I took it on a drizzly pre-dawn morning at nearby Zandvoort, using 600mm to shoot deep into the waves.

Spindrift

Spindrift was one of the final images I took for the book. I had gone down to the southernmost part of Zeeland for details like wooden pilings. I certainly did not need more wave photos! But the conditions, bright sun and a gale-force wind, were irresistible. I can still feel the adrenaline of that moment.

Passage

Passage was taken on a very foggy morning during low tide. To me it has a mythical quality. And what I really like about it is that it’s a quiet image that many people would simply ignore on social media, but it gets the attention it deserves in the book.

Although the equipment choice is secondary to your own processes, it inevitably affects the way we work to some extent. What equipment did you use for this project, and why did you choose it?

I took all these photos with my Sony Alpha 7RIII. I always go out with a single body and lens, usually a 70-200mm f/2.8. I chose a 24-70mm f/2.8 lens if I wanted a close focus (sand textures, for instance). Sometimes, I would take my 200-600mm f/5.6-6.3 lens to help me focus deep into the waves. I have a small pouch of circular ND filters that I usually carry in my pocket. I don’t always carry a tripod, but sometimes I would take one along. Some of the ICM images came about because I had gone out before dawn and had forgotten to bring the tripod!

A lot of things need doing when you’re self-publishing a book that has nothing to do with the creative process. I had to set up a registered business and build a webshop.’

Were there aspects of making the book that appealed to you less than others?

A lot of things need doing when you’re self-publishing a book that has nothing to do with the creative process. I had to set up a registered business and build a webshop. There’s a lot of bureaucracy involved in both running a business and dealing with the national distribution system for bookstores. I had to start promotional activities. Marketing the book meant calling attention not only to the book but to myself, which makes me very uncomfortable.

I think these activities are often stumbling blocks for creative photographers. And I would like to encourage them to take that side of self-publishing in their stride. It’s worth it in the end to hold that beautiful book in your hands, that you have so lovingly and carefully built, and to share it with readers.

What is next for you? Where do you see your photography going in terms of subject and style?

This is an interesting question because I’m not entirely sure. Through my work with Valda Bailey and Doug Chinnery, I’ve grown bolder about using multiple exposure and compositing to produce more abstract, less ‘photographic’ images.

I suspect that this is a transitional stage, fuelling my love of abstraction and bringing my other visual art practices and my photography closer together. I still view myself as a landscape photographer (albeit an abstract one) at the core.

I would like to interest one or more art galleries for my work. I recently took part in a group exhibition of not only photographs but paintings and sculptures. My images did very well and everyone there agreed that my work belongs in a setting like that.

As far as new subject matter goes, I’ve grown intrigued by the shallow lakes filled with marram grass in the dunes behind the beach, which offer many possibilities for visual adventures.

Were there specific scenes or images you aimed to capture to convey a particular message?

The book does carry a message which is summed up in this bit of text on page 48:

Sometimes I wonder
Why I would travel to far-off places
When everything I need is here
In this ever-changing landscape.

Many people and especially photographers, make bucket lists and try to visit all the locations they’ve seen photos of, thinking, ‘I want that too!’ My plea is to stop and pay attention to what’s around you. If you look carefully, there is so much beauty to be found in very ordinary things.

Lastly, I’d like to offer you a soapbox for something related to the natural world or the benefits of photography, or just living a good life... What would you like to say to readers or encourage them to do?

I can’t stress enough that photographing familiar scenes close to home enriches your art, encourages a mindful way of living, increases awareness of the need to preserve and protect these landscapes, and is better for the environment than traveling to one exotic destination after the other.

And, as an ambassador for Nature First, I’m very aware of the way crowds of photographers and tourists in general have ruined once beautiful and pristine landscapes. If we truly love nature and landscape, we should do everything we can to not only keep our imprint on the landscape to a minimum, but also raise awareness in others to do the same.

My self-confidence received a great boost when the IPA International Photography Awards, awarded the book Honourable Mention in the Fine Art Books category and selected it for the Jury Top 5. My conviction that I’ve made something special was reinforced by these awards. As I mentioned earlier, I find it difficult to engage in a lot of self-promotion, and I’m extremely grateful for opportunities like this to reach out to potential buyers. If the images and the concept speak to you, dear reader, please buy my book!

Perpetual Motion is available through my website at www.lenagh.nl/books and bookstores in the Netherlands.

Any Questions, with special guest Theo Bosboom

By Tim Parkin, Theo Bosboom & Mark Littlejohn | November 19, 2024

The premise of our podcast is loosely based on Radio Four's “Any Questions.” Usually, Joe Cornish and I (Tim Parkin) invite a special guest to each show and solicit questions from our subscribers. Unfortunately, with Joe's recent accident, he couldn't make it and so we asked Mark Littlejohn to be a 'pseudo-JC' for the talk. He might not do a convincing impression of Joe, but he's always interesting and entertaining to talk to!

Boring Postcards

By Keith Beven | November 18, 2024

I already had an idea for an article on boring postcards in mind when I was writing the last article on The Collecting of Images, having a vague memory of having seen books of boring postcards for sale. That article on Collecting and Collectors mentions some collections published by Martin Parr – and I was then rather surprised to find that it was indeed Martin Parr himself who had put together the original books of Boring Postcards (though, on reflection, this is not really at all surprising!).

M6 Motorway from Martin Parr’s Boring Postcards

There are, in fact, three books: Boring Postcards (a collection from the UK from the 1950s to the 1970s), Boring Postcards USA, and Langweilige Postkarten collected from Germany. In each case, there are pictures of landscapes containing built features: new motorways, Interstate highways and autobahns; new motorway services and toll booths; new bus stations and civic buildings; new airport terminals and motels. The postcards certainly reflect a pride in the significance of these newly created structures, but the collections also invite a reflection on who might have bought and sent the postcards.

By reason of making such collections, the boring postcards have become interesting (as is evident in many of the comments on the books on Amazon, GoodReads and other sites – though it has to be said that not all the comments are positive¹).

These works have also inspired others. There is a Boring Postcards website maintained by Katherine Burright that is devoted to the collection of Boring Postcards in various categories. There is a collection of Boring Postcards USSR (though those are not original postcards but photos taken on different road trips by the Italian photographer Marco Citron). There is a book of Boring Postcards from Italy (though these are also not real postcards, but were created from stills taken from the video game Forza Horizon 2 by the artists Colleen Flaherty and Matteo Bittani, known as COLL.EO, though, as well as the book, they did also produce some of the images for sale as actual postcards).

Perhaps more wondrous still, there is an American artist, Jeremy Hara, who was so inspired by the Boring Postcards USA book that he has reproduced some of the postcards as paintings, which of course poses the question as to whether doing so makes the image less boring (no doubt some artists would be able to inject much more interest than others, though that might also depend on the viewer’s tastes). The wonders of the choices that artists make are often amazing (and sometimes difficult to understand²).

A virtual landscape image from Boring Postcards from Italy

Jeremy Hara: Study of Boring Post Card No. 4, Oil Tank Farm, Midland, Texas³

So, given these efforts at making boring postcards interesting, can we analyse what might be needed to make an intrinsically boring landscape image into something more interesting or, to put it another way, just how boring does an image have to be to become interesting (even if just to a few viewers)?

I should state straight away that I am not at all suggesting that there might be boring photographers among the readers of On Landscape, only that some images might be considered by others to be so boring as to be of interest.

Let us first consider what makes a boring image. There can be boring by banality (including some of those new constructions that appear in the books); boring by minimalism (the seascapes and spectral colour images of Hiroshi Sugimoto spring to mind); boring by cliché (including blurry waterfalls, long exposure clouds and waves, and anything with the Isle of Rhum in the background); and boring by repetition (boring being the antithesis of novel even in the case of, for example, photograph competitions of aurorae when repeated every year).

All of these categories will be boring to some, but evidently will have some appeal to others. Some have even become celebrated (at least for those who like minimalism or views of the Isle of Rhum) so perhaps more of interest here is what might render the boring interesting. One of the 5* reviews of Boring Postcards on Amazon for example reads:

5*. It really is gripping, with no accompanying blurb for the cards, one is left to imagine (if you didn't live there then) what these worlds were like and about the people who inhabited them. The sublime wonder of the quotidian is, of course, the wonder of the sheer magic and miracle of our very existence. This set of books (get all of them) is amazing, a constant source of fascination and some of the most interesting publications available. A very important set of documents, something with which one can impress one's guests - they'll think you either in possession of exquisite taste or a bit of a weirdo; or both.

Or from a review on another site:

After going through these vintage postcards, you’d realize how much has changed, or you can just be amazed thinking how some stayed the same through the years. They could leave you feeling nostalgic, happy, furious, sad or just mad bored, but in the end, you’ll find yourself flipping through it again for another time travel moment.⁴

This suggests that time alone can do the trick, that the recording of an image documenting something (or somebody or, for the landscape, somewhere) will become more interesting with time. There are certainly many photographers whose work was not found to be particularly interesting during their lifetime but who have become celebrated since. There are also collections from anonymous photographers that have later generated interest, such as the in the Vintage Britain or East London books put together by the Hoxton Mini Press⁵.

Landscape photography is perhaps at a disadvantage here – since it has been around for only 150 years or so and natural change is in general rather slow unless man takes a hand.

Before and after boring photos of natural disasters and man-induced degradation can be of interest as historical records in otherwise unremarkable sites. This was, in part, the reasoning behind the New Topographics photographers (including Robert Adams, Lewis Baltz, Bernd and Hilda Becher, Stephen Shore and others) as a reaction to the classic landscape images of Ansel Adams and others in the 1970s⁶. Before and after boring photos of landscape renovation are somewhat rarer, but can be inspiring, such as in the case of the work of Sebastião Salgado at the Instituto Terra he founded at Minas Gerais in the Amazon Basin⁷.

This suggests that time alone can do the trick, that the recording of an image documenting something (or somebody or, for the landscape, somewhere) will become more interesting with time

From our own personal point of view of course, the boring can be a way of simply recording our own history. But that might only become interesting to others if it later became relevant in a wider context of change (as in those Vintage Britain books).

A second reason why the boring might be made interesting is the argument for equivalence or revealing the essence of the every day made by certain transcendental photographers, most famously Minor White. It can be argued that this concept of essence originated with the 350 boring photos of clouds taken by Alfred Stieglitz in the period 1922 (or so) to 1931 (or so – various dates are cited by different authors). This has been explored many times in On Landscape, most recently by Robin Boothby in Issue 298⁸ who provides an excellent analysis of the context and impacts of the Stieglitz equivalents. This includes a discussion of different types of sensibility originally suggested by John Ruskin in 1856 (and at that time referring to poets not photographers). As viewers of images we might reflect these different types of sensibilities.

The first type might only see the thing photographed as itself (and as such it might well be boring). The second might see the thing photographed purely as metaphor (though there is no reason why as viewers we might see the same metaphor as the photographer intended, indeed we might miss it completely so that it remains boring). The third type will appreciate that the thing photographed might have many meanings while still remaining the thing itself (perhaps therefore the closest to appreciating the essence of the thing in the sense of Minor White). For Ruskin, these classifications would only have applied to first rate poets – 2nd rate poets (or really boring photographs) would still not have been of interest.

But what about photography of the landscape itself? Why those rocks? Why those trees? Why the Isle of Rhum or Roseberry Topping or Kirkjufell or the Torres del Paine or Wild Boar Fell yet again?

I suspect that my sensibilities are closer to the first type, with the result that I might find more images boring than I would if I were more sensitised to a second or third type. But I am not unhappy with that realisation since it does allow for a third way of making the boring interesting and that is in creating a certain sense of mystery. It leads us back to the mystery of just why did the photographer take such a picture? In the case of most of the original images in the Martin Parr books, it was probably because the photographers did it for money, commissioned to do so by some developer, corporation, or public body wanting to record their pride in something new.

But what about photography of the landscape itself? Why those rocks? Why those trees? Why the Isle of Rhum or Roseberry Topping or Kirkjufell or the Torres del Paine or Wild Boar Fell yet again? There is intriguing interest in such a mystery that can draw us in and make us take notice. Certainly there will be differences: in light, time of day and season; the different angles, heights or perspectives; the different clouds and skies; and potentially the identification of change in some of the features. But pondering the mystery can be interesting even if we then realise that some such images are still unequivocally boring (and note that this is quite a different type of mystery to that discussed by Eric Bennett and his non-boring images in Issue 297⁹

Perhaps a final way of creating interest is by adding to a theme. This can be seen in other series of images of Martin Parr’s own, for example his abandoned Morris Minors in Ireland, his remote Scottish Postboxes, or (in the extreme) his collection of Saddam Hussein watches. This is the approach I have taken for my own boring postcards, with a theme taken from the banks of the Sarine River in Switzerland.

The Sarine rises to the north side of the Col de Sanetsch at the Glacier de Tsanfleuron in the Valais and flows in a generally northerly direction through the region of Gruyère and the town of Fribourg to join the Aar close to Golaten in the Canton of Bern, a distance of some 126km. Just upstream of Fribourg, the first concrete dam in Europe was built in 1870 forming the Lac de Pérolles (now a nature reserve). Since then, two major dams have buried parts of the valley under water, creating the Lac de Gruyere in 1948 and the Lac de Schiffenen in 1963 (as well as other smaller dams in the headwaters).

However, some of the valley remains in a more natural state even if, downstream of the dams, the discharges are largely managed except in the largest flood events. The images that follow have all been taken between the Lac de Gruyère dam at Rossens and a little downstream of the Abbey of Hauterive, a reach where the river is incised into Tertiary Molasse bedrock creating a meandering gorge. All the images were taken in the weeks following a flood during the night of 14th November 2023. This was somewhat controversial in that there was some opinion expressed that the level of the Lac de Gruyères had not been drawn down enough to cope with the flood waters before the event in order to maximise the potential electricity generation while prices were high. The flood resulted in the flooding of some properties in the Basse Ville in Fribourg and the transport of many thousands of trees and associated debris into the dam lakes or left on the floodplains as the waters receded. Many other trees were flattened, even if their roots held. Considerable quantities of gravel were mobilised in the channel, with widespread overbank sand deposition. Trash in the remaining vegetation suggested water levels well above head height over the flood plain.

So here is my own sequence of boring postcards from after the flood. I sincerely hope that in looking carefully you will find them so boring as to be interesting (and should that perchance be the case then there you can find even more here …..)¹⁰.

Amazon.co.uk reviews of Boring Postcard
1 star - I do not understand why anyone would make a book of pictures of stupid post cards when they could have made a book full of real post cards that someone could actually send to other people. I was so excited to have this coming so I could send out some strange cards to people, but it is just shrunken pictures of post cards with another stupid picture on the back so they are 100% useless to me. I will be throwing this into the trash. The author and publisher are idiots.

5 star - There is something deeply soothing about this book. My favourite images were the two of Butlin's at Bognor Regis (not all the locations are as exciting as Bognor). My second favourite image was of The Precinct, Coventry. Subject matter is mainly town centres, service stations, roads, hotels, holiday camps, power stations and head offices.There are many images from the nineteen seventies so if you're a fan of this era you'll enjoy this book. You can spot a C&A or Woolworths sign in some images and be gently tugged back in time.

5 star - This book is sublime. It opens up a glorious window to post war Britain. Sit back and marvel at the civic pride that was once attached to what we now consider hideous concrete soulless ghettos.

Good reads reviews of Boring Postcards US

2 star - In reality most such cards are likely to be of interest to someone, particularly as the places and styles disappear over time, but they're likely polarizing: of interest to a small audience, and not at all interesting to anyone else.

1 star - Just as the name implies, it's boring. I thought this collection would be rife with tongue-in-cheek witticisms. Instead I am bombarded with aerial shots of interstate exchanges, the exteriors of motels, blah, blah, all taken by persons with zero artistic sensibilities. The pictures are all rendered in horrible muted colors that look sun-bleached and leave me nauseous. (Apparently, I'm viscerally sensitive to colors beyond that of chartreuse and Pepto-Bismol pink!)

5 star - There is something incomprehensibly mind-boggling about this book. Perhaps it's the graphic designer in me, but the scope of work involved in this book just makes me marvel at the stupid things humanity will do. The book is as its title describes - a collection of very boring postcards from the late 40s-70s.

But here is the bit that gets me. Someone, somewhere had to say "You know Ma, what we should do is create a postcard of the air traffic control tower at Waterloo Iowa/The Skyline Motor Inn in Cody Wyoming/The colorful rug near the entrant of the national office of the American Baptists Churches, Valley Forge Interchange, PA."

But then, NO ONE stopped this boob. Instead, they forged ahead. They hired a photographer, who, in all likelihood, took more than one shot of the chosen scene. They then needed to sift through the shots to find the BEST view of "The beautiful and spacious dining room of the Wesleyan Retirement Home in Georgetown, TX" or "The Virginian Restaurant, Williamsburg, Virginia (with it's large spaghetti pizza sign)".

Now, after the perfect picture is chosen, this postcard must be designed and created by a graphic designer. As these cards were made pre-computer, some poor bastard had to hand lay out the type and image, making sure there are no typos in "Aerial view of the twin bridges spanning the Cuyahoga River Valley and the Ohio Canal."

Finally, this masterpiece must be sent to a printer, who spent time choosing a stock, adjusting colors to get just the right tan for the road of the Pennsylvanian Turnpike near Downingtown PA. Once printed (and this again boggles the mind) people have to take these postcards and post them to someone. And they have! Nothing says "I'm thinking of you" than a postcard from the Pike View Motel in Strongsville Ohio

5 star - The question is, were any of these postcards ever sent and received? No, wait – the question is, why would anyone ever send any of these postcards? Not to say, “Wish you were here,” surely. For the rest of us, this is a fun little book to add some quirk to our shelves or coffee tables.

5 star - Who needs a review when you have all those boring pictures to look at?
From the description of Boring Postcards from Italy by COLL.EO: “We wanted to highlight the incongruities and inconsistencies of this virtual reality through an unconventional format, that is, an illustrated book. In our previous project POSTCARDS FROM ITALY, we turned a series of screenshots taken into the game into postcards, and we disseminated these artifacts on "real" postcards racks all over Italy. Our goal was to bring "the virtual" into "the real", suggesting some kind of equivalence between the two. We decided to go a step further by documenting our own experience within the game Forza Horizon 2 using our virtual automobile as a camera and using the Photo Mode editor to capture moments and situations that would have otherwise gone unnoticed.”
From http://jeremyhara.blogspot.com/2011/06/studies-of-boring-postcards.html
https://whenonearth.net/martin-parr-boring-postcards/
https://www.hoxtonminipress.com/collections/vintage-britain
The New Topographics title was taken from the exhibition held at George Eastman House International Museum of Photography in 1975/76: New Topographics: Photographs of a Man-Altered Landscape.
See the report at https://theboonroom.com/blog/recovering-forest-sebastiao-salgado and the Instituto Terra site at https://institutoterra.org
At https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2024/02/cloud-allusions/
See https://www.onlandscape.co.uk/2024/02/the-art-of-mystery/#comments
A book of Boring Postcards: Les Rives de la Sarine can be found at https://www.blurb.co.uk/b/11978006-rives-de-la-sarine where all the images can be previewed for free. Also available as a pdf at that site.

On Labels and Limitations

By Cody Schultz | November 17, 2024

You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish. I have no responsibility to be like they expect me to be. It’s their mistake, not my failing.~Richard Feynman

We are like shop windows in which we are continually arranging, concealing or illuminating the supposed qualities others ascribe to us—in order to deceive ourselves.~Friedrich Nietzsche

For the longest time, I have forced upon myself a label, a classification, specifically revolving around the type of art I create. Even calling what I make “art” places a name upon my creations and differentiates my work from photography, writing, etc. Through the use of a label, we distance ourselves from some while becoming closer to others. This is something we do in every aspect of life, not just creative outlets. Take gender, for example. Already a hot-button topic, the labels of male and female are, at their very core, just that: names we give ourselves to differentiate us from them. Normally, this doesn’t lead to much issue, but when the waters get muddy, people begin to raise concerns.

This is also why people get so hung-up on those utilizing artificial intelligence (AI) calling themselves “artists” or “photographers.” In truth, these individuals are more akin to curators, but at the end of the day, as we will conclude, the use of labels means little. By definition of both art and photography, the creations as made by AI are neither: they are not “the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination” (as the Oxford Dictionary defines art) or “the art or process of producing images by the action of radiant energy and especially light on a sensitive surface (such as film or an optical sensor) (as the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines photography). That said, the degree to which we toil over definitions is an individual choice. The most important question, at the end of the day, is how much time you wish to spend not creating.

What is Landscape (Photography)?

Let us consider the label of landscape photographer, a classification that many freely embrace. When you think of this genre, what comes to mind? Perhaps you picture a scenic vista, like the Grand Canyon or a mountain range at sunset. Maybe you think of a waterfall tucked deep in the forest, illuminated by the soft light of blue hour. What I bet you didn’t imagine, however, was a scene including manmade elements, nor did you place an animal as the primary subject, though both subject types appear semi-regularly. Why is this?

Learning to See Again

By Brad Carr | November 13, 2024

Humanity’s Desperate Longing for True Connection

We exist in desperate times. The tragic events in recent years have left humanity with a collective longing for connection. It is no wonder, given the intense feelings of disconnection that many people experienced in some way, shape or form throughout the pandemic and enforced lockdowns that left many people isolated and cutoff from their true nature; the human nature that is to exist within a close community, to touch, talk to, and see other people daily.

As the memories of isolation, division, and disconnection begin to fade from our conscious minds, I can’t help but become curious about what the long-term effects of these painful chapters on the human psyche and collective conscious might be. My analytical mind has been busy joining some of the dots, trying to make sense of these events, as well as finding solutions for us to move forwards with hope for the future; solutions that begin with our own reconnection to the great spirit of Mother Nature.

Nature’s Sanctuary – A Place for Healing & Transformation

A journey into the natural world offers great sanctuary and refuge, a place for stillness and deep reflection. When a man finds himself wandering alone on the clifftops that have been delicately shaped over millennia by the seas’ persistent chisel, what else has he to do but look back upon his own life to understand and make peace with the raging tides that carved the caves and crevasses within his own internal landscape?

Such a process of introspection can lead to immeasurable inner transformation. In my own case, the camera has been a tool for self-study, and I have been unable to avoid noticing the significant increase in awareness and presence within my own being since I began this practice; something that has greatly benefitted the relationships that I nurture with people around me. I move much more slowly and intently through life now, having ventured outdoors in search of the soul of Nature, and I am able to perceive much more within my own surroundings daily.

Conversations with other people seem to be much deeper, and I am comfortable in allowing more space than my once more anxious self might have. This patience allows people the space that is required to open to the light and reveal who they are beyond the common mask that we all choose to wear at various points throughout our lives.

Natures’ Safe Space for Authentic Expression

The safe space that I found for expression of my true self outdoors in Nature, has now become a safe space within myself that I believe allows other people to open more of themselves to me through our interactions and conversation. We are all divine mirrors for each other, after all. The more that I work to reveal the sides my true self, the more others can reveal to me, and vice versa. Through my observations of the world and the countless people that I have met throughout my time here, I can’t help but feel as though people are desperate to be seen in their fullest expression, especially given the tragic events that we have all experienced over the past few years.

As it happens, I have had two recurring conversations with different groups of people this week, both of whom raised concerns about the subject of their own repressed emotions and deep desires to express more of themselves to the world. Emotion is, quite simply, energy in motion, so why is it that we get so scared of expressing more of the energy that we naturally have inside? Isn’t it a natural human behaviour to express what is within and find means to release the energy that builds up with experience? Could it be that we have all been subject to so much judgment and ridicule throughout our early lives that we learnt to keep parts of ourselves hidden as a means of survival?

A Personal Journey Towards Wholeness

Having spent six years on this journey into Nature, I have become increasingly aware of the significant shifts that have occurred within myself, and the great benefit that this wonderful practice of photography and my explorations into the natural world have had on myself. Not only have I found peace within after a series of significant events throughout my childhood left many deep and painful scars on my heart, but I have now been granted the gift of true sight.

Not only have I found peace within after a series of significant events throughout my childhood left many deep and painful scars on my heart, but I have now been granted the gift of true sight.

As I have written in a previous essay, titled, ‘A Bridge Between Two Worlds, ‘the camera is a bridge that connects two worlds. Not only does it capture what it sees in the external world that is so familiar to us all, but it reflects, at the same time, the inner world of the artist; one that is completely unique and so often unknown and unseen, even by the artists’ eyes at times.’ The further that we venture along the bridge into the outer world, the further we also explore within. As we expand our horizons and develop our sense of sight externally, we gain more perspective and clarity in our internal world. By studying the natural world with patience, intent, and a deep observation, we learn to do the same through our internal lens, should we choose to walk through the landscape with one eye turned inwards. Through this creative practice, we can deepen our self-awareness, increase our understanding of the world, ourselves, and each other, and expand our consciousness.

Making the Unconscious, Conscious

The deep reflective process of spending time in Nature allows for us to bring forth into the conscious mind what was once buried in the unconscious. As we walk in a state of meditation beside the silent waters, we dredge the waters of our own internal lake, often bringing to the surface the muddied, forgotten memories of our youth. As we rid ourselves of this mud that we bathe in, we scrape off the years of conditioning and the adopted beliefs about who we are, and we can begin to see what we are beyond physical form in the infinite world of spirit. When we learn to see ourselves beyond our immediate physical form, then we can see the soul of another. We begin to look past the unconscious actions and words of a persons’ ego, and become aware instead, of the pure energy and light that often exists behind their immediate expressions.

Through my observations, I noticed how the excess amount of time spent in isolation, disconnected from each other throughout the pandemic seemed to have a negative effect on mental and physical health worldwide, and only served to push people further into this repression of themselves. I can’t help but wonder how we might go about reversing such damage to the collective of humanity.

Photography Offers Hope for Our Future

The art of Nature photography, I believe, can play a key role as we look to repair our relationships with ourselves and each other, and ascend towards a more loving and peaceful haven on earth. Nature photography is a holistic practice that combines the mind, body, and spirit. It has immense potential as a modality for delivering healing to the human soul and bringing humanity back into harmony with the natural world, which, in turn, brings us back into harmony with our deeper self, and each other as a result. Not only do we move energy and emotions through our body as we move across the landscape in search of a photograph, but the very act of creating can help to unburden us of our psychological baggage as we transmute our pain into creative power.

It has immense potential as a modality for delivering healing to the human soul and bringing humanity back into harmony with the natural world, which, in turn, brings us back into harmony with our deeper self, and each other as a result.

With the trained photographic eye, the artist learns to look beyond the immediately obvious composition for a more unique and interesting perspective on a location. Through the practice of photography, one begins to experiment with different angles and focal lengths in an attempt to create something completely unique and add interest to their creation. It is through the practice of photography that the abstract and out-of-the-box thinkers are rewarded with more interesting, thought-provoking and conversation-opening photographs.

Within the wider world, there is certainly a place for more people who can approach situations and problems from different angles, for more people who are able to see beyond the immediacy of a person’s often unconscious actions and behaviours, for more people who can see deeply into the soul of another with a level of understanding and empathy that can only lead to forgiveness, acceptance, and unconditional love.

The camera is a vehicle that can carry us towards a place of deep healing, resulting in self-acceptance, and, therefore, acceptance of others. Nature, I believe, is the portal through which we now need to travel if we wish to reverse the damage of the past and co-create a more peaceful, harmonious and loving world to exist in tomorrow.

Issue 315

By Tim Parkin | November 9, 2024

Click here to download issue 315 (high quality, 139Mb)

Click here to download issue 315 (smaller download, 89Mb)

End frame: The Hidden Tree by Theo Bosboom

By Christophe Noel | November 7, 2024

This is one of the first images by Theo Bosboom that I came across. I was immediately captivated by his fascinating universe: there are many ways to showcase creativity in an image, and for me, this represents artistic expression at its finest. This shot connects me to what I seek and enjoy most in my landscape photography practice, which I call the “creative spark.”

In this photograph, the first thing we notice is the pattern of lichen on the rock, which seems to cover the entire frame. Immediately after, the eye is drawn to a splash of green on the top left corner - an unusual place for a subject, especially so close to the edges. We recognize the leaves, seemingly out of place, floating as if from nowhere. Following the stem, we finally discover the trunk of a tree blending with the boulder in the background, making it almost invisible. At that moment, everything falls into place and we finally understand what the photograph is really about. Brilliant!

4×4 Landscape Portfolios

By Adam Welch, Andrea Mazzei, Goran Prvulovic & Guido Batista | November 7, 2024

Submit Your 4x4 Portfolio

Interested in submitting your work? We are always keen to get submissions, so please do get in touch!

Do you have a project or article idea that you'd like to get published? Then drop us a line. We are always looking for articles.

Adam Welch

Tree Songs

Andrea Mazzei

Sicilian Patterns

Goran Prvulovic

Rolling Waves

Guido Batista

The Olive Grove

By Guido Batista | November 7, 2024

This portfolio includes images of the centuries-old olive trees in the valleys of the mountain range "Serra de la Tramuntana" on the North-East coast of Palma de Mallorca. The extraordinary contorted, decaying trunk forms, along with the unstoppable emergence of myriads of leaves, convey the inseparability of life and death most admirably. The decay and the sprouting of new life in balanced harmony, and how each of these silent witnesses conveys it in its own particular fashion, trigger our imagination and awe.

The peculiar gentle color of the leaves, “olive green,” naturally accentuated the contrast between the trunk and leaves, asking for a black & white rendering which, in turn, highlighted the fine detail. Due to this, for the indispensable final step of the photographing process, a paper was chosen which would make the print stand out more, as if it were an etching. My special fondness for pencil drawings, which I self taught, pursued long ago, is evident.

An image with a sample of the final prints is included to appreciate the etching quality, which a screen cannot convey. I´m sure many nature photographers have experienced the profound satisfaction that comes in that magical moment in which you hold the freshly printed copy in your hands as you contemplate it for the first time. It is as if you have brought back to life what you had once “stolen” with your camera, most especially with images of the vegetable kingdom, which you can physically feel in the cotton- based fibers of the paper.

Only when holding the prints did I reconnect, as never before, to the long sessions I wandered through the olive groves and the serene, yet light, unique, history-laden Mediterranean atmosphere they exuded.

Rolling Waves

By Goran Prvulovic | November 7, 2024

The wave's motion is smooth. The foreground, the coast, the background, and the sea blend, forming a depth of view. See my previous submission: Over the Waves

Sicilian Patterns

By Andrea Mazzei | November 7, 2024

Sicily is a very diverse island, offering a huge variety of landscapes and different ecosystems.

These varieties coexist in a small geographic region, and nature can be, at the same time, the most welcoming and inviting to linger as well as harsh and hostile.

But no matter at which end of this scale you find your self, the beauty of its landscapes is always astonishing.

In this submission, I want to put these different aspects and characters side to side by focusing on patterns, looking for abstraction but keeping connected with the environment.

Tree Songs

By Adam Welch | November 7, 2024

Pie Town, yes, that's really the name. It is nothing more than a map dot in central New Mexico, United States. It's famous for...you guessed it...PIE. Aside from three small cafes, the majority of the town is nothing more than a cluster of run-down and dilapidated buildings. Each building decaying structure serving as a ruined reminder of the thriving community Pie Town once was decades ago.

While I did photograph in Pie Town itself, it was the landscape surrounding the small free campground the town operates (where I stayed for over a week) which drew my attention most.

The entire area was a glorious gift of shifting light. It was mid-March, and the grass was still golden and dry, and the air smelled sweet with sage. Branches from the Juniper and Pinyon Pines hung low, casting shadows that seemed to mingle carelessly through the wind-swept grasses. It was these beautifully gnarled trees which would prove themselves the most expressive of subjects.

Each fine evening I would take a stroll with the Hasselblad 500 C/M, usually with that dementedly beautiful 80mm F/2.8 Zeiss Planar, and see where the light might take me. I photographed with differing film stocks including Kodak Portra 160 and Ektar 100, as well as Ilford HP5 Plus and FP4 Plus. It was that last stock, perhaps my favorite black and white film to use in the Hasselblad, which captured the essence of the place most fully.

Although the photographs lack those gorgeous golden hour hues, the subtle contrasts brought on by FP4's 125 ISO lends a quiet stillness that I feel transcends any potential benefit a chromatic injection could offer.

Technical Information

Camera: Hasselblad 500 C/M (named Alice)
Lenses: Zeiss 80mm F/2.8 C Planar and Zeiss 150mm F/4 Sonnar CF
Processing: Developed on-site with my "FP4 Poison" Caffenol variation
Scan: Epson V700

Chris Harrison

By Chris Harrison & Michéla Griffith | November 7, 2024

Whatever labels we prefix photography with, it is a fluid form of art and craft that largely follows the curiosity of the person behind the lens. Just as the countryside evolves over time and with weather, urban street scenes are in flux, shaped by changes in the built fabric, the movement of people, the play of light, and the unfolding of everyday life. Street photography invites us to see the city as a living organism, a landscape of opportunity with its own rhythms and stories.

In this issue, we feature Chris Harrison. While he always takes his camera with him on his travels, the majority of his work is made in his home city of Brighton, often from the same short section of the seafront. As you will see, the mix of Chris’ curiosity and the dynamics of the city mean that this is far from being a constraint.

Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, and what your early interests were?

Originally, I’m from a small, rural village nestled right on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds. I grew up there in the 1970s and 80s. From an early age, art and creativity were something I felt very drawn to. I’m not sure where that came from because nobody in my family had any interest in art!

Like many people from my generation, the 80s indie music scene became a source of inspiration. Some of my earliest memories of taking an interest in photography came from the sleeves of the LPs in my small record collection. Two names stand out from that period: Brian Griffin's photographs of Echo & The Bunnymen and the beautiful design and art direction that Peter Saville produced for New Order.

You credit one image in particular with opening your eyes to photography? Did this contribute to your choice of college studies, or had you already decided on a course?

My interest in art and design led me to apply to study graphic design at Lincolnshire College of Art & Design in the late 80s. I wasn’t the most academic kid, but I managed to just about scrape the 4 O levels I would need to go to art college.

I received a letter with a list of materials I’d need to get started at college. One of the suggestions on the list was to subscribe to a photography magazine. This kind of confused me because I’d signed up for a graphic design course – photography wasn’t really on my radar. At that time, I didn’t realise that graphic design and photography go hand in hand.

The photography magazine arrived, I opened it, and an image of a Great Dane, Chihuahua and a woman wearing long boots had me mesmerised. I had so many questions, “what am I looking at?”, “who made this?”, “why was this made?”, “who sees the world in this strange way?”. The magazine's main feature for that issue was none other than Elliott Erwitt. That’s when things really changed for me. My eyes became fully open to photography and its hypnotic quality, its ability to hold someone's attention and tickle their heart. It was love at first sight.

At art college, I felt the magic of printing my first photo. I remember being so blown away by the darkroom process that one of the photography department technicians laughingly told me to calm down! I’m not sure if I was high from the developing chemicals or on a natural high from finding something that I loved being a part of. It was, and still is, a magical and sometimes euphoric experience.

However, despite the strong connection I initially felt to photography, I didn’t have the courage to make it a bigger part of my life. After college, I needed to earn a living quickly. Full-time photography didn’t feel like the right choice for me, so I took the safe option and pursued my career as a designer.

After college, I needed to earn a living quickly. Full-time photography didn’t feel like the right choice for me, so I took the safe option and pursued my career as a designer.

What role did photography subsequently play for you? What prompted you to pick up the camera again after a break?

After I left art college, I kept my hand in with photography during the 1990s, occasionally being immersed in it (using my bathroom as a darkroom and printing my own work) while other times my cameras have gathered dust or been sold to pay for other things.

In 2016, after a 15-year hiatus and a chance visit to Arles Photo Festival, I reconnected with photography again. I saw an exhibition in Arles about the New York School of Photography from the 1950s – a collective known for candid street photography. Influential figures like Sid Grossman, Harold Feinstein, and Leon Levinstein captured raw, unposed moments of urban life.

Their work emphasised emotion and spontaneity, and I was taken right back to the original excitement of seeing Elliott Erwitt’s ‘Great Dane, Chihuahua, Legs and Boots’ for the first time. I asked myself, “Why did you stop? Why aren’t you doing this anymore?” I made a decision to dive back into photography and commit to it. I’m still plugging away.

Who (photographers, artists or individuals) or what has most inspired you, or driven you forward in your development as a photographer – either in your early days or subsequently?

There are so many photographers who have greatly inspired me. As I’ve said, my first introduction to photography was with Elliott Erwitt.

In fact, I’ve probably spent more time looking at other people's photographs than actually making them myself. I don’t think you can underestimate the importance of just looking, with engaged interest, at other people’s photographic work. It’s taught me so much.

After that early introduction, I spent several years looking through photography books and photographers’ portfolios when I worked at the ad agency Saatchi & Saatchi. In fact, I’ve probably spent more time looking at other people's photographs than actually making them myself. I don’t think you can underestimate the importance of just looking, with engaged interest, at other people’s photographic work. It’s taught me so much.

Some of the earlier inspirations were Don McCullin and Steve McCurry. I bought a copy of The Shipping Forecast by Mark Power when it was first released in 1996, and that also really planted a seed for how a bigger idea could be handled in an original way.

In the year 2000, I lived and worked in Sydney and became familiar with the work of Trent Parke and Narelle Autio – their work is still a huge inspiration for me today.

A few years ago, I discovered the work of Jeff Jacobson, who made a mesmerising photo book called Melting Point, which is probably one of my all-time favourites, and became an inspiration for me to make my own book, ‘Sideshow’.

I also love Harry Gruyaert’s work along the off-season parts of coastal Belgium. I mentioned Brian Griffin's work for musicians earlier. I love his inventiveness and how he plays with surrealism, which is something I’m also naturally drawn to.

Going off on a bit of a tangent, there are artists who straddle the world of graphic design and photography. Two people who fall into that space are Storm Thorgerson, who was responsible for most of Pink Floyd's album artwork, and Jean Paul Goude, who created lots of wacky campaigns for musicians and fashion brands. I haven’t even mentioned Joel Meyerowitz, Luigi Ghirri, Saul Leiter, and Henri Cartier Bresson. I could go on and on!

You talk about curiosity and spontaneity being important to your enjoyment but mostly work the same stretch of seafront. This constraint of place is a good way of encouraging experimentation, and fostering creativity?

Photography can happen anywhere, and often, the most interesting work comes from places we already know well. For me, that’s Brighton. It’s not about how far you travel, but more about seeing the every day with a sense of curiosity, letting things surprise you that you might usually pass by without a second thought.

I’ve been working the same stretch of Brighton seafront for ages, and it can feel limiting at first like you’ve seen it all before, and there’s nothing new to discover. But that feeling, the constraint of the same spot, actually pushes you to look harder, to dig deeper and start seeing the ordinary in ways you might not expect. It forces you to look past the obvious and question how you're seeing it.

While exotic locations might seem like they’re overflowing with inspiration, I’ve found that real creativity tends to spark when you stay put and commit to seeing what’s right in front of you – whether that’s just down the street or around the corner from home. It’s not easy, though. It takes patience. There’s this frustration in the beginning, where you feel like you’ve already taken every possible shot, and there’s nothing new to capture. But if you stick with it and keep that curiosity alive, something shifts.

Working within the constraint of a specific place, like Brighton’s seafront for me, forces me to slow down, to stop looking for something dramatic and instead find the subtle details that usually go unnoticed. It’s a challenge, but that’s what makes it interesting. The more you pay attention, the more you realise that even the most familiar places can be full of surprises.

So yeah, that limitation of staying in one spot can actually be a gift. It makes me see beyond the surface, finding magic in the everyday things I might’ve missed otherwise. And sometimes, that’s where the best creativity happens – right there in the familiar, waiting for you to look at it differently.

You carry your camera wherever you go. Has this resulted in any unexpected opportunities? Perhaps we can tie this in with asking you to choose 2 or 3 photographs from your own portfoliotell us a little about your experience of making them.

17:06 – 17th March 2023

This is almost one of the most mundane and ordinary scenes that you will see in Brighton, and I have walked past these huts and the orange chairs hundreds of times. It’s the end of the day and spring will officially start in three days' time. The sun is low enough to make the huts look interesting, but it’s the chairs that are transformed by the late winter light.

13:08 – 20th December 2019

This photograph was taken on the way home. I’d been shooting for a few hours and was running to catch the bus. As I crossed the road, I glanced up into a hotel room window and saw this chandelier hanging from the clouds. Quite mysterious and a bit magical. There’s a quiet simplicity to the shot that I really like.

16:10 – 18th November 2019

I was struck by how much the reflected clouds in this shallow circular puddle resembled a picture of Earth. A curious crow hopped over to take a look, too; it felt like there wasn’t much that needed to be done to make the shot, apart from being patient.

My setup, if you can call it that, is very simple. Just me, my Leica Q2, and whatever I find in the street. My journey with Leica began after attending a Bruce Gilden workshop at the Leica Store in Mayfair, London. I borrowed an M240 from the store for a couple of days and instantly fell in love with it. It felt intuitive, and the image quality was a significant leap from what I’d experienced with other digital cameras. Hooked from that moment, I soon bought a pre-owned M262, and a few years later, took the plunge and bought a pre-owned Q2, also from the Leica Store in Mayfair.

I've been using the Q2 almost exclusively for nearly four years now. It's far from mint condition – it's well-used, and it shows. But cameras are made to be used, and my Q2 has weathered rain and salty sea air many times without any loss in image quality or mechanical performance. What I love most is its simplicity and design. It’s not overloaded with unnecessary features; it’s fast, responsive, and compact, making it easy to carry for hours without feeling cumbersome.

My editing process is intentionally straightforward and efficient. After spending a few hours out on the streets of Brighton – anywhere from 2 to 5 hours, often covering several kilometres – I download all the photos from my camera as soon as I get home. This has become a bit of a ritual for me. Walking through Brighton, capturing candid moments, is where the heart of my work is, and when I return, I want the post-shoot process to be as simple as possible.

For all of my archiving, cataloging, and editing, I rely on Adobe Lightroom. It’s a tool that allows me to keep everything organised and in one place, without unnecessary complications. Lightroom’s functionality fits with my preference for simplicity, making it easier for me to manage my growing library of images.

Occasionally, when I come across a photo that stands out – one I feel has potential for a future book project or that I might want to sell as a print – I’ll take the time to print it. But even then, my editing process remains minimal. I don’t believe in heavy manipulation or drastic alterations. My approach to editing is all about preserving the authenticity of the image. I’ll make minor adjustments, usually just correcting or enhancing the colour slightly, performing minimal cropping, and possibly tweaking the contrast. That’s about the extent of my edits. I want the image to stay as true to the moment it was captured as possible.

For me, the goal is to spend as little time as possible sitting in front of a computer. That’s why I keep the editing side of things really simple and streamlined. I’d rather be out in the streets, with my camera, where the magic happens.

You’ve described the street as being “a set of ingredients in flux, where the challenge is to make something interesting out of it”. Of these is light especially important to you?

Yes, light’s really important to me, but it’s just one piece of a much bigger puzzle, really. When I say the street is “a set of ingredients in flux,” I’m talking about how everything is constantly shifting – the people, the movement, the mood, and of course, the light. Nothing stays still, it’s all changing, so you’ve got to be tuned in to all of it. Especially in street photography, where you’ve got no control over any of it, you’re just reacting to what’s happening around you.

Light can completely change a scene. It can take something totally ordinary and turn it into something a bit special – a shadow falling just right, light hitting someone’s face, or that warm glow you get on a wet street as the sun goes down. But even though light is key, I wouldn’t say I obsess over it. I work with whatever’s there at the time. I’m more interested in the energy of the moment, in what’s happening in front of me, rather than hanging around for perfect lighting.

You can’t really wait for the ideal light in street photography. You’ve just got to make the most of what’s in front of you. And I think that’s where creativity comes in – being able to see something interesting, even when the light’s not what you’d ideally want. It’s not about perfection, it’s about working with what you’ve got and still finding those moments. For me, it’s about being ready for something unexpected to happen. That’s the real challenge – not waiting for the light to be right but being ready to respond when it all comes together in a way you weren’t expecting.

How valuable has your experience of working in a design agency been in developing your ability to appraise your own photos and portfolios, and decide what works?

Working in a design agency has really shaped how I see and evaluate my own photos and portfolios. In design, you’re always making decisions about what stays in and what gets cut, figuring out what works visually and what doesn’t. It’s a constant process of refining, editing, and simplifying until you end up with something that communicates clearly. That discipline has naturally carried over into my photography.

Being able to self-edit is so important. Just like in design, I’ve come to realise that sometimes less is actually more. Not every photo needs to be a standout; some of them can just be good without needing to steal the show.

It’s all about stepping back and looking at your work with fresh eyes, seeing it from a distance. When you work in a design agency, you develop this sharp eye for detail and a sense of what resonates – not just with you but with others, too. That’s really helped me figure out which photos have that extra something – a sense of emotion, a story, or a connection – and which ones just sort of fall flat.

I think the design mindset has also taught me not to get too attached to any single image. Sometimes, you’ve got to be a bit ruthless, especially when you’re putting together a portfolio. It’s not just about picking out the individual shots you love; it’s about the overall narrative and coherence of the whole thing. It’s a bit of a balancing act, really. You want each image to play its part, but you also want to see how they fit together. Sometimes I find myself wondering if a photo really adds to the story or if it’s just there because I like it. It’s all part of the process, I guess, trying to find that sweet spot between personal attachment and the bigger picture.

Have you had the opportunity to exhibit your ‘Sideshow’ project? What reactions have the images prompted? It’s always good to show people something they think they know well in a different light.

I haven’t exhibited ‘Sideshow’ in its entirety. But I have had a small involvement in group shows, which have mainly been street photo festivals in Sydney, Rome, Brussels, Gothenburg, Miami and LA. I did have a small show at Finn Hopson’s Brighton photography gallery on Brighton seafront in 2022. Exhibiting is something I’d love to do more of. It's another discipline to curate a show and think through how the images will work together in a physical space.

Of the images that have been exhibited, I’m always surprised by people's reactions. I guess we spend so much time looking at our own images they can become so familiar that one wonders whether anyone else would find them interesting. So, seeing people puzzling over an image of mine in real life is quite a thrill. The images that tend towards an element of optical illusion tend to draw people in – they’re trying to decode the image or work out what's going on. That’s quite fun to watch. I guess there are also images that I feel very fond of that others don’t quite understand, and that’s also quite interesting to observe.

Overall, seeing the work printed large and displayed in a physical space does shift our relationship to the image. It becomes an object that exists in the real world rather than on a computer screen or viewed on Instagram through a phone.

What role do books play for you? Have any especially inspired you, and do you have plans to make more?

Books have been incredibly important to me. In fact, they don’t even need to be monographs or specific bodies of work for me to get excited. I mentioned earlier that my first job was in the ad agency Saatchi & Saatchi. One of my tasks in the early part of my career was to trawl through stock photography catalogues, looking for images to use in campaigns and brochures we were working on. Depending on the library, there could be some wonderful examples of great photographic work. Sure, most of it was commercial work for commercial use, but there were a lot of beautifully crafted images.

Looking back, I think this experience was invaluable to how I work today. I must have spent thousands of hours looking through hundreds of thousands of images, sometimes for days and days at a time. Nine to five, week in and week out. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, my mind was logging away all of these images, regardless of how successfully I’d be able to recall them. I think this gave me a sense of what works in an image because, again, I was evaluating the images for how we could use them in a campaign – too moody, too busy, too bright, too bland, etc., etc.

In addition to trawling through photo books for my day job, I’d also obsess over “real” photo books on the weekends. There was an art bookshop on Charing Cross Road called Zwemmer’s, which sadly doesn’t exist anymore. After walking around London for several hours with my camera, I’d go for a browse in Zwemmer’s. I couldn’t afford to spend lots of money on books, but some of the ones I did pick up from Zwemmer’s included a photo book by Richard Gere called ‘Pilgrim’. It’s a beautiful visual diary of his travels in Tibetan Buddhist communities and monasteries. I mentioned Mark Power’s Shipping Forecast’ earlier, which was another purchase from Zwemmer’s.

I guess I was just bumbling along looking for inspiration back then, because I bought a copy of ‘Photographic Notes: Everything is Important - Nothing is Important’, by Christian Vogt who was unknown to me at the time. He’s a Swiss photographer whose work I still really like. He has a unique way of exploring how to see things, playing with perception and time. His work is minimalist and thought-provoking. I had a period of trying to copy him very badly!

How do you feel that your photography has evolved, and where would you like to take it? Do you have any particular projects or ambitions for the future?

I think I spent many years with an idea in my head of the types of photos I wanted to make, but there was a large gap in my ability to either spot those photos or execute them in a way that I felt happy with.

I think I’ve made some images that do meet the internal vision of what I’m trying to achieve, but only a small number, really. So, in terms of evolution, I’d say my abilities have occasionally met with my idea for what I’m trying to achieve. And that does feel like some sort of progress.

In terms of where it goes from here, well, that’s a very big question mark if I’m being honest. I’ve invested 7-8 years in ‘Sideshow’ as a project, and I’m feeling a little adrift in what to do next. While that’s not the most comfortable place to be, I’m kind of OK with it, too. I know myself well enough to know that this is a bit of a cooling off period, and it (hopefully!) won’t take me long to formulate a new idea that I can work with and explore. I don’t feel quite done with Brighton just yet; I think there are other ways to approach it as a subject or a backdrop. I’ve got a few very vague ideas knocking around, nothing concrete, but something will emerge.

We all start off thinking that our photography is about place, subject, season… only at some point to realise that we are intrinsically part of it in what we respond to, and what we choose to show. What have you discovered about yourself through photography?

Through photography, I’ve realised just how much of myself is wrapped up in the way I see things. At first, I thought it was all about capturing the subject, the place, the season – like that was the whole point. But the more I’ve gone on, the more I’ve found it’s really about what pulls at me, even if I can’t fully explain why. It’s about the moments that resonate, the ones that feel right in some way.

But the more I’ve gone on, the more I’ve found it’s really about what pulls at me, even if I can’t fully explain why. It’s about the moments that resonate, the ones that feel right in some way.

There's a certain kind of joy in that process, in letting yourself be drawn to things without overthinking it. There’s a quote I love by Chögyam Trungpa, who was a Tibetan Buddhist Master. It’s a small part of a longer quote where he’s talking about how meditation can shape you – he says, "let the world tickle your heart". I think that's kind of what keeps me going – the simple joy of seeing something that does that sparks something in me. It’s not always obvious at first, but there's this feeling when I know I’ve captured it.

What I’ve also realised is that I’m doing this for myself, really. Photography’s become this way of figuring out how I view the world, but it’s not always clear, and that’s fine. There’s a certain amount of uncertainty in it, and I’ve come to appreciate that. I don’t always know where I’m going with it, and it’s more of a personal journey than anything else – one of discovery, really. I try to worry less about getting it “right” and just let it unfold, see what comes out. That’s what makes it meaningful to me.

If you had to take a break from all things photographic for a week, what would you end up doing? What other hobbies or interests do you have?

Tough question! Honestly, I can’t really imagine taking a week off and not taking my camera with me. If I was absolutely forced to do something different for a week, it would probably involve some sort of walking, scenery and hills. I love that, although I don’t do it often enough these days. I’ve been meditating for several years, so it could be a retreat of some sort, the kind where you leave your phone at home and just switch off for a whole week. That’s kind of bliss really.

For those who would love to experiment with street photography but are nervous about photographing around other people, and their potential reactions, what advice would you give them?

Well, I’d immediately say that street photography doesn’t have to involve taking pictures of other people; in fact it doesn’t even need to be done in or on a street. For anyone who wants to try out photography, or anything creative for that matter, then just jump straight in and do it.

Just let it unfold. Let that be the reason why you’d want to start any creative project – to see where it takes you. So that would be my advice, just start.

I’ve read a fair few books written by artists who talk about their process and being creative. One of the best I’ve read is by Michael Craig-Martin, a book called ‘On being an artist’. His advice for anyone wanting to make a start with art or creativity is to simply START! He advocates for not needing to know what you're doing at first, nothing needs to be pinned down, and there doesn't need to be any concrete sense of certainty about where you’re going or what you’re aiming to achieve. Just let it unfold. Let that be the reason why you’d want to start any creative project – to see where it takes you. So that would be my advice, just start.

Although I discovered my love for photography at an early age, I spent way too many years not really getting started. I would kid myself that I’d start when I was less busy, had more time, knew what I was trying to say, had a project all worked out in advance. It really just doesn’t work that way. The conditions will never be perfect – you just have to commit to giving it a go.

And finally, is there someone whose photography you enjoy – perhaps someone that we may not have come across - and whose work you think we should feature in a future issue? They can be amateur or professional. Please include a link to their website or social media, as appropriate.

Yasuhiro Ogawa, a wonderful photographer from Japan - Instagram and website.

Thanks Chris, it will be good to see how your ideas take shape over time. I hope that our conversation will have encouraged a few readers to re-appraise what possibilities lie in their home towns and cities.

You can see more of Chris’ photography on his website.

Zack Stanton – Portrait of a Photographer

By Matt Payne | November 6, 2024

I’ve realized one irrefutable fact about photographers: their work reflects who they are as human beings. All of their life experiences, the things that motivate them, the things that captivate and excite them, and the things that bring them joy and sadness are wrapped up in their photographs. Minor White coined the term that all photographs are self-portraits, and the subject of today’s essay, Zack Stanton, is a perfect example of that concept. Zack is a carpenter by trade and one of the most humble photographers I’ve ever met. His passion and excitement for his little corner of our planet - notably Humbolt County, California, is reflected in spades through his beautiful photographs. Zack is one of those photographers who has chosen to go deep instead of broad, with all his work being done in and from his home area.

Born and raised amidst the stunning natural landscapes of Humboldt County, California, his life has been shaped by the rugged beauty of the coastline, the towering redwood forests, and the ever-changing skies of this northwest corner of the state. His journey has been one of exploration—both outward, into the wild terrains of this extraordinary region, and inward, through personal battles with addiction and hard life as a commercial fisherman and later a carpenter. Photography, a passion discovered later in life, has become the lens through which he views, connects, and reflects with the world, allowing him to capture moments of awe and share his deep respect for nature’s beauty with others.

Living Books

By Michael Allan | November 5, 2024

AI is coming to a town near you. Should you hop on the bandwagon? I have no idea, I can only say I do not feel connected to nature if I am not outdoors capturing images, I don’t feel expressive if I am writing scripts, and I find making things with my hands therapeutic. The art book making I will describe here is art driven craft from capture to sewing.

Artbook making: art, design, sequencing, writing, and craft. I hope that I can offer a back alley tour to show another side of town where expression is more intimate, intense, and dynamic.

I will begin by introducing my concept of a “Living Book,” which combines book making with a expressive photographic purpose. A Living Book is a book that is rooted in tradition with a dynamic twist: it commits to a theme, but it evolves.

A Living Book has a stated set of limitations and evolves through changes made to each individual printing. Say I give one to my friend Alister, and then his friend Astrid asks for one; the one I give Alister is not exactly the same as Astrid’s: it is the same “book,” but it has changed.

What is a Living Book?

I will use one of my books as an example because I find it easier to show and tell than explain.

You must define your own idea of a Living Book with your own constraints and variations.

The scope of my book is the concept and title “I Am,” and the subject matter are my local canyons on the Front Range of Colorado.

I begin by creating two copies of the initial book: one for me and one to give, trade, or sell. When one copy finds a home, I modify the book and make two more copies. And so forth.

Each person accepting the book has a unique version, a one of a kind. The amount of change ranges from a couple of images to the entire content. The goal is for the content to evolve as the local canyons evolve, along with my personal expressive development. If there is a fire or unusual weather, the content may reflect that. If I undergo personal tragedy or growth, it will influence my expression.

When I leave this life, my copies will form a collection that passes on to my children or a good friend.

Ghostly beauty

By Theo Bosboom | November 4, 2024

As a nature and landscape photographer, I am aware of the importance of being in the right place at the right time. Special circumstances can suddenly elevate a not very special or even dull-looking landscape into a place of great beauty or even magic. This often involves special weather conditions, but it can also be, for example, a clearly visible meteor, a flood or an explosion of flowers or mushrooms. These are the days you wish would never end and where you capture more good images in a few hours than the entire few months before.

People often think that professional photographers are always in a position to act quickly and can always be on the spot at the moments that matter. Unfortunately, this assumption is false. Or, as a professional photographer, I am doing something wrong ... In any case, it happens very regularly that I have to grit my teeth and conclude that I have to let a snow shower that has become rare in the Netherlands pass me by, that I was the only photographer in the country sleeping while everyone else was photographing the glorious northern lights or that a wonderful field of flowers has already blossomed by the time I finally managed to make time for it. Usually, this is due to other commitments such as workshops, lectures, appointments you cannot cancel, or deadlines that cannot be rescheduled. Sometimes you are simply in another country to take photos and don't worry about what you might be missing at home. In addition, I am a proud father of two daughters and want to be there for them when needed and, of course, that too takes a lot of time.

A huge wrapped willow in the floodplain of the Waal river near Boven-Leeuwen, Netherlands. The plants around the willow are also packed by the caterpillars, which greatly enhanced the ghostly appearance of the place. If there are too many caterpillars for the host tree, the caterpillars also often pack vegetation or other elements in the immediate vicinity with spider web.

Winter Light, Yosemite

By Vidya Kane | November 1, 2024

But no temple made with hands can compare with Yosemite. Every rock in its walls seems to glow with life. Some lean back in majestic repose; others, absolutely sheer or nearly so for thousands of feet, advance beyond their companions in thoughtful attitudes, giving welcome to storms and calms alike, seemingly aware, yet heedless, of everything going on about them.~John Muir

For generations, Yosemite National Park has inspired photographers, painters, and mountaineers to create their best work. Its glacier cut granite cliffs, fast flowing rivers and mix of deciduous and evergreen trees provide the perfect canvas for nature to weave a rich tapestry.

My first ever trip to Yosemite National Park was during a powerful storm in the winter of 2007. I had moved to the USA just a few years earlier and was excited to have the opportunity to visit this famed national park. After witnessing the drama and spectacle of my first winter storm in Yosemite, an insatiable urge took over to create my own interpretations of this magnificent landscape. In 2009, I moved to California in order to have unfettered access to this spectacular national park. I have since visited Yosemite many times over and have photographed it in all seasons. Each trip has offered me the opportunity to visualize the landscape with a fresh perspective, and as such, I have found Yosemite to be an all-weather location to power my creativity.

What sets winter apart in Yosemite is the supreme quality of light that permeates the landscape. Low angled winter light weaves a magic wand on Yosemite’s landscape by accentuating the texture of its sheer granite cliffs. At times, the light plays hide and seek through the clouds, spotlighting Yosemite’s landscape. This is even more magical when it happens during sunrise or sunset, as such light tends to be warmer. The photograph “Face of El Capitan” illustrates one such evening when the late afternoon light broke through the clouds to spotlight the imposing El Capitan. While no one can predict such occurrences, witnessing it was surely an incredible experience!

I adopt a fairly intuitive approach to photography as I often do not have any pre-conceived ideas on what to photograph. This is even more important while making winter photographs in Yosemite since the conditions change so quickly. I allow the light and conditions to dictate my photography. This flexibility has worked well for me as it allows me to observe and react to how light sculpts the landscape. Further, visualizing whether a particular scene works well as a color or monochrome image helps convey the desired mood.

When winter storms roll into the park, a thick blanket of fog envelops its higher reaches. The soft, diffused light filtering through the fog takes on a near magical quality lending an air of mysticism to the landscape. Fog also simplifies the composition as it obscures many distracting elements in the scene. The use of a longer focal length helps isolate subjects while making photographs. The result was a series of minimalist images that perfectly encapsulated the feeling of quiet and solitude.

I have experienced the entire spectrum of emotions while being immersed in winter photography at Yosemite. Deep winter storms often provide the time for quiet, contemplative photography under the backdrop of a moody landscape. Winter provides a feeling of stillness from the chaos of everyday life. Time seems to slow down and encourages introspection. Even the mighty Merced river that rages through Yosemite seems to slow down and meanders serenely through the valley in winter.

Undulating waves of the river are replaced by placid flows. Most waterfalls are almost reduced to a mere trickle. Just as winter allows nature to pause and renew itself with the onset of spring, the slow pace of winter allows one to reflect and renew.

I find it inspiring that even as nature may appear to be on a temporary pause, it is still inherently dynamic. This dynamism makes Yosemite beautiful even in the midst of adverse conditions as pristine snow adorns bare tree branches, Yosemite is dressed in white and the silence of the valley is broken only by occasional gusts of wind.

Cool wintry conditions interplay quite dramatically with the warm, winter light sculpting the landscape. The incredible light striking Yosemite’s granite cliffs illuminates shadows in its crevices. The lazily flowing Merced River becomes a reflecting pool for these illuminated cliffs. During the golden hour, warm light bounces its way through Yosemite’s narrow, snow covered valley until it eventually colors Merced River running along its floor with radiant hues of orange and red.

No condition better captures the essence of Yosemite as does a clearing storm in winter, especially when the clearing occurs at sunrise or sunset. Parting storm clouds, swirling mist and warm light striking the top of Yosemite’s grand cliffs make for some of the most dramatic mountain scenery in the USA. The iconic photographs of Ansel Adams have immortalized the beauty of Yosemite, especially in winter. His photograph “Clearing Winter Storm” is so synonymous with Yosemite that every visitor, regardless of the camera format, hopes to capture their own interpretation of it.

Photographers line up at Tunnel View, hoping to catch that magical light during a clearing winter storm. In all my visits to Yosemite, I have been fortunate to witness many clearing storms and to photograph some of them. The contrast between the ephemeral mist and the valley during a clearing lends a moody quality to the scene. These clearing storms are also the ultimate sign of hope. Nature shows that despite all the challenges, a day filled with light, warmth and positivity is just around the corner.

When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence~Ansel Adams

Photography has been as much a spiritual and meditative experience as it has been a way to express my creativity. Through the years, Yosemite has helped me connect with nature and to experience how light interacts with its landscape. This portfolio titled “Winter Light, Yosemite” is an expression of the enduring yet awe inspiring spectacle that nature puts on at Yosemite. It is intended to showcase the magnificence of Yosemite’s winter landscapes in the backdrop of an ever changing environment.