I’ve seen a few photographers discuss mental health and the positive impact that photography has had on their well being. It’s not really something that I’ve discussed. There’s probably an artistic link between internal angst and being rescued in a way by the beauty that surrounds us.
When I was doing computer forensic work, we worked long hours examining pedophiles’ computers. Some quite harrowing jobs. Was I the best person for that sort of work? Probably not. I had two young children, and sometimes I’d be doing examinations and just couldn’t get my head around how some people did what they did to their own children. Despite 25 plus years in the CID I was a bit of a sentimental, soft hearted romantic. I still am. A rufty tufty exterior and a softly squidgy interior. Stress manifested itself mostly when I was at home, trying to sleep. I remember being hooked up to an ECG on a few occasions at Penrith Hospital in the wee small hours. Waking in a panic, resting heart rate of 120 plus. MrsLJ would wake in an empty bed and just think “aye, he’s away again”. At work, such things were never really discussed. Like I say, we were big, gruff northerners. Manly men.
My doctor suggested getting out and about, doing some walking. Exercising to try to keep the stress at bay. We were based five miles from Ullswater and five miles from the Eden Valley. It wasn’t like we had to travel far for a nice walk. So walk we did. Wandering over all the hills surrounding Ullswater with my old Boxer dog Harvey. And one morning in January 2010, we crested the rise of Brown Hills overlooking Ullswater and looked down on that beautiful lake. The rain was just clearing, and wisps of mist were rising in plumes from the woods. The surface of the lake was silvered and shiny. Light was catching the rocky flanks of St Sunday's Crag.
Harvey and I just stood spellbound by the scene in front of us. Well, I was spellbound. If I remember right, Harvey would have been scowling because we’d stopped for more than a second. But, in that moment, I decided that I had to buy a camera.
Harvey and I just stood spellbound by the scene in front of us. Well, I was spellbound. If I remember right, Harvey would have been scowling because we’d stopped for more than a second. But, in that moment, I decided that I had to buy a camera.
I had to find some way of recording what I was looking at. Recording the memory somewhere other than in the dusty recesses of my brain. Later that week a Pentax DSLR arrived. A lovely wee thing. From my first day with a camera, I was bewitched, besotted. The beauty of the landscape was magnified overnight. I saw the landscape through entirely different eyes. An artist's eyes. Light, colour, darkness. I marvelled at what lay in front of me. And I realised fairly quickly that I could put my own slant on that landscape if I wished. I dealt with the harsh realities of life every day. But with photography, I could create my own realities. Present my reality to you as I envisaged in my mind's eye. I was no longer required to be a faithful servant of the truth. When I was out with a camera, I could feel my blood pressure dropping. Time passed by differently. Clocks stopped. The hands of time stood still. I wandered free as a bird. I would point the camera at whatever took my fancy. See with the heart, shoot with the head. All thoughts of work vanquished.
I remember Tim Parkin from On Landscape contacting me for an interview. I was quite surprised as I’d only been taking pictures a couple of years. He said that he just wanted to ask me some questions about my thought processes when I was out with a camera. I told him that it would be a bloody short interview as I didn’t think about anything. Instinct, intuition, individuality. They were my only thought processes. And I guess that after 25 years in the CID I had the confidence in my instincts to follow my own path. Either that or I was too grumpily arrogant to listen to any other bugger.
Anyway. All that’s a different story about a different person in a way. I remember discussing the clouds one day when I was out with MrsLJ. They were incredible. Tendrils of cloud reaching downwards like a wizard’s fingers. I said as much to Mrs LJ, who turned to me and said “who are you and what the feck have you done with my husband”. It was photography that changed me and gave me what I call my second life. And congratulations if you’ve read all the way to the end. I’m not sure what brought that spiel on. Sitting listening to music while Mrs LJ was out playing with ponies. My mind wandering and reminiscing. The picture? One from this evening. Walking out from the house as the sun set over Harris. The islands viewed through a gap in the dunes.
Sometimes in life, you set out with a certain idea, a narrative you want to follow, but then an unexpected event shifts your course entirely. That happened to me here. My original plan was to present as an “End Frame” a photograph by one of my favourite Italian photographers, since I am half-Italian myself. But then on the seventh of August, Gianni Berengo Gardin, one of the most prominent Italian photographers of the twentieth century and also one of my favourites, passed away. That news made my choice clear, this piece would become not just an introduction and discussion of a photograph, but also a small tribute to one of Italy’s most poetic and human storytellers who chronicled the life of a country for more than half a century.
Born in 1930 in Santa Margherita Ligure, Berengo Gardin always considered Venice his true birthplace. It was in Venice that he first picked up a camera in the early 1950s, photographing as an amateur before eventually turning professional. He never abandoned the city in spirit, even when travelling and being on assignment elsewhere. Indeed, it was there, late in life, that he fought tirelessly against the arrival of large cruise ships, seeking to protect Venice’s fragile beauty from mass tourism. His Venice photographs, both early and late, reflect a rare intimacy with the city, showing the everyday life of workers, children, and artisans, documenting the often hidden realism of this unique city.
From this Venetian period, I have chosen Lido di Venezia (1959), an image that resonates with my own photographic thinking. The composition is simple and minimalistic, two adults and a small child in a pram stand at the shoreline.
The leaves of the aspen flutter,
though the air be still as glass;
they speak in a voice of silver,
to the meadow and the pass.Traditional mountain verse
The aspen leaves tremble delicately,
giving off a sound as of tiny bells.John Muir (Our National Parks)
Colorado Stand, Joe Cornish
The aspen is a real treasure of a tree species from North America. I should be more specific and say that quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides) is the real treasure, as although we have aspen across Europe, it is the European Aspen (Populus tremula) species and doesn't have the same visual impact. (There are also aspen in Asia, different species in Korea and China, which I will mention briefly later.)
For most of the article, I will be talking about the US version as that is the one with the paper-white bark marked by the characteristic black ‘staring eye’. I asked Matt Payne and Joe Cornish for aspen photos for this article, and they kindly provided a few that you will find throughout the article.
As the Latin name suggests, aspen is a form of poplar, of which there are many types around the world, from the chunky white poplar to the tall black poplar. The other famous poplar is the cottonwood, another landscape photographer's favourite.
Telluride, Matt Payne
Poplar tends to prefer waterways and floodplains at lower elevations and are characterised by grey or green bark. In contrast, the quaking aspen is very different and exhibits an unusual tolerance for diverse conditions. It also has a pure white bark that stands out against darker forest, and the flattened stems (petioles) of its waxy leaves allow them to clatter together in the wind. The sound is extraordinary, as if the whole tree were murmuring to itself.
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. See our previous submissions here.
Over the last few years, I've become intrigued with the uniqueness and character of trees in various settings and locales, including at times the same set of trees in differing times and weather conditions. I'm submitting for consideration 4 of these images, which, for me, exude a great deal of character.
After leaving the southern suburbs of Cologne and going further down south along the eastern bank of the Rhine you will see a hill range of about seven mountains appearing on the horizon. This may have been the reason why people named the mountains southeast of Bonn Siebengebirge (= seven mountains), although there are about 50 summits in the area, the present landscape is the result of volcanic activities, which started about 25 million years ago, and of the subsequent erosion of softer materials. The mountains are not particularly high: the highest one, Großer Ölberg, reaches 460 m and the most famous one, Drachenfels, stops at 321 m. The name Drachenfels (= Dragon’s Rock) hints at the local wealth of legends and myths which have inspired a lot of authors.
My interest in the place was not inspired by those legends and myths. It was the geology of the place which provoked me to explore it by focusing on geologically interesting routes and landmarks. After some research I had found a corresponding guide book by a local author which described in detail the geological phenomena and the routes to get there (Sven von Loga, ISBN 978-3-946328-26-1). The images were all taken alongside the routes presented in this book. Another common feature is that they were all taken using the same technique (infrared black and white).
This series captures the extraordinary beauty of Kyrgyzstan's high mountains following the season's first snowfall in October. Kyrgyzstan presents a breathtaking contrast of arid deserts and plateaus, lush forests, and snow-capped peaks, creating a landscape of great diversity and splendour.
Living in an urban environment, being surrounded by technology and human made structures has made me contemplate if our own thoughts and actions are an element of wildness itself rather than an opposing force. This idea is something that I like to explore in my work.
I think we have all become tired of it. The algorithms, the endless tweaking of hashtags, and the feeling that our creativity was being filtered through a faceless server farm— the gatekeeper who decides if our work is worthy of being seen. We are tempted to pay to play, if not with currency, at least with a compromise in our art. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It’s certainly not what was sold to us in the beginning, when likes came easy, giving us the boost to carry on making.
So we went back to our blogs and newsletters. Slower, quieter platforms, where there was no barrier between our work and our audience. No tricks, or gamification of the system. We wrote from the heart, our true voice for the first time in months, perhaps years. We felt a renewed creative energy as we hit send and closed the lid on the laptop.
But then came the silence. Growth slowed. Likes and comments became rare. The small audience we had, while somewhat engaged, felt invisible in the wider world. And a new kind of doubt crept in;
Without the algorithm, was anyone ever really listening?
This is the quiet contradiction of modern creativity. Autonomy, but not obscurity. We hated the algorithm, but also missed its forward momentum, no matter how slow of late. Now, we're caught in a strange middle ground, lost somewhere between the cracks. We asked ourselves a question.
Are we true creatives or simply churners of content and number counters?
Creativity is often accompanied by restlessness. It has taken a while for Stéphane Jean to find the right outlet—nature and landscape photography. Nothing along the way is wasted; all of our career choices and explorations ultimately enrich our experience and interpretation of place and nature.
Stéphane enjoys searching for images close to his home in the Swedish province of Dalsland. His favourite photographs are often of the small things that we might easily pass by, or the moments we experience as a result of slowing down and tuning in to our surroundings. This ultimately deepens our connection with place, and leads us to discover more.
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 Paris, France, but grew up in the south of Sweden as we moved back to my mother’s roots there when I was about 3. With my father working as a drummer, freelance graphic designer, and illustrator, and my mother having a background as a dancer and being raised around music, I was regularly exposed to music and art at home. These influences had me spend many hours drawing as a kid and later diving into music. But while my father supported my interest in music, he also consistently dissuaded me from following his path as a professional musician. This led me to not truly commit, instead choosing a compromise and the sidelines of the music world, working towards being a Recording Engineer.
After a few years in the recording studio business, I realized the downsides were too costly. So, after about a year together, my partner – now wife – persuaded me to try something new, leaving the city behind and moving to a much more rural part of the country. Here, after trying a couple of new things, having previously learned the basics in desktop publishing and Photoshop, I started working in print and newspapers.
Creativity has been an important driver for you, and has taken you through a number of media and expressions?
Yes, that’s true. Looking back, it’s clear that I’ve always had a need for a creative outlet of some sort, like a constant unconscious pull, even when I haven’t indulged. As having this need isn’t always convenient, I’ve slowly learned how to let it rest for longer periods of time, but as the months pile up, I just start to get a little depressed without it. It’s like I slowly dry out of life energy and purpose.
The Hudson River School’s artists viewed nature as a manifestation of the divine and strove to represent it as faithfully as possible, until different painters brought their own artistic vision and influences, which at times created interesting contrasting philosophies.
Frederic Edwin Church - The master of details
“Why do precisely these objects which we behold make a world?” Henry David Thoreau asks this question in Walden while observing the landscape around his cabin in the woods. The attempt to reconcile the parts of the landscape and its whole vastness is also an issue for Thoreau’s contemporary, the landscape painter Frederic Edwin Church (1826-1900)
Nineteenth-century viewers expected landscape paintings to balance precision and generality, detail and effect, but Frederic Church’s work often seemed to upset this balance, especially as his career progressed.
Frederic Edwin Church - View Of Cotopaxi, 1857
Church was celebrated but received conflicted responses in the mid-century. One might wonder if his scientific interests disrupted his ability to offer a broader, allegorical message. “Study the foreground of a Church”, one critic wrote, reflecting on the artist’s career shortly after his death in 1900, “and you will find a constant struggle between the desire to say everything and to say also the large and appealing thing ” - the general atmosphere. Such a “struggle”, in Church’s paintings raises questions about the role of detail in a work of art, not only during the nineteenth century, but also for the contemporary state of landscape photography.
Church’s paintings visualize and historicize a fundamental shift in visual representation.
From a system of representation based on the containment of details within a framing, towards something with lesser details and lesser continuity and therefore differences began to emerge. It is precisely thanks to this pictorial evolution that artists will eventually arrive at new forms of expression later known as Impressionism and Post-Impressionism.
From a system of representation based on the containment of details within a framing, towards something with lesser details and lesser continuity and therefore differences began to emerge. It is precisely thanks to this pictorial evolution that artists will eventually arrive at new forms of expression later known as Impressionism and Post-Impressionism.
For the nineteenth-century American viewer, details in a landscape painting had to be small in scale and visually compelling, leading the eye into the foreground and becoming the first points of contact with the spectator. These small details were juxtaposed against a notion often described as “effect”, which was equated with generality, union or harmony. “Effect”, in that period, was not simply a noun to use with an adjective, but rather an idea. An idea to indicate the eventual unification of those foreground details and the suppression of their difference. The aim in landscape paintings was, in fact, to avoid a “detailed effect” while providing an “effect” in which details were forgotten or even repressed, and only a singular impression of harmony remained.
A generation raised on the internet and the iPhone experience photography as a seamlessly integrated and effortless part of their lives; just one more quotidian activity automated by technology to subordinate human decision-making. Pro photographers notwithstanding, legions of people compulsively take picture after picture, hoarding them in profusion, never to be looked at again after a fleeting debut on a tiny screen.
Once, as a society, we cherished the “Kodak Moment,” a marketing masterstroke that now feels quaint, a victim of what I’ll call photobesity: a deluge of snapshots made so mindlessly and frequently that they’ve devolved into pullulating yottabytes of digital dross. Visually preserved memories, once curated to be physically shared and displayed with pride, now languish in a virtual vault less visited than that proverbial shoebox full of family vacation photos, forgotten in a dark closet. That closet is now called “the cloud.” And we are continually nickel-and-dimed by Apple, Google, and Dropbox, dunning us, or surreptitiously renewing our subscriptions, to pay for ever-increasing gigabytes of ephemeral storage space for our abandoned pictures.
Forget, for a moment, the environmental cost of this ever-billowing cloud—the power plants needed to support an ever-increasing number of gargantuan server farms. This phenomenon comes at the cost of our eidetic memories, the deeply embedded kind that linger in our mind’s eye and would otherwise resurface vividly and unexpectedly throughout our lives. Instead, the very act of snapping a picture distances us from the moment we seek to preserve, trivialising it. The camera captured it, so I don’t have to.
I seem to have made an argument against digital photography, in favour of film. Not my intention. But I aim to highlight a reactionary trend: Many fine art photographers, anxious about their craft being perceived as too easy, have turned to outdated cameras—from 35mm SLRs to big bellows view cameras—and use them exclusively with film.
The paradox: The sheer volume of images leads to forgetfulness. Memories, deeply embedded by experience, are more easily retrieved from the heart than from an iPhone.I seem to have made an argument against digital photography, in favour of film. Not my intention. But I aim to highlight a reactionary trend: Many fine art photographers, anxious about their craft being perceived as too easy, have turned to outdated cameras—from 35mm SLRs to big bellows view cameras—and use them exclusively with film. Based on my completely unscientific psychological analysis, I’d say their rationale is simple: because it’s harder.
Exposing film, from sprocketed rolls to sheets the size of an iPad, then developing it and enlarging prints in a darkroom filled with secret sauces, may give some photographers a greater sense of accomplishment. Or maybe they only want their audience to believe that narrative to cultivate an illusion of rigor, so their work is taken more seriously. Maybe they’re trying to mitigate a sense of guilt: If it’s too easy, anyone could do it. Or maybe it’s just a combination of nostalgia and curiosity that drives them.
Whatever their motivation, a fallacious contention has circulated that shooting film, which is far more expensive than it was in pre-digital days, makes photographers more discerning about when to press the shutter than sloppy digital shooters who machine-gun dozens and dozens of pictures, hoping to nail one good shot out of the whole nine yards. That’s just nuts.
George Bernard Shaw, himself an avid amateur shooter, famously wrote, “The photographer is like the cod which produces a million eggs in order that one may reach maturity.” Wry joke or literal critique, critics today still say digital shooters rely on algorithms to correct poorly-exposed pictures—a crutch. But younger photographers may be surprised to learn that during the heyday of magazine photojournalism, the amount of film I’d shoot for a single assignment might rival their annual output. They don’t ration film because they’re more discerning but out of necessity — because it is ten times more expensive now than it used to be. Let’s see. Should I start my next project on this same roll of film? I’d hate to rewind it and waste those last nine frames.
But younger photographers may be surprised to learn that during the heyday of magazine photojournalism, the amount of film I’d shoot for a single assignment might rival their annual output.
I once worked with a photo editor—my client was a TV network—who admonished his minions, “Film is cheap; shoot by the pound!” It was the fastest and cheapest way to create colour “dupes” (i.e., copy 35mm slides) for distribution to, and publication by, affiliate TV stations and advertising outlets across the country. A Nikon with a motor-drive did the trick.
That’ll never happen again. But pros today—film and digital—remain as conservative as ever about how many frames we shoot. No serious shooter sprays and prays. Who wants to sift through garbage for endless hours in post-production? “Post”: what we used to call editing.
Critics of digital photography often forget that darkroom techniques were manipulation. Pushing and pulling chemical development times, dodging and burning prints, layering and sandwiching negatives for HDR effects—these were pre-Photoshop tools. They worked. Just more cumbersome. Film has always been open to skilful manipulation.
Consider Kodak’s ubiquitous Brownie camera (1900–1967) and its slogan: You Press the Button, We Do the Rest. That was as close as we once got to instant gratification with photography. Aside from keeping my fingernails from turning brown by immersing my hands in sloshing trays of selenium toner and Dektol, the instant gratification of an LCD screen is the only thing that’s new today — the erstwhile original Polaroid notwithstanding. But even an LCD can be a curse. Staring at each shot the instant it’s taken is just a new form of impatience. Ask yourself: how do you feel waiting three minutes in front of a microwave vs. two hours for an oven-baked meal? What could you accomplish—and how much more satisfied would you feel—in the meantime?
It used to be that no one had a choice about shooting film; only about which kind to use for which application. I loved processing film and making prints, and fondly remember the smell of gelatin film emulsion. Potassium ferricyanide and sodium thiosulfate not so much. Today, when film is resuscitated after its last agonal gasp, the arcana of working in the dark with noxious and environmentally unfriendly fumes, it may be novel for some, but it represents a regressive response to the criticism that photography is too easy: My kid could do that! Who are you with your 11x14 Deardorff, to tell me I can’t do the same thing with my iPhone?
To be clear: artists who shoot only film often claim to see subtle differences that justify their fuss. I think that’s silly. Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt. I dare anyone to eyeball any difference between one of my digitally printed photographs and an older, silver-gelatin one.
To be clear: artists who shoot only film often claim to see subtle differences that justify their fuss. I think that’s silly. Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt. I dare anyone to eyeball any difference between one of my digitally printed photographs and an older, silver-gelatin one. That wasn’t true ten years ago. It is now. Even large-format sheet film can no longer claim qualitative superiority.
However, film does win on one front: archival conservation. It’s easier to keep for posterity than JPEG, RAW, TIFF, or DNG files stored inside that fugacious shoebox in the sky or even on a personal hard drive array. Then again, I won’t be around six hundred years from now to care. But much sooner than that, if a not-too-farfetched and foreboding sunspot flares up and fries Amazon’s Web Servers, or the Russians reduce Google to gobbledygook with a malware attack, you’re out of luck. Or what if you haven’t had the discipline to back up your photos regularly enough to keep up with the tick-tock of technology, let alone the physics of entropy? The CD-ROMs you might have socked away will eventually succumb to “disc rot.” (Do I need to burst your bubble by citing oxidation of the shiny reflective layer and a breakdown of the polycarbonate substrate, delaminating the whole schmear?) Or what if no computer, say, thirty years from now, can still “read” those ones and zeros you assiduously backed up? On a more optimistic, techno-utopian note, maybe we’ll learn how to store infinitely contiguous quantafloods of data inside strands of DNA—liquid drops of double helix repositories lasting millions of years1?
Practically speaking, I used to put my film in an envelope and stick it in a drawer, relying on the likelihood that my photographs will be seen by my descendants living on Mars (notwithstanding fires and floods on Earth in the meantime). Want your photos to last long enough to be read by Jean-Luc Picard? Make prints. Especially pigment prints on rag paper—they’ll last as long as silver prints, whether colour or black-and-white.
As for film evangelists, their message is clear. Their ritualistic return to darkroom alchemy, economically moribund though it is, seems to me like a bid to bestow themselves with special powers that produce superior results and an aura of exclusivity, whether by divine favour or the favour of similarly sorcerous academics, critics, curators, and gallerists.
As for film evangelists, their message is clear. Their ritualistic return to darkroom alchemy, economically moribund though it is, seems to me like a bid to bestow themselves with special powers that produce superior results and an aura of exclusivity, whether by divine favour or the favour of similarly sorcerous academics, critics, curators, and gallerists. Their anachronistic zeal for antediluvian technology reminds my cynical side how ancient priests shrouded their religious rites in mystery and complexity to awe an uninitiated populace and reinforce their own elevated status.
Let’s be clear: Taking photographs is and always has been easy. Making them never was. That’s the story—for me, for all working artists and photojournalists, whether we prefer digital or analogue tools in our camera bags, is that we do indeed make photographs. Let the dilettantes keep taking them.
Edward Steichen (1879-1973) had a hugely varied and influential life as a painter, photographer and later, curator. His early career straddled an era when serious photography was trying to work out its own identity, still deeply influenced by art yet simultaneously trying to break free. It could be argued that The Pond – Moonlight (1904), taken in Mamaroneck, New York, near the home of his friend Charles Caffin, still stands as his most important early work. I would argue that this is not because of how it is valued in modern society – in 2006, one of three known prints sold for $2.9 million at Sotheby’s, at the time, the record for the most expensive photograph ever sold at auction. However, for me personally, as a wildlife and occasional landscape photographer, there is something much more interesting going on.
At first glance, when we look closely, we have a woodland scene reflected in a pond, a washed out blue sky as backdrop and the moon just rising beyond the trees. There is colour here, but muted and the near foreground appears indistinct as if Edward had taken a paintbrush to the reflection and swished them to a blur. Above all, there is the feeling that if this is a photograph, it is going through an identity crisis – am I a reflection of reality or am I reaching towards art?
This is, in essence, a great work of the Pictorialist movement, which desired above all else to move away from realistic depiction, from recording an image, to creating something out of that image. Generally, Pictorialist images are slightly unfocused, dreamy, printed in more than one colour and may even involve brush strokes or other interventions.
Landscape is a human construct, a surface on which we impose our own view of what is worthy of photographing, what is natural or not, and what belongs to other genres (nature/wildlife, etc). If you look long and closely enough, the lines blur. Welcome to the world of the small, which turns out to be very big.
It’s not often when researching these interviews that I can select 16 images from the last twelve months, but in Jeannet’s case, we could have done exactly that. Intimate, at times abstract, they demonstrate a watchful noticing and a keen eye for serendipitous juxtapositions. She delights in the ephemeral, in rain, in the ordinary, which, if you look closely enough, is anything but.
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 and raised in Hoek van Holland, a small coastal town near Rotterdam in the southwest of the Netherlands. I lived - very typically Dutch - in the polder, surrounded by meadows and next to a windmill. My father was a miller, and as such, he was responsible for regulating the water levels in the polder.
The premise of our podcast is loosely based on Radio Four's “Any Questions.” Mark Littlehjohn (or Joe Cornish) and I (Tim Parkin) invite a special guest to each show and solicit questions from our subscribers.
Michael Kenna has been photographing on film and making silver gelatin prints in his own darkroom for over 50 years. In the first of a series of five chapters sharing extracts from Kenna’s Darkroom Diaries, we are reminded why prints made in the traditional analogue process, printed from original film negatives by hand in the darkroom, are so special.
Michael will discuss his process of photographing on film and will explain the patient and painstaking work of making prints by hand in his darkroom which has allowed him to produce the distinct images that are celebrated for their rich blacks, luminous highlights and a grainy aesthetic that compliments the ethereal lighting his work is best known for.
I have been photographing on film since I started photography in the 1970s. For the first fifteen or so years I photographed with 35mm film, for the most part. Now, for over thirty-five years I have been using 120mm medium format film using Hasselblad cameras with various focal length lenses. Each film stock, with the various different darkroom chemistry combinations available, has the potential to give quite different possibilities. It is a hands-on affair to achieve a unique silver print, and I believe that making a print from film is different from printing a digital image from the computer. In my humble opinion, silver prints stand out for their unique and exquisite beauty. I love them.
After a typical two-week photographic trip, I will usually have over a hundred rolls of film to process. Each roll contains up to twelve exposures. Maybe I will go through five hundred to a thousand rolls in a single year. Multiply that by the years I have been photographing and the result is a potential storage nightmare! Fortunately, I have used a consistent method of filing since the beginning.
I think there is something very special about staying faithful to the original analogue process of capturing an image on film and making silver prints with wet chemistry. It can certainly be a time consuming and complicated process, but ultimately very rewarding as the photographer is involved in the process from beginning to end, and able to retain so much creative control and freedom.
A contact sheet of every developed film is immediately made and filed with their respective negatives in binders. The year is marked on every binder with a list of countries photographed in. At this point, I have countless thousands of negatives filed by this system and can rapidly access them when needed.
I have always been enamored by the silver gelatin printing process, ever since I first started on my photography journey. Along the way, I have printed for several other photographers and learned various different techniques from their experience. However, it was not until I worked for Ruth Bernhard in the late seventies that I began to have the confidence to print some of my own more difficult negatives.
I think there is something very special about staying faithful to the original analogue process of capturing an image on film and making silver prints with wet chemistry. It can certainly be a time consuming and complicated process, but ultimately very rewarding as the photographer is involved in the process from beginning to end, and able to retain so much creative control and freedom.
Unlike many photographers, who use large format cameras, it is important to me that there is some grain in the image, which I regard as part of the language of photography, almost like brushstrokes on a painting. The 120mm format seems to me to be ideal.
In the past, certainly into the 1980s, when I was still working with 35mm film, I would make work prints (soft, dark and full frame) of any images that I considered interesting. I had many boxes of these, which I eventually donated as part of my archive to the Médiathèque du Patrimoine et de la Photographie, (MPP) in France. The work prints were my first stage of editing. I think objectivity happens over time. The longer I wait between photographing and printing, the more objective I can become. Over time, many of the subjective feelings and memories associated with what I was photographing begin to dissolve and dissipate. There are pros and cons to this. However, I think time is the true test of quality, and stronger images retain their fascination, whereas weaker ones fall away. I have found this method of image selection to be an economical and expedient way of editing in order to get to the few more interesting images that will eventually be printed. I must point out the personal nature of this method. A photographer such as Brett Weston might photograph, develop and print all in one day. A very different approach, and certainly equally relevant.
The 120mm format is bigger than 35mm, and since switching to that format in the mid-eighties, rather than make work prints I have found it more efficient to make two contact sheets of each developed film. The first is filed with the negatives, the second is cut up. Any of the contact size images that I think have potential for future printing have been put into albums. As with the work prints, I go over the albums from time to time and choose the images, which I will later print. As a point of reference, I would estimate that the ratio of photographs made to negatives being printed is approximately a hundred to one. Given the number of photographs I have made over the years, I think that if I gave up photographing today, I would have enough interesting negatives to print for the rest of my life!
I am often asked how and why I choose particular negatives to print, and I do not have a concise answer. Often, I work on particular projects over many years. There usually comes a time when the project reaches fruition in the form of a book or exhibition. I will then choose the strongest images to print. Why does one image appeal to me more than another? It could be something in the composition, light, or subject matter. There has to be an appeal, a resonance, a connection but I have never found it possible to articulate the exact ingredients of what is in the equation. In retrospect I think that is a good thing, as consciously or unconsciously I would begin to look for that ‘winning’ formula when photographing. The result might be repetition and inevitable diminishment of creativity. When photographing I try to do the opposite, I attempt to forget what I have just photographed. The silver process greatly assists me in this regard as there is no instant gratification. I never know what is on the negative until it is developed, and this encourages me to keep exploring and photographing. This important element of unpredictability is one of many aspects of the silver analogue process which I appreciate greatly.
Our five-sense physical reality involves faculties of sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch. I am very well aware that in the darkroom I reduce this highly complex and colourful world to a frozen, silent, two-dimensional rectangle with lines, shapes and monochromatic tonalities. I then have the temerity and presumption to expect viewers to respond with interest.
Photography has often been considered one of the more accessible art forms. Like haiku poetry, it is relatively easy to do, but not necessarily easy to do well. These days, photography is readily available and accessible with little or no training needed. Most of us have digital cameras, often located conveniently in our phones, and there are countless apps for editing them. Thousands of images can be, and are, viewed online, often for seconds at a time. So, before we spend hours in the darkroom, perhaps we might take a moment to consider why we would even consider attempting such a time-consuming pastime.
Our five-sense physical reality involves faculties of sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch. I am very well aware that in the darkroom I reduce this highly complex and colourful world to a frozen, silent, two-dimensional rectangle with lines, shapes and monochromatic tonalities. I then have the temerity and presumption to expect viewers to respond with interest. I even consider that they might even collect my prints! I have asked myself why, and as in many aspects of life, I don’t have the answer. But, I will say that from the first time I made silver prints, in a school bathroom sink, the magic and power of this process astonished me and continues to do so. I may not fully understand why a silver print can be so beautiful and inspiring, but my experience tells me that it is true. Hence, I have my own precious collection of silver prints made by other photographers that I admire and respect.”
Retired Negatives by Michael Kenna is an online exhibition of his most collected work over the past 50 years, featuring the remaining Artist Proof editions of photographs whose numbered limited editions have now sold out.
The collection is a chance to acquire a print from editions in which the negative has been formally retired within Michael’s archive. All of his silver gelatin prints are still made by him personally in his darkroom at his home in Seattle. The online exhibition is hosted by Bosham Gallery and can be seen at boshamgallery.com until 17th December 2025.
‘Machine-made pigment prints are of excellent quality, but, at least for me, silver prints remain the gold standard in photography,’ says Michael. ‘It is also comforting to know that these prints are made to archival standards, which means they should well outlast myself and collectors. I keep records of every print I have signed and editioned and have prints in my own collection which I made 50 years ago. They are as good today as when I first made them.’
To accompany Retired Negatives, and to celebrate 50 years of darkroom printing, Bosham Gallery’s Luke Whitaker is presenting a five-part series of chapters from Michael Kenna’s Darkroom Diaries.
There is the heart and the mind, the Puritan idea is that the mind must be master. I think the heart should be master and the mind should be the tool and servant of the heart. The man who wants to produce art must have the emotional side first, and this must be reinforced by the practical. ~Robert Henri
Photography is a technology based medium produced by a technological society with a reason-focused worldview. It contains two temptations: decoration and propaganda. However, I propose an attitude that promotes expression. You may or may not agree with me in the end, but if you consider the relationship between your thoughts, values, and attitudes toward photography you may gain something.
What is your relationship with your photographic material?
The Scottish Philosopher John Macmurry struggled with a similar question: what is our relationship with life? As a consequence, he offered a Philosophy of the Personal that I believe offers insights for photographers.
His most fundamental claim is that we should reject “I think” and substitute “I do.” If the “Self” is the “Mind” then it must be a substance or organism. If instead the “Self” is an “Agent” then it is personal and only exists in dynamic relation with the “Other.”.
The Scottish Philosopher John Macmurry struggled with a similar question: what is our relationship with life? As a consequence, he offered a Philosophy of the Personal that I believe offers insights for photographers.
This is radical when compared to typical Western philosophical tradition and the modern emphasis on rational choice, process oriented business, and law based society; all which operate like machines.
Agency and relationship are the basis of the “Personal,” including our relationship with nature. “I think” is a special case of action where the “Action” is only mental. Most of the time, we are acting with the support of thinking.
The neuroscientist Iain McGilchrist researches the role that the left and right brain hemispheres play, and demonstrates a more complicated relationship between an intuitive function and an analytical function that are highly integrated.
The artist, the philosopher, and the scientist all reach similar conclusions: the modern dualism of the Cogito misrepresents the complexity of humans.
Of course, the poet also has an opinion:
The Waking
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Theodore Roethke
We think by feeling and doing. The lowly worm climbs because nature has a thing to do. All these speak to action, feeling, and intuition. The certainty of the thinking mind is nowhere present in the paradox of living.
What the philosophy of Macmurry brings to the table is a framework with three types of the “Personal:” Science, Art, and Religion, clarifying the nature of Art and the relationship it implies.
Science considers relationships between “things:” abstraction, the world of cause and effect, prediction, and control. Science produces “knowledge about.”
Art is a relation between an “I” and an “Other:” a concrete other; imagine standing before a specific tree in friendship, with a giving and receiving. Art produces “knowledge of.”
Religion is a relation between people, which I will neglect. My interest is Art and how it is different from Science and what a personal relationship based art means for photography.
Personal Photography finds The Waking by rejecting the modern focus on thinking, analysing, knowing about, and instead focusing on doing, feeling, intuiting: a deep, intimate knowing of, a closeness.
Science considers relationships between “things:” abstraction, the world of cause and effect, prediction, and control. Science produces “knowledge about.
(Pre)-Visualization
For me this is the elephant in the room because it is highly promoted in some photographic circles, but it does not work for me. I don’t mean it can’t produce a good image, I mean I hate doing it and it led me to a search for an art philosophy that could explain what I actually enjoy doing.
My relationship with the landscape and nature was well established long before I had a camera. I grew up outdoors: cycling, hiking, fishing, and backpacking. Sitting still and just looking was something one did when taking a break, eating lunch, or waiting for the sun to go down so you can sleep.
Once I took a camera into the woods, I had a dilemma: how am I going to spend so much time looking and imagining some phantom image that will appear on a computer screen indoors next week, when all I want to do is move and explore?
Relationship First
My way out of this closet was to decide: I must ignore all the current advice about how to make good landscape images and put my relationship with the landscape first. I needed to be myself. Macmurry provided the assurance that I was not crazy and granted permission to ignore the gurus. Even though it might seem silly for a grown man to need these crutches, rejecting advice of well known peers is not always easy.
But now what? How do I take this longing for relationship and turn it into a photograph?
The Impersonal and Antipersonal
Before diving deeper into what a relationship oriented (personal) photography (art) implies, I want to put the “Personal” into a larger context than Macmurray.
Macmurry made a distinction between society and community, which gave me a clue for describing this larger context. Society is the mass version of community, impersonal and based on rules rather than community based on love.
Macmurry made a distinction between society and community, which gave me a clue for describing this larger context. Society is the mass version of community, impersonal and based on rules rather than community based on love. Community is the purest form of Religion, but it cannot scale to the size of nations. Art and Science also have Impersonal forms. The Antipersonal form completes the map.
My conceptional model is as follows: Economy (Science), Decoration (Art), Society (Religion) are the impersonal forms; Knowledge (Science), Expression (Art), Community (Religion) are the personal forms; Exploitation (Science), Propaganda (Art), Tribalism (Religion) are the antipersonal, parasitic, or maladaptive forms.
Personal Art, or photography in the present case, sits between decoration/propaganda and knowledge/community. If photography avoids the impersonal and antipersonal it must avoid decoration and propaganda as well as avoid economy, society, exploitation, and tribalism. However, it may rely on knowledge and community for help.
This is an idealized model, so I don’t want to imply it is the only valid approach to photography nor that the box contents contain perfect words. My only claim is that I find this a useful model for understanding and guiding my approach, which aims for Expression.
The model puts Expression into a context for you to explore what it entails by exclusion. For Expression itself, I turn to phenomenology and surrealism for insight.
Phenomenology
We need to address another elephant in the room, that is our worldview, our culture, our knowledge, that baggage we carry around in our heads that affects how we see and pulls us away from Expression.
From the perspective of the Personal Art relationship, the relation between you and nature, baggage is a barrier to Expression. Who has not been in a love relationship with another person and found their family beliefs about roles, or their church’s teaching about authority, or their culture’s current beliefs about how to be together, have gotten in the way? Do we not carry a whole suitcase of cultural into the woods?
No ideas but in things. ~William Carlos Williams
Phenomenology suggests we can give all this stuff the boot and see what is really there. By extension, we can act on what is “actually there” and we can personally relate to what is ‘actually there.” This implies our personal relationship with the landscape and nature is not a threesome. (For “actual,” think Critical Realism)
Henri Bortoft’s “The Wholeness of Nature” is an entry point to a major promoter of phenomenology.
Phenomenology suggests we can give all this stuff the boot and see what is really there. By extension, we can act on what is “actually there” and we can personally relate to what is ‘actually there.”
Goethe did not examine the phenomenon intellectually, but rather tried to visualize the phenomenon in his mind in a sensory way—by the process which he called “exact sensorial imagination” (exakte sinnliche Phantasie). Goethe’s way of thinking is concrete, not abstract, and can be described as one of dwelling in the phenomenon
Macmurry describes the art relation as “I” and “Other,” where the “Other” is concrete: that rock, not all rocks, this tree, not trees in general. This sounds similar to Bortoft and Goethe. Theory, language, the analytical, are all made secondary or deemphasized. Bortoft says:
Working with mental images activates a different mode of consciousness which is holistic and intuitive.
He states that our mode of consciousness is either analytical or intuitive. (This sounds a lot like left/right hemispheres described by McGilchrist.) He continues:
The purpose is to develop an organ of perception which can deepen our contact with the phenomenon in a way that is impossible by simply having thoughts about it and working over it with the intellectual mind.
This intuitive mode of consciousness is not scientific and is the essence of art and photography. However, we live in a society that on a good day glorifies science and economy, and on a bad day drifts into exploitation. We can also easily drift into decoration and other forms of commercial art or into propaganda and political art. These may be legitimate forms of photography, but I don’t consider them fully expressive because the artifact becomes an “end” in itself.
Surrealism
The intent of phenomenology goes beyond Macmurray in the sense that one is so engrossed in the other that not only does the analytical mode become inactive, the self might very well efface. What might surrealism contribute to understanding Expression?
André Breton wanted to neuter the “critical faculties:”
...a monologue spoken as rapidly as possible without any intervention on the part of the critical faculties, a monologue consequently unencumbered by the slightest inhibition and which was, as closely as possible, akin to spoken thought.
Breton was influenced by Freud and the trauma of WWI. He was promoting expression of the subconscious disconnected from external reality. However, Yvan Goll looked for grounding:
Reality is the basis of all great things. Without it no life, no substance. The reality is the ground under our feet and the sky on top of the head...Everything the artist creates has its starting point in nature...This transposition of reality into a higher (artistic) plane constitutes Surrealism.
Goll is grounded in experience but wants to transpose reality into something else. Breton focuses on the interior self and Goll focuses on the transcendent other. Breton releases hidden forces, Goll extends reality. Both suppress the critical facility, but neither focus on relationship as primary. These poles are found today in various ideas such as “abstract images representing emotion” or images with a “what else” it is.
What the “Personal” implies is an active relationship based on intuition, not the subconscious or unconscious, not dreams, not analytical thinking, not objective reality.
The photograph is a product of relationship, not the self alone, not the other alone, a relationship between a self and an other, rooted in the action of the photographer. constitutes Surrealism.
My Approach to Personal Photography
I don’t want propose a universal field approach; I will simply describe my practice and how I conceptualize my non-conceptual method. If you buy into the concepts and model I have presented, you will have to derive your own practice from them.
The key element of my process is walking, whether in a park or town, the woods, backpacking, etc. I do not drive somewhere and photograph from the road. I do not setup a tripod at a planned location and wait for sunrise or sunset. My planning goes no further than which canyon I chose to wander in and what kind of weather and season seems interesting.
Walking breaks down my analytical thinking mode, especially when hiking, when getting tired, especially in bad weather, and supremely out in nature. As I walk, because I have been a hiker for fifty years, I can allow my attention to drift off the trail and into the landscape in an intuitive mode without tripping and falling. I simply keep walking and keep looking until some feeling grabs my attention.
Then I stop and “actively” contemplate. Does the feeling persist? What if I move left/right, does the feeling increase? I call this feeling “resonance” because the feeling comes from the relationship I have with what is before me. Resonance occurs between me and other, it is not me alone, as if what I behold is remote.
If the resonance is strong, only then do I remove my pack and take out my camera. I might pack the camera up, walk 10 meters only to stop and take it out again. I do not walk with the camera in hand because it is a temptation to shoot too soon.
If the resonance is strong, only then do I remove my pack and take out my camera. I might pack the camera up, walk 10 meters only to stop and take it out again. I do not walk with the camera in hand because it is a temptation to shoot too soon.
Once the camera is out, I start with a 70-200mm zoom most of the time. I zoom in/out, move the camera up/down/left/right, twiddle exposure and depth of field. Maybe make some test shots. I am sensing resonance as I move around seeking for the peak.
At peak I make the final capture.
If the resonance dissipates I pack up and continue walking. If I start analyzing, I put the camera away. When I don’t move on, I usually have frustration or poor results.
Note: I am not composing. I am not using rules. I only work by intuition and feeling.
My digital darkroom process follows the same principles of seeking resonance. I cannot walk and process, so I try to get into a flow state by removing all distractions. If I lose flow, I put the computer down and come back later. Working outside flow also produces frustration or poor results.
Pulling Personal Photography All Together
I will try to summarize with three points that are easy to remember:
Intuition not Analysis
Action not Visualization
Resonance not Composition
Clearly, this is not a means to pleasing other people, it is not a means to win competitions, and certainly is not a means to profit. It is more like participation: an art life; a personal life in photography.
Expressions are a byproduct of personal relationships, not an end in themselves.
This springtime in the Southeastern U.S., I felt a vivid sense of invigoration and motivation almost every time I visited the woods of a nearby mountain. Despite the constant distractions of a restless news cycle, I felt more attuned to nature's rhythms this year. In late April, I was very glad to receive a gentle reminder of a simple lesson nature had taught me years ago, when I tended to be more receptive to such things: that the beauty of life, in all its complex and varied forms, tends to show up in unexpectedly simple ways.
Our forests here in the Tennessee-Georgia mountains are chaotic and tricky to navigate, both physically and creatively, with a camera. Brambles, deadfall, saplings, vines and other havoc form the understory of the woodlands I enjoy, but every so often, standing above the mess, a new friend waves hello and asks for my attention. I have learned to heed these silent gestures—not just for the nice images they sometimes yield, but also for the relationships they can help build. Attention almost always develops into intention.
The quiet waves are a welcome sight, as modern life has a way of keeping my mind wrestling with itself over mundane things like politics, job stresses and (perhaps not so mundanely) the reconciliation of my personal values with the beliefs of some of the people I am close to. Contrasting strongly against the noise and tedium of the manufactured world, I’ve found the forest to be full of warm welcome, and I’ll gladly accept a humble “hello” from a stationary stranger on my dark days.
Contrasting strongly against the noise and tedium of the manufactured world, I’ve found the forest to be full of warm welcome, and I’ll gladly accept a humble “hello” from a stationary stranger on my dark days.
It was from a winding, apprehensive inner life, combined with the physically painful tangles of vines and thorns in these woodlands, that I found myself happy to rest in the shade of a newly grown light-green canopy, setting down my backpack and allowing my heart to slow after hiking up a steep hill. The reason I’d stopped wasn't to shed a layer or to take a pee; it was because someone, not a person, had waved at me and it would have felt rude to keep hiking.
On this partly cloudy day in Spring, a tree’s slender arms formed countless Vs and Ys as it stood out against the darkness of the forest. It drew my attention from across a steep, cluttered ravine, just as thin clouds passed overhead and my breath rose and fell loudly in my head. The shifting light revealed textures of cracked bark that had been concealed in shadow on previous visits. Relief caught my eye, and a different kind of relief washed over me. It was time to go make an introduction.
I crossed the dark gully through several thickets of blackberry, earning a few new holes in my old T-shirt. Tucked between the chest-high branches of briars, I found slippery footing among embedded boulders still plastered with brown, decomposed leaves from the winter, as well as saturated lichen. I pictured a video game character hopping between rounded platforms in a sea of lava, but the going wasn’t exactly fun or exciting. A few choice words crossed my lips, but I managed to slowly negotiate the cluster without dampening my enthusiasm.
Finally, having reached the beckoning giant, I set down my camera bag and stood still, finding it surprisingly easy to ignore my ruminations and mental chatter. A quiet gratitude began to warm inside me as my breathing settled. I silently thanked the new oak for sharing its space—away from the chaotic, nagging thorns that had slowed my approach, and for the emotional distance it offered from lingering motivational setbacks, negative self-talk, and ever-present imposter syndrome.
“Reawakening”, Late Spring 2025 - A newer friendship realized just a few weeks later, after three years exploring its mountainside home.
The tree had an impressive yet unassuming presence, quietly overtaking my sense of purpose. Not a giant, nor a dwarf—just somewhere in between, ordinary in most ways. Looking upward, I realized I stood too close to frame a worthy portrait, but I reached out to touch the old oak with my hand, red with new scratches, out of respect. It would have felt too rushed and transactional to photograph it right away, to force a superficial relationship, without proper introduction.
This was the first sweat I’d felt while visiting here since early Autumn, and the new humidity caused my clothes to stick to my skin. As the forest thickened with even more undergrowth in the coming weeks, sweat would become a real hindrance to my mood and motivation. This place would inevitably fill with ticks, snakes, and hornets—creatures best avoided until the cooler temperatures of Fall drive them into the forest floor. Today, thankfully, shade worked alongside a generous breeze to cool my thoughts and emotions. It would be good to make some photos with help from my new buddy—this oak, who I realized in fact had secretly watched me walk past a dozen times already. We had just met, at last, and our next encounter couldn’t be guaranteed here on the edge of approaching Summer.
Clouds couldn’t be seen through the canopy, but I knew many passed overhead because of their effect on the trunk and appendages. Sunlight transitioned noticeably from extremely bright and spotted to boring, dark, and flat. Somewhere in between, the curve of the trunk and angles of the branches were afforded some dimension by waves of diffused, directional light.
Sunlight transitioned noticeably from extremely bright and spotted to boring, dark, and flat. Somewhere in between, the curve of the trunk and angles of the branches were afforded some dimension by waves of diffused, directional light.
This was the sweet spot, and my new pal looked best in softness. I took a few steps out from the trunk, then a few more, and then several more, before slowly circling the tree to search for the best distribution of branches and balance between newborn foliage and surrounding flora. From this distance, I figured a short telephoto lens would work best.
Eventually we got there, working together between the clouds, to make something where once there was nothing. Nothing, only in the sense that my time with this oak did not exist before that day, and we never had anything to share with each other. I decided on an aspect ratio that honored the balance I discovered among its many branches. I turned the focus ring on my lens to crispen the oak’s torso, while I allowed some of its branches, and the background plantlife, to slightly blur. This seemed to align with my experience of our first meeting, when I was catching my breath and could only see clearly a short distance ahead. Then, I gave my polarizing filter a last experimental twist to help decide how much shine, if any, the thousands of lime green leaves should impart to my camera’s sensor.
Perfect light came and went gently and, with the shutter finally released, I knew the relationship bridge between me and the one who waved had been crossed. My brief time with the oak might even yield an image we would both be proud of. Until I would eventually return to this patch, whether in two days or in a couple of months, I would remain grateful for our time together and the simple lessons I relearned throughout our visit. They say creativity is not a linear process, and I’ve realized that neither is a person’s openness to the things they consider beautiful.
I wouldn’t know for a couple of weeks how much I actually liked the photograph. At first, it felt almost too spare—too quiet in its simplicity—or a bit obvious at times. But over time, something began to shift. I kept returning to it, almost unconsciously, as if drawn by a calm presence. The composition, which at first seemed elementary and straight on, began to reveal a quiet elegance I hadn’t appreciated at first glance. The open-handed gesture of the branches, the balance of the scene, the way the light slipped gently across the frame—none of it demanded attention, yet all of it held its own kind of grace. It was like getting to know someone who doesn't speak loudly but whose words live on in memory. Within all four corners, I found something lasting—not in complexity, but in clarity.
“Memory of the Present”, Winter 2024 - A few acquaintances I finally got to know better at the end of last year.
Most trees demand more than one meeting to make their best photograph, and, just as with people, sometimes the truest friends are not the ones who dazzle you at first but the ones who invite you to keep looking and listening.
Most trees demand more than one meeting to make their best photograph, and, just as with people, sometimes the truest friends are not the ones who dazzle you at first but the ones who invite you to keep looking and listening
During our visit, I knew in my gut there was something there—a trust, an ease, an openness. Now, I wanted to spend more time with this photograph, and with the tree itself, to learn its subtle language and changing characteristics. Its quiet and welcoming posture, its weathered limbs, its particular ways of catching the wind and living in harmony with neighbors.
These things don’t reveal themselves in a single snapshot moment. They ask for patience, and they reward it with depth. Like any meaningful relationship, the more time I gave it, the more beauty I found waiting to be seen. This friendly oak, which had long been a hidden, unseen presence, will be a trusty companion on all my future walks through the briars.
“Briar Patch Companion”, Early Spring 2025
“Reawakening”, Late Spring 2025 – A newer friendship realized just a few weeks later, after three years exploring its mountainside home.
“Memory of the Present”, Winter 2024 – A few acquaintances I finally got to know better at the end of last year.
‘A winter coral’ is not exactly a landscape photograph. Yet, somehow, it evokes so much of what, to me, makes great landscape photography. Trym Ivar Bergsmo was, in his own words, of the North. He travelled all over the world making images, searching for his ‘inner landscape’, but ultimately found it at home. That home can be different things to different people; the connection is the key. Just like relationships, building those connections takes time, thought, effort, persistence, perseverance, and patience. Looking through Trym’s portfolio, that connection shines through, and it is fitting that the team at ‘On Landscape’ will be writing a tribute to him and his work.
So much of landscape photography is about light; the quality, direction and fall/differential. These aspects may seem outside our control a lot of the time, but the more of a connection we have with our subject, the more we are able to mould these elements to build a narrative. In a winter coral, we have ethereal soft light throughout the frame, but the warmth of the sunlight seems to pick out just a few of the faces and the landscape beyond. This effect is enhanced by the warm skin tones and the red accents in the clothing, yet these elements are not harsh due to the considered use of shutter speed and soft focus. The relatively slow shutter speed also causes the movement in the reindeer, rendering them almost like the flow of a river. There is an organic dynamism to the sense of movement through the frame; it feels alive.
Almost nothing in the frame is pin sharp, yet it conveys so much. They say a picture can speak a thousand words, but a great picture leaves even the words behind. They convey feelings, glimpses, fleeting ideas and emotions; things we often can’t describe or put into words, but we can sense on some, almost metaphysical, level. When you come across images that do that, they make a lasting impression.
They say a picture can speak a thousand words, but a great picture leaves even the words behind. They convey feelings, glimpses, fleeting ideas and emotions; things we often can’t describe or put into words, but we can sense on some, almost metaphysical, level.
These days, our cameras surpass anything we could truly require in terms of technical excellence and the ability to capture almost any scene or subject. Our ability, as photographers, to truly convey emotion remains an elusive skill, though. Generative AI already has the capability to produce almost anything we ask of it, but I dare say it would fail to produce an image with the depth of soul that this one has.
Images like these are not about technical skill or processing power; they are about a human connection and response to a place, people, conditions and circumstances. These things require an open heart and open mind to allow the energy to flow through us, and Trym did his bit to show us the way.
Alex Jones photographs like a designer sifting through an antique store: patiently, curiously, and with a deep reverence for form. His work is not loud; it does not insist. Instead, it invites us to look closer, to notice the quiet details that most would overlook. Each image feels like a found object, carefully selected for its texture, its geometry, or its subtle interplay of light and shadow. This impulse - to collect, to notice, and to preserve is no accident. It traces back to Alex’s childhood, shaped by the dual influences of the natural world and the world of design.
Raised in Tampa, Florida, Alex grew up with architect parents and a mother who was both a connoisseur of good design and a relentless seeker of overlooked treasures. His mother's passion for architecture, furniture, and art museums found a natural extension in her love for thrift stores; she would spend hours searching for the right curve of a chair leg or the perfect vintage lamp.
This aesthetic foundation, rooted in shape, structure, and patient discovery, would later resurface in his photography; but not right away. As a teenager, Alex took a black and white film class that gave him his first real exposure to photography
From her, Alex learned not only to appreciate good design, but also to look closely and wait for beauty to emerge from the noise.
This aesthetic foundation, rooted in shape, structure, and patient discovery, would later resurface in his photography; but not right away. As a teenager, Alex took a black and white film class that gave him his first real exposure to photography. It planted a seed, but one that lay dormant for years. Instead, he followed a different passion: snowboarding. A high school trip to Utah had introduced him to real mountains for the first time, and the thrill of carving through snow quickly became a lifelong pursuit. That passion pulled him west, where he spent two years as a self-described “ski bum” in Park City. Surrounded by mountains and immersed in the rhythm of outdoor life, his appreciation for nature deepened.
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. See our previous submissions here.
The Asif Ounila River in Morocco runs southward from the Atlas Mountains through a very narrow valley that once was a route for caravans traveling between the Sahara and Marrakech. The most prominent tourist destination along the river is Ait Benhaddou, a walled town of earthen buildings that is a UNESCO World Heritage site, and a film location that has been used in nearly two dozen movies and TV shows, from Lawrence of Arabia in 1962 to Game of Thrones and Outer Banks more recently.
Drive an hour north of Ait Benhaddou and you will see few if any tourists. Instead, there are small Berber (Amazigh) villages dotted along the river. The valley is a thin band of remarkably thick vegetation, a stark contrast to the steep, arid, ochre-colored mountain slopes that loom all along its length.
Stands of poplar trees fill the valley. It is still winter, so their leaves are gone. Instead, the filigreed patterns of their branches bask in the early morning light. My mind is no longer occupied by the history of the caravans, the movies, the tourists. Even the mountains recede from view. I simply gaze at the trees, and the colors that surround them.
For me, photography is a form of insight, which aims to reveal essential facets of the world around us and our experience within it. I prefer to make images that challenge our expectations, present a new perspective, and inspire a sense of fascination.
Largely self-taught, I took up photography as a result of visiting Madagascar in 2007. Because Madagascar was so different than the suburban Connecticut environment I lived in, I thought I had better bring a camera with me, and hastily learned the basics of how to use it. Madagascar made such a deep impression on me that I felt compelled to publish a book of my photos (Glimpses of Madagascar: Lemurs and Landscapes, People and Places). Soon after, the book became a featured selection in the Annual Holiday Book Guide of Outdoor Photography magazine, and my photos were exhibited at various places. The recognition was nice, but the real effect of my “beginner’s luck” was to stoke my appetite for doing more photography - regardless of whether I had an audience or not.
Since then, I have lugged my gear around the world, shooting images of landscapes, wildlife, city scenes, and people in such diverse places as Iceland, Scotland, Botswana, Namibia, China, the UK, Ecuador, Antarctica, US national parks, and my own backyard. More importantly, even when I don’t have my camera with me, I find myself viewing and appreciating my surroundings with a photographic eye.
Have you ever played a game of visualising living things in clouds, mountains or landscape? Somewhere, I started a small project, which is ongoing, of recording the humorous scenes in woodland which I came across in my walks or photoshoots.
These 4 images were taken at different times and in different locations. The earliest was taken on the slopes of Cader Idris, where I saw the Welsh Dragon, which started me off. The genie with the bendy knees is a Lakeland offering, whilst the Rhino head is a local scene.
The last image is from Eigg, which seems to show a Swan-like creature eating a snake or its tail! All images let the imagination roam.
This exercise provides an antidote to interesting landscapes where differing rules of composition would apply. All are rendered in monochrome to avoid distractions from the surroundings.
Mostly, the images found would be dead wood, but not always. For example, the sinuous curves of a trunk can be very suggestive.
I made the decision around six years ago to purchase a drone when I could not decide which lens to buy for the camera as I realised I was going to a different locations taking a similar composition of a similar subject and it was time to experiment.
The drone gives me a unique view and perspective and a sense of freedom.
I was introduced to Kjetil's work when Arild Heitmann submitted his article for his chosen end frame image. Like Arild, I was captivated by the image. As Arild says, "It depicts a typical stormy winter day in the north—visibility reduced to almost nothing, the wind and snow practically lashing out at you. I imagine that’s the sentiment behind the title: you couldn’t be further from lilac blossoms than this." I reached out to Kjetil to find more about his work and the story of his connection to the landscape of northern Norway.
We’d love to hear a bit about your background — what first sparked your interest in photography, what you studied, and what kind of work you do now.
With my curiosity, connection to the nature I was surrounded by, and my creativity, it was my grandmother who first sparked my interest in photography. She was also the one who bought me my first cameras. She always had a camera with her, almost wherever she was. We spent a lot of time together, and her knowledge of nature, her ability to convey stories in combination with photography, opened up a whole new world for me that was exciting and that I took to heart and that I felt familiar with from early childhood. At that time, the pictures were created as something concrete, in addition to the memories. Documentation of events and experiences.
Gradually, the technical elements became more important, and the patience of waiting for the right light, the elements of the image, and the awareness of the meaning of the image became clearer. To me, many of my previous photos appear "empty". Many of them are beautiful, and have good subjective memory. Preferably ,species photos from the world of fauna and flora. But still "empty", because apart from the fact that I have memories attached to each picture, there is no more. And it is this "more" that I gradually start to look for.
Later, my interest in human emotions, interpersonal relationships, man's connection to nature and nature's mysticism became stronger, and my experiences with different landscapes and how these affected me became something I had to explore.
One beautiful summer evening in my teenage years, I lay on my back in the grass and looked up at the sky. It was midnight, and the sun was shining diagonally across the landscape towards where I lay. In the same way, the cool wind blew in over where I lay and carried with it the scents of the marshes, forests and mountains, and it was all an intense experience that I knew I would always remember. Then I thought... "How can I convey this feeling in one picture". A picture in which those who see it feel much the same. Of course, it was too ambitious a thought, but it was the start of where I am today.
Later, my interest in human emotions, interpersonal relationships, man's connection to nature and nature's mysticism became stronger, and my experiences with different landscapes and how these affected me became something I had to explore. Here in the north, the landscapes have great variation. It is a short distance from the sea to the mountain plateaus and mountain peaks, although there are large differences in altitude. From the forests that envelop you and invite you to security, to the bare mountain that lies there expansive, black and bare, and that puts man's mental strength to the test, to the mountain peaks that stretch huge and majestic towards the sky. Beautiful and dangerous.
The idea that an artistic expression of harmony was an allegory for reinforcing the dominant social foundations is still a compelling argument. Landscape art has long been associated with power and order…. However, at this moment of environmental crisis, creating lyrically evocative narratives that connect us to our landscape is an act of resistance. This way of perceiving the natural world has also become a personal way of building a playful relationship with the landscape that addresses memory, nostalgia, history, landscape, place, storytelling and the passing of time ~Simon Dent, in Shan Shui in Silva Emete1
With film photography we photograph what we saw; with digital photography we see what we have captured without really having looked, nor really been able or even wanted to composev~André Rouille, Le Photo-Numérique: Une Force Néo-Liberale, 2020, p.47
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot ~Joni Mitchell, Big Yellow Taxi, 1970
As I write this, I am rapidly approaching 75 years old and thinking that is probably a good point at which to stop producing articles for On Landscape before some elements of old fogeyism start to creep in (and, be warned, this may already be evident in what follows)2. So, this article will be my 30th and last contribution and consequently provides an opportunity for reflection. When I wrote my very first article (some 8 years ago now) on The Science and Art of Hydrology3, it was an initial attempt to try to convey (and help to understand myself) what lay behind the types of landscape images that I was producing, particularly, as an academic hydrologist, those of water. This “trying to understand” has been a recurrent theme in articles since, including exploring some of the debates on photographic philosophies.
Here, I would like to pick up on one of those themes, expressed by Vilém Flusser (1920-1991) back in pre-digital days, about how, as photographers, we are all (to a greater or lesser extent) functionaries in the development of the photographic industry as part of the capitalist technological industrial complex.
Here, I would like to pick up on one of those themes, expressed by Vilém Flusser (1920-1991) back in pre-digital days, about how, as photographers, we are all (to a greater or lesser extent) functionaries in the development of the photographic industry as part of the capitalist technological industrial complex4.
Because it has been suggested elsewhere that the technological advances in the last 200 years have far outstripped the capacity for human evolutionary adaptation and that this has resulted in a modernist separation of people from nature, both in the developed world and increasingly elsewhere. At its most basic, the technological developments that have provided shelter and comfort (for most), access to travel (for many), and fast communications and information/disinformation (for nearly all, in the West at least) have also served to create barriers between people and the landscape5. Those developments have meant that we are now living unsustainably on this earth and, in the majority, do not care enough about the exploitation of resources and resulting changing climate (present readers excepted, of course). Or rather that some of us might care, but are not willing enough to make sufficient major changes to our lifestyle to make it more sustainable – and that can often include our photographic practice.
This is, of course, despite the evidence that being out in “nature” is good for us both physically and mentally6. That benefit will depend on the nature and landscapes that are accessible to us, but even urban green spaces have been shown to have important positive impacts (while the negative impacts of exclusion from nature, such as during the Covid lockdowns, are also well recorded). In Switzerland, where I spend much of my time now, nature is readily accessible through good public transport systems and a network of well-marked trails for walking. But even in the Swiss landscape, the negative impacts of technological advances are all too evident when walking past the infrastructure associated with the ski industry, the surface damage resulting from ski runs and access roads, ways of storing water for use in snow canons, valleys drowned by dams for hydroelectric power generation (providing renewable energy of course) and fields disappearing under construction sites. Observing the increasingly rapid retreat of glaciers, accelerated by climate warming, is particularly sad7. That does provide opportunities for some images of waterfalls sustained by glacial melt throughout the summer, but many smaller glaciers will soon be lost completely so even that will not last in the longer term.
On the other hand, technological advances have meant that we have more scientific understanding of nature and landscape. Meteorological, hydrological, geological, pedological and ecological knowledge has been driven by, and also required by, advances in technology in an analogous way that we, as photographers, have driven and served (by buying new gear) the developments in camera technology, as Vilém Flusser pointed out more than 40 years ago. That scientific knowledge means that we could have a more harmonious and sustainable existence on this earth if there were not so many barriers to evolving to doing so.
Traditional pre-technological societies did not have such barriers. They were much more intimately embedded in the landscape, even if more vulnerable to natural disasters. Such societies had to know their landscapes intimately to survive.
Meteorological, hydrological, geological, pedological and ecological knowledge has been driven by, and also required by, advances in technology in an analogous way that we, as photographers, have driven and served (by buying new gear) the developments in camera technology, as Vilém Flusser pointed out more than 40 years ago.
Their experience would, for example, have generally avoided settlements in flood risk or avalanche areas as a result of that vulnerability - something that is still evident in traditional patterns of settlement, but not always taken into account in modern planning of new developments in areas at risk8.
But how does this relate to what we do as photographers?
It is evident that there has been dramatic progress in digital sensors over a short period of time, a good breeding ground for GAS and upgrading of kit, even if we do not really need the latest resolution and generation. The result, especially as a result of advances in mobile phones, has been a plethora of images, with resolutions that are way beyond what is necessary for anything that most of us will display electronically or print in hard copy form. It is currently estimated that some 61400 images are taken every second and that nearly two trillion will have been generated in 20249. Storing these images, both locally or in the cloud, requires resources of both hardware and energy that is adding to climate change. Sharing those images across the internet, requires more hardware and energy, that is adding more to climate change. The numbers continue to grow, despite our awareness of climate change and its potential impacts (and there are, of course, many other ways in which we as photographers contribute to CO2 and other greenhouse gas emissions10).
It can also be argued that part of the problem is that the camera itself puts another hardware barrier between us and the landscape. Looking through the viewfinder, we do not see a living landscape, we see a potential composition. We “take” images from the landscape in a way that is conceptually a form of exploiting the natural resource. Normally, that might have only a minimal impact (depending on how far we have had to travel to be there) but there are also some particularly vulnerable sites made popular though Instagram and YouTube where selfish or careless photographers - or just the sheer numbers of photographers - are damaging the site to get the shot or even just to take a selfie with the landscape as background11. Our adaptation to the technology is greater than our adaptation to the threats to the landscape and to life within it. In part that is because we are rewarded by our use of the technology - in having a record of our lives, or images that we can share with others, exhibit or put in a book.
With digital this has become even easier, because we can immediately review the images we take. We are encouraged by the technology to make ever more use of the technology. The numbers of images continue to grow and grow, encouraged by the apparent low cost of digital images, but with the all-but-hidden cost of using more and more resources (and the impact of AI generated images is only just starting to be felt)12. So now, on the one side we are overwhelmed by images of landscape beauty, and on the other we are overwhelmed by images of landscape loss and destruction (and the impacts of war and famine). We allow both to coexist, discordantly, in our minds and, sometimes, our practice spans both.
It is recognised that human evolution and adaptation is shaped by culture and technology much more rapidly than can occur by genetic changes.
Culture provides a second, and extraordinarily powerful, way of evolving. Genes encode information about phenotypic solutions to problems that organisms encountered in the past, and that information is transmitted only from parents to offspring. By contrast, cultural information—knowledge, technology, ideas and preferences—can be disseminated broadly, and the information can accumulate within a single generation ~Richard Lenski, 201613
Indeed, it has been argued that humans have put limits on the process of natural selection by having the technology to ensure that nearly all children survive to adulthood.
There's been no biological change in humans in 40,000 or 50,000 years. Every thing we call culture and civilization we've built with the same body and brain ~Stephen Jay Gould (1941-2002), 200014
So what needs to evolve culturally to deal with this technological overload and failure of sustainability?
Is it possible to bring some harmony to this cacophonous cascade of discords? Harmony has long been taught as one of the fundamental principles of art (the others commonly cited being balance, emphasis, movement, proportion, rhythm, unity and variety). Harmony in this sense means having a good balance of elements of colour, value, shape and textures in an image to produce an effect of wholeness. There are many articles online about harmony in photography, for example on how to use the colour wheel and complementary colours in composing an image (or, less happily, in how to modify colours in post-processing for greater harmony and impact)15. But harmony (as well as its musical connotations) also has the wider definition of living peacefully with one another, or of living in harmony with nature.
It is naïve, of course, to suggest that pre-technological societies lived in harmony with nature. They also exploited nature for survival (and in some parts of the world still do) and were affected by natural disasters of floods, earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanic eruptions.
It is naïve, of course, to suggest that pre-technological societies lived in harmony with nature. They also exploited nature for survival (and in some parts of the world still do) and were affected by natural disasters of floods, earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanic eruptions.
Modern human society has only evolved to become enormously more effective in exploiting nature to create the Anthropocene and its impacts, including climate change and the ongoing major extinction event. But many traditional societies also created myths about living harmoniously with nature, and we know from ethnological studies of surviving societies that these included both origin myths and myths that would often emphasise sustainability and living with the spirit (or spirits) of natural elements of the landscape. Such myths, based on experience, were a way of creating sustainability for their society in the longer term. There are modern variants of myths, too, of course, such as in the philosophy of “Deep Ecology”, a name generally held to be coined by the Norwegian philosopher Arne Næss (1912-2009)16, though he cited Rachel Carson (1907-1964) and her 1962 book Silent Spring as an important precursor.
In fact, we are not short of philosophical advice about achieving harmony, from Confucianism and Taoism in ancient China; the Vedic philosophy of ancient India; Plato, Aristotle and the Stoics in ancient Greece; Marcus Aurelius in ancient Rome; to Leibniz, Schiller, Santayana and Naess in more modern times17. There was even a 2010 report by the Director of the United Nations that linked the goals of sustainable development to living in harmony with nature18.
Dwell on thoughts that are in harmony with nature and her laws, and act accordingly. Don’t let yourself be pulled off course by the insults or injuries of others. Let them go their way and you go yours, continuing on the path of reason. This is not selfish or antisocial on your part—far from it. Your individual reason is not opposed to the common good, but in harmony with it.” ~Marcus Aurelius, 121-180 BCE
While human evolution has changed little with the advent of industrial technology, clearly societal evolution and the nature of thought have changed dramatically in the last two centuries since the Enlightenment and its myth of understanding and controlling nature that drove the beginnings of the Industrial Revolution. While we still create myths of sustainability today, underpinned by idealism as well as science19, modern society is largely based on exploitation of both nature and people. The ideals and myths of living in harmony with nature have been largely lost. If we think about images in this way, then those that reveal the beauty of landscape might be considered as attempts at harmony; while those that represent loss and destruction are recording the ways we are failing to live in harmony with nature. Making and presenting either type of image can be considered as a political act (even if we rarely think about it in such terms), but the cases where the such images have had real political impact appear to be few.
The ideals and myths of living in harmony with nature have been largely lost. If we think about images in this way, then those that reveal the beauty of landscape might be considered as attempts at harmony; while those that represent loss and destruction are recording the ways we are failing to live in harmony with nature.
Those few celebrated cases do, however, include the role of the images of Carleton Watkins in the designation of the Yosemite Valley as the first National Park in the US in 1864; the images of Ansel Adams (1902-1984) in the formation of the Kings Canyon National Park by Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1940; the images of Horace Kephert (1862-1931) and George Masa (1885-1933) that influenced the designation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in 193419; the Morning Mist, Rock Island Bend image of Peter Dombrovskis (1945-1996) in saving the Franklin River in Tasmania from hydroelectric power development in the 1980s21; and the Colorado photographer John Fielder (1950-2023) whose work inspired the Colorado Wilderness act that created 36 wilderness areas in the state22. But the images of Eliot Porter in The Place No One Knew23were too late to save the wonders of Glen Canyon from inundation under Lake Powell (though recent long term droughts, thought to be exacerbated by climate change, have allowed some of the side canyons to be visited again).
While Walter Niedermayr’s striking images of the Alps, including skiers and ski infrastructure, are also political in this sense of raising awareness, they have not resulted in any constraints on development. Martin Parr’s Small World images have not had led to any mitigation of the overtourism that is producing demonstrations and active resistance in places such as Barcelona, Venice, Mallorca, Bali, Santorini, and even rural Galicia24. Some of the aerial images of the destruction caused by mining and tailings by Edward Burtynsky even give the impression of abstract beauty, and certainly have not had any impact on the sustainability of mining practices25.
All the images of retreating glaciers, both by photographer artists, scientists and satellites have had little impact on national policies, even in Switzerland and other countries being significantly affected (some 10% of glacier volume in Switzerland has been lost in the last 2 years26). All the artistic images of lakes and rivers in Britain have failed to stop the illegal releases of untreated sewage that is having such an impact on the water quality and ecology. Even images of the sewage releases or resulting eutrophic algal blooms and all the scientific data that has been collected, including by citizen scientists, and public demonstrations have not yet had any significant impact on the practices of the water industry or policy in government27 (but we should hope that will not last). All the wonderful images of the amazingly skilled and dedicated wildlife photographers have done little to halt the decline in numbers of birds and animals as we live out the 6th mass extinction28.
Indeed, it can seem that images reflecting the beauty of nature only serve to suggest that the degradation is not so serious. Perhaps the very fact that image numbers continue to grow and grow only serves to minimise such political impacts. The sheer numbers have only meant that images will be less effective than 80 or 100 years ago. Already as individual landscape photographers, we tend to have an overload problem with the images we take ourselves, since although we will not consider them all to be of the highest quality it is still difficult to delete all the others since our opinions might well change in a few months or years (…though again that storage really does have a real cost in resources and energy, even if our travel to get to the places we photograph might dominate any other photography related energy consumption or CO2 emissions). That is not to say, however, that the hope for political impact, has died out. Richard Sharum, talking about his recent book Spina Americana, stated:
It reflects my general philosophy towards photography as an anvil for activism, as well as my opening argument for a new direction in the hope for a more collective and persistent empathy.29
I suspect that most readers of On Landscape will lean towards harmony with nature in ways that reflect our own emotional responses. Many will be prepared to argue that in attempting to show how beautiful nature can be, we strengthen the case that is worth preserving. That has certainly been the foundation for much of my own work. As such, although we do “take” our images from nature, we also want them to be a fairly faithful realisation of the real scene. We would like to hope that the image has some harmony with the viewed reality, our felt experience of being there, and what that reality might mean to us in a time of change.
This was precisely the goal, or mission, of film photographers: to fix a centre to the chaos of the world, to subject it to a geometric order and extract a truth by eliminating, cutting out, purifying until we end up with an intentionally constructed shot, captured at a “decisive moment” … At the opposite end of the spectrum are digital photos: too quickly taken, too fleeting, often too banal; they undermine the viewer's desire for the aesthetic experience of contemplation … The quest for truth has been transformed into a consumption of fictions ~André Rouille, Le Photo-Numérique: Une Force Néo-Liberale, 2020, p98/89/98
Many landscape photographers have written about the value (be that physical, psychological or spiritual) of being out and about in the landscape, over and above any images that we might bring back from any of our excursions. It does not even need any camera to be involved, which brings me back to my favourite photographic quotation, much cited in On Landscape30 and elsewhere, of Dorothea Lange (1895-1965) in the Los Angeles Times of 13th August 1978, that “The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.” The advantage of going for a walk with a camera is that it really concentrates the mind on looking, in particular in seeing some of the detail of what is there (and perhaps then create a composition)31.
Many landscape photographers have written about the value (be that physical, psychological or spiritual) of being out and about in the landscape, over and above any images that we might bring back from any of our excursions.
To my mind, that increases the potential for feeling some harmony with the landscape, but with the danger that it might be only at a superficial level (the image is more important than the reality), in part because of that technological barrier created by the viewfinder again.
And, returning to Vilém Flusser, there is always the challenge of avoiding redundant images. It is ever more the case that everything has been done before, that every new image is in some sense redundant, another version of the same. It might be our own version of what has been done before, with a degree of personal satisfaction of capturing the shot, but might there not be more interesting ways of trying to avoid redundancy? One way that might be more harmonious could be to explore the locally unique surroundings in preference to those highly photographed places that require long distance travel and that have been seen so often before. There might then be more satisfaction in the hunt to find something more original, more personal, than going somewhere far away to only produce redundant images you will already have seen. As David Ward put it:
It's important to me that I am making an enquiry about my surroundings in my images, rather than imposing a conclusion. I am not seeking to make definitive statements because I don't know the answers. The questions vary enormously from image to image; I might be asking about the colour of light or what is it that is beautiful about moving water or why I find that arrangement of elements interesting or musing on the ecology of a particular place.” ~David Ward in Nobody Expects the Inquisition32
This implies that we need to evolve a deeper, more thoughtful, approach to the landscape. Many landscape photographers are there already, of course, including the readership of On Landscape and those photographers following the 7 Nature First principles33 to minimise impact and to leave no trace of our passing in making our images (and ideally in the manner of our getting there too). As with the Swiss glaciers, seeking harmony has to represent more than recording their current beauty in the process of disappearing34. It should involve a consideration of what might be required to preserve that beauty in the long term, to ensure that that our relationship with the landscape might be sustainable in this technologically dominated world. But is then the viewfinder a barrier to thinking in that way and acting according? I think it can be. I think it has been in my photographic life in the past which has not always been so thoughtful about the impacts we have, even though as far back as I can remember I have cared about the landscape35. We have to think, therefore, outside the box, whether it is in hand or sitting on the tripod! To achieve some degree of harmony, both as one of the fundamental principles of art, and in the sense of our reflecting our own authentic feelings about a place or element of the landscape.
So in this, my last, article for On Landscape can I encourage all who might read this piece to evolve your thinking and practice towards a more ancient idea of harmony with nature, and consequently to be more thoughtful about your approach to the landscape and the sustainability of its beauty.
The images that give us the most satisfaction are surely harmonious in this way and might then also induce an emotional response in the viewer that the reality itself has value (and not only the image taken from it as an artifact to be collected and curated).
So in this, my last, article for On Landscape can I encourage all who might read this piece to evolve your thinking and practice towards a more ancient idea of harmony with nature, and consequently to be more thoughtful about your approach to the landscape and the sustainability of its beauty. That does require a philosophical stance, perhaps the personal philosophy of harmony as advocated by Arne Næss. What might that look like? It means thinking about harmony in the sense of sustainability in the long term, with the classic dilemma that sustainability implies policies at national and global scale and what we can do as individuals seems so miniscule. But if we do care, we should do what we can to live more sustainably; to think about our impacts on the landscape; to reflect nature (and not some artificial or augmented reality); and to reveal the wondrous details of nature that might otherwise be missed so as to encourage the recognition of their value.
You will, of course, appreciate that it really does not seem to be the way the world is going. There are more and more images that are simulacra or constructed reality rather than simulationsin the sense of Jean Baudrillard (1929-2007)36. But in terms of social evolution, education is important. Teach your children well, as the Graham Nash song says37. Do we need to do more to educate our children about nature and landscape before it becomes something that most will only experience as virtual realities in games, as nature documentaries on screens (however wonderful), or as distant backgrounds in selfies38? It is not as if we have not been aware of such change for a long time. If Vilém Flusser has not been widely read, even by photographers, in more popular culture Joni Mitchell was singing, as long ago as 1970:
“They took all the trees and put 'em in a tree museum And they charged the people a dollar and a half to see them … Don't it always seem to go That you don't know what you got 'til it's gone?” 39
Current technologies create barriers to real experience in favour of experience filtered by the technology. The response to the technology in this case is currently evolving to put the self before the landscape. The rise of the selfie represents a form of disengagement with nature, encouraged by the technology in a way that is not sustainable, but it is also not a necessary consequence. We can evolve our practice to stay aware of what is needed for sustainability and of harmony with the landscape. To cite Brad Carr:
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.40”
That then is my two-penn’orth. I will stop now and leave you just with a few final images of some new visual haiku, taken from a second volume The River as Haiku41. These have been taken with harmony in mind, mostly on walking trips from our front door or reached by public transport. I hope you will be able to find projects of your own that allow you to do the same.
An old fogey may derive from the Scots foggie, fogie (noun) from foggie (“covered with moss or lichen; mossy”, adj) to suggest a dull person (especially an older man) who is behind the times, holding antiquated, over-conservative views. The OED's earliest evidence for old fogey is from 1785, in a dictionary by Francis Grose, antiquary.
The writings of the iconoclast philosopher Ivan Illich (1926-2002), active in the 1960s and 70s, are worth exploring in this respect. It was he who, in his book Tools for Conviviality, suggested that the ideal form of transport was the bicycle as a compromise between going further and spending more time travelling. Anything faster and it would necessarily result in more time spent travelling. The proof of this is all the wasted hours spent in airports by many people since. His books on Deschooling Society and Medical Nemesis are also worth reading.
See, for example, Cost–benefit analysis of flood-zoning policies: A review of current practice at https://wires.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/wat2.1387 (open access). In Switzerland, the risks are also getting greater as seen recently in the failure of the Birch glacier and consequent rock avalanche that buried most of the village of Blatten. This type of risk is increasing as a result of the loss of permafrost in the mountain soils.
See https://photutorial.com/photos-statistics/. Note that Vilém Flusser already talked about the redundancy of most images well before the age of digital photography. A more recent discussion along similar lines is the book by André Rouille, La Photo Numerique– Une Force Néo-Libérale, L’Echappé: Paris, 2020 (in French). The arguments on the service of the digital image to capitalism are not always convincing but the discussion is interesting. André Rouille has published a number of books on photography and maintains the site www.paris-art.com. The only book of his I could find that has been translated into English was A History of Photography: Social and Cultural Perspectives with Jean-Claude Lemagny from 1987.
An academic paper on Life Cycle Analysis of film and digital imaging from 2006 suggested that: When all impacts were considered, no single imaging scenario was clearly "better" or "worse" than the others. Imaging scenarios that were advantaged in one impact category were often disadvantaged in others. This leads one to believe that a more complete picture (with more impact categories) would also not show an “absolute winner.” See https://www.mech.kuleuven.be/lce2006/070.pdf. However, their figures suggested that the lifetime number of images for a film camera at that time was only 4800, and actually more than a digital camera at 4500. The number of digital images produced per year since 2006 has expanded exponentially.
Gould, S.J. 2000, The spice of life. Leader to Leader. 15:14–19., see also Templeton, AR., 2010, Has human evolution stopped? Rambam Maimonides Med J. 1(1):e0006.
See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arne_Næss. Næss actually called his own ecological philosophy Ecosophy T where the T referred to Tvergastein, the mountain hut where he wrote most of his books. He encouraged people to develop their own personal philosophy. “By an ecosophy I mean a philosophy of ecological harmony or equilibrium. A philosophy as a kind of sofia (or) wisdom, is openly normative, it contains both norms, rules, postulates, value priority announcements and hypotheses concerning the state of affairs in our universe. Wisdom is policy wisdom, prescription, not only scientific description and prediction. The details of an ecosophy will show many variations due to significant differences concerning not only the 'facts' of pollution, resources, population, etc. but also value priorities.”
Arne Næss, in Drengson, A. and Y. Inoue, eds. (1995) The Deep Ecology Movement: An Introductory Anthology. Berkeley: North Atlantic Publishers.p.8
See for example the 2024 book Agrophilosophie: réconcilier nature et liberté of the French author and philosopher Gaspard Koenig, who proposes a system based on principles of recycling and individual responsibility for a sustainable soil, scaled up to local self-governing communities and to federal nation states with limited powers. He is not so convincing on how to persuade societies to move towards such a sustainable option unless some “miraculous political circumstances” appear somehow. See https://editions-observatoire.com/livre/Agrophilosophie/544
Eliot Porter, 1963, The Place No One Knew, 25th Anniversary Edition published by Peregrine Books in 1988 (ISBN 978-0-87905-249-2) and reprinted in 2000. Michael Engelhard, in his 2024 book No Walk in the Park, points out that Eliot Porter’s book should really have been called The Place Not Many White Men Knew, since there were many places in Glen Canyon that were sacred to the indigenous peoples. The history of the Glen Canyon Dam controversy is summarised in https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glen_Canyon_Dam.
E.g. https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2024/nov/03/thousands-protesters-march-for-clean-water-london-sewage-pollution in November 2024. It has been suggested that the private Water Companies have paid out more in dividends to shareholders than has been invested in environmental improvements, and in the case of Thames Water, to bring it to the point of bankruptcy while still releasing more raw sewage and with limited action to reduce the enormous losses of treated water from its pipe network. At the time of writing, there is news that water bills will rise to fund improvements, but without any indication that returns to shareholders will be reduced.
Such as in the images of Thomas Wrede and Ohan Breiding of the degradation of the reflective blanket that covers part of the lower Rhone Glacier in the Valais, Switzerland.
And was a member of the Thetford Environmental Action Group in 1973. The Group did not last long, but does have an entry in the National Archives I was astonished to find.
Simulacra et Simulations was first published by Baudrillard in 1981 in French. A good summary can be found at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simulacra_and_Simulation.
Actually written in 1968 when he was still with the Hollies, but not recorded until 1970 with Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. The lyrics start:You, who are on the road
Must have a code you try to live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a goodbyeTeach your children well
Their father's hell did slowly go by
Feed them on your dreams
The one they pick's the one you'll know by
André Rouille (op.cit.) notes the important difference between the tradition of the auto-portrait (including in photography) with the intention of only limited circulation, and the selfie intended to be posted on networks with the intention of being dispersed as far as possible.
...sand as far as the eye can see, spread over large and small dunes on the plain. Everything is bare without a green splash of colour to distract the eye, plus unbearable heat. This roughly corresponds to the European perception of deserts. On closer inspection, however, they could be divided into sand, stone, rock and other desert forms, for example, with a geographic perspective.
My focus is on a sandy desert, more precisely, the Rub al-Chali in the south of the Arabian Peninsula. Known in English as ‘The Empty Quarter’. It is the largest sand desert in the world and, depending on the source, extends over 270,270 mi² (approx. 700,000 km²). It covers the territories of Yemen, Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates and Oman.
This region became famous through travelogues such as “Arabian Sands” or “The Wells of the Desert” by Sir Wilfred Thesiger (1910 - 2003). He was one of the first Europeans to cross this desert between 1947 and 1950. The virtual collection ‘Pitt Rivers’ provides an insight into his photographic legacy with Bedouin portraits and numerous photographs of the desert.
My journeys in this region take me in small groups of photography enthusiasts interested in the landscape, from Muscat, the capital, southwards to Salala or vice versa.
This region became famous through travelogues such as “Arabian Sands” or “The Wells of the Desert” by Sir Wilfred Thesiger (1910 - 2003). He was one of the first Europeans to cross this desert between 1947 and 1950.
After crossing either the Hajar Mountains (Jibal al-Hajar) or the Dhofar Mountains (Jibal Dhufar), the routes take us inland close to the border with Saudi Arabia, far off the beaten track through the Sultanate.
Shortly after landing, the pulse rate changes - if we are still conditioned to the European speed of movement, life in Oman moves noticeably slower. Not when visas are being issued or luggage is being unloaded. It is the pace of progress here that adapts to the ambient temperature. In the winter months, this is around 25 °C (77 °F) on the coast and up to 33 °C (approx. 91 °F) inland.
Once inland, it quickly becomes clear that there is little greenery (trees, meadows, fields, etc.) or structures for the eyes and mind to latch onto. It is not just a visual reduction of stimuli that accompanies us in the vast plain before the desert. Earth colours and even white rocks dominate. Here and there, we come across the odd acacia tree. Petrol stations along the way are sparsely framed by a service station, a hotel, a small mosque and a garage.
As we leave the tarmac road, a gravel track accompanies us, as so often, to the oases on the edge of the stony plain. After letting the air out of the tyres, our desert adventure begins. Not from one moment to the next, we are greeted by the first small, waist- to man-high dunes. A few miles further on, the dunes reach a height of over 50 metres, with long ridges leading from peak to peak of a dune complex. But before we reach them, we first have to climb the dunes by the sweat of our brow over a flank. These large or high dunes were formed thousands of years ago. They appear to be firmly rooted and only change their surface contours with the wind. But that is quite enough to adapt our route from the previous year to the new conditions on site.
The course of our adventure adapts to the position of the sun. As at home, dawn and dusk offer the most interesting light from a photographic point of view. So we start with the dawn at around six o'clock in the camp and look for a suitable view in the immediate vicinity. Our photo spot is often in the immediate vicinity – just 50 to 100 metres above us on one of the dune ridges. After breakfast, we clear our camp and set off at around nine o'clock. If we come across any impressive views during the day, we take a photo stop.
As a rule, we don't use a tripod, except for focus stacking or panoramic shots. We spend our lunch break in the shade of our vehicles, under an awning we set up between them. If there is a fountain nearby, we like to combine the break with a refreshing shower. In the late afternoon, we usually reach our next overnight stop by 3.30 pm. Depending on their preference, the participants set up their tent, while others put up their sleeping bag directly under the canopy of thousands and thousands of stars. Once the camp has been set up, we sit together in a cosy atmosphere with tea/coffee/cocoa and biscuits before setting off again to take photos. We gather around the campfire for dinner.
As a rule, we don't use a tripod, except for focus stacking or panoramic shots. We spend our lunch break in the shade of our vehicles, under an awning we set up between them. If there is a fountain nearby, we like to combine the break with a refreshing shower.
During the day, as we drive through the dune valleys, we wonder from time to time whether we are in a landscape or rather in a natural environment in the sense of wilderness. After all, we so often talk about a desert landscape. Desert landscape - that sounds so obvious. But doesn't a landscape always presuppose human or cultural utilisation and shaping? Forest landscapes in contemporary Central Europe usually refer to forest plantations rather than original forests. Mountain landscapes are culturally characterised by alpine pastures, hiking and skiing areas and traffic arteries. River and lake landscapes have been straightened, dammed and controlled by man, and sometimes even created. 'Here', where we are in the desert, the dunes are characterised exclusively by wind and weather.
The formerly free-roaming camels are now accompanied by shepherds who provide the animals with water and food, milk the camels and slaughter them in due course. Apart from their tracks in the sand, they leave no visible changes in the dunes here. Any tyre tracks, like the camel tracks, are covered by the wind and sand. What remains are the eroded bushes on the sides of the dunes, just like on the plain. This natural environment has anything but a negative effect on us. Wilderness - taking into account the geographical conditions, in which we move respectfully.
The word wilderness: in earlier times, it was associated with negative characteristics, for example, as unpredictable, inhuman, unproductive, unfriendly, uncomfortable, untamed, scary, unsentimental, unjust, unembellished and various other negations. During these days, we feel how good this “empty space” without human intervention is for us. It seems as if the deprivation of sensory impressions sensitises our perception.
A journey through the desert often turns out to be a balancing act between an altered, heightened consciousness and a hallucination. Depending on your point of view, you could also think that the reality experienced here is like a hallucination caused by a lack of distraction (consumption, hunger for experience, etc.).
On the way, we enjoy the view, especially the vastness, which is difficult to put into words here. Even though our line of sight is repeatedly obscured by higher dunes, we know that beyond these dunes, which are visible to us, the desert continues for countless kilometres. Over the days, the theory develops that the desert is a place of contrasts. For example:
We move in a space that is not tangible or imaginable, and we are shown our limits by our own physical and mental possibilities. Furthermore, this seemingly unlimited space is divided by below (desert) and above (sky) - similar to day and night.
The dunes: stationary, rooted and yet their surface contours are subject to continuous change due to the constant wind: the transience of the moment in the face of eternity.
Surrounded by dry sand, many a mind threatens to drown in the feelings and emotions it is thrown back upon.
Our European hearing, very much conditioned to the urban topography, is confronted with the silence of the desert (to be equated with eternity). What some describe as pure pleasure is like a silent inner scream for others.
We move in a space that is not tangible or imaginable, and we are shown our limits by our own physical and mental possibilities. Furthermore, this seemingly unlimited space is divided by below (desert) and above (sky) - similar to day and night.
The colour green - even if it is very limited in the desert - it does exist! Scattered throughout the dune valleys, small lush green bushes with a leathery surface grow close to the ground. Occasionally, gnarled umbrella acacias rise up in the dunes. I am impressed by the numerous, delicate bushes.
At dawn, they offer me favourite motif opportunities. In the immediate vicinity of the bushes, countless tracks from the previous night are visible in the morning hours. They belong to beetles and mice, occasionally a desert fox. They enjoy our vegetable scraps from dinner.
When I set out to photograph the landscape at home, I occasionally take the time to stage the same motif at different times of the day - here in the desert, this approach is almost a must! When we reach our campsite in the afternoon, the first dune valleys are already sinking into long, dark shadows under the light blue sky. The following morning, the sun is directly opposite the dunes and the sky is a vibrant blue (with the same white balance and toning, mind you). Shadows do not seem to exist at this time - the colours of the sand are remarkable.
The question is often asked whether the sand is “really” that red. Between you and me: I don't know! Depending on the time of day, the position of the sun and the direction of the sun, the same dune appears in different colours: White-yellowish in the backlight, with sidelight towards the sun it appears in a pale mixture of ochre and dull yellow tones, orange-coloured in the sidelight with the sun or red-brown with the sun behind it. A play of colours that is second to none!
Depending on the time of day, the position of the sun and the direction of the sun, the same dune appears in different colours: White-yellowish in the backlight, with sidelight towards the sun it appears in a pale mixture of ochre and dull yellow tones, orange-coloured in the sidelight with the sun or red-brown with the sun behind it. A play of colours that is second to none!
With all the colours, there are also deliberately colourless shots, reduced to a light-dark contrast as well as structures and shapes, in black and white. Here, the colour of the sand is deliberately pushed into the background. Instead, my focus is on the entertaining play of light and shadow in the morning and evening hours.
Despite all the fascination and enthusiasm for the sandy expanse and emptiness, after ten days in the desert we look forward to the comforts of civilisation. As we immerse ourselves in it, the stimuli increase again, visually as well as all the other sensory organs. But before we indulge in the sensory overload at the evening souq in the city, we immerse ourselves in the waves of the Arabian Sea away from the tourist hotspots.
Regardless of whether we were travelling through nature in its wild and pristine form or a desert landscape, in the words of the American natural philosopher Edward Abbey (1927 - 1989): ‘Wilderness is a necessary part of the human spirit, it is as important to our lives as water and good bread.’ Or as an Arabic proverb puts it: ‘Water cleanses the body - the desert cleanses the soul.’
German Version
Wüste: Sand, Dünen und Weite…
…Sand, soweit das Auge reicht, verteilt auf großen und keinen Dünen, in der Ebene. Alles kahl ohne einen grünen Farbklecks der das Auge ablenkt, dazu unerträgliche Hitze. Das entspricht in groben Zügen einer europäischen Wahrnehmung von Wüsten. Dabei ließen sie sich bei genauerer Betrachtung, beispielsweise mit dem Blick der Geografie in Sand-, Stein- oder Fels- und weitere Wüstenformen unterscheiden.
Mein Augenmerk liegt einer Sandwüste, genauer gesagt der Rub al-Chali im Süden der Arabischen Halbinsel. Im englischen Sprachraum bekannt als „The Empty Quarter“. Sie ist die größte Sandwüste der Erde und erstreckt sich, je nach Quelle auf über 270.270 mi² (ca. 700.000 km²). Dabei bedeckt sie Staatsgebiete des Yemen, Saudi-Arabiens, der Vereinigten Arabischen Emirate sowie des Omans.
Bekannt wurde diese Region durch die Reiseberichte wie ‚Arabian Sands ‚oder ‚Die Brunnen der Wüste‘ von Sir Wilfred Thesiger (1910 - 2003). Er durchquerte zwischen 1947 und 1950 als einer der ersten Europäer diese Wüste. Einen Blick in seinen fotografischen Nachlass mit Beduinen-Portraits und zahlreichen Aufnahmen der Wüste, ermöglicht die virtuelle Sammlung, Pitt Rivers.
Meine Reisen in dieser Region führen mich in mit kleinen Gruppen von landschaftsinteressierten Fotoenthusiasten, ab Maskat der Hauptstadt in Richtung Süden nach Salala oder umgekehrt. Die Routen verlaufen, nach dem wir wahlweise das Hadschar-Gebirge (Dschibal al-Hadschar) oder die Dhofar Mountains (Dschibal Dhufar) überquert haben, um ins Landesinnere zu gelangen nahe der Grenze zu Saudi-Arabien – weit abseits der üblichen Reiserouten durch das Sultanat.
Bereits kurz nach der Landung verändert sich der pulsgebende Takt – sind wir noch auf europäische Bewegungsgeschwindigkeit konditioniert, bewegt sich das Leben in Oman spürbar langsamer.
Nicht etwa beim Ausstellen der Visas oder dem Entladen des Fluggepäcks. Es ist das Vorankommen, dass sich hier der Umgebungstemperatur anpasst. Diese liegt in den Wintermonaten an der Küste um die 25 °C (77 °F) im Landesinneren bis zu 33 °C (ca. 91 °F).
Im Landesinneren angekommen, wird schnell klar, dass Auge und Geist wenig Grünes (Bäume, Wiesen, Felder, etc.) oder Strukturen geboten werden, an denen sie sich festhalten können. Es ist nicht nur eine visuelle Reizreduzierung, die uns in der weitläufigen Ebene vor der Wüste begleitet. Es dominieren Erdfarben bis hin zu weißen Gesteinen. Hier und da stoßen wir auf vereinzelte Akazien. Tankstellen am Wegesrand werden spärlich eingerahmt von einem Rasthaus, Hotel, einer kleinen Moschee und nicht zuletzt einer Autowerkstatt.
Mit dem Verlassen der Asphaltstraße begleitet uns wie so oft eine Schotterpiste bis zu den Oasen am Rand der steinigen Ebene. Nach dem Ablassen der Luft aus den Reifen beginnt unser Abenteuer Wüste. Nicht von jetzt auf gleich, es sind erste kleinere, hüft- bis mannshohe Dünen, die uns in Empfang nehmen. Einige Kilometer weiter, erreichen die Dünen schon eine Höhe von über 50 Metern, mit langgezogenen Graten, die von Spitze zu Spitze eines Dünenkomplexes führen.
Doch bevor wir diese erreichen, heißt es im Schweiße unseres Angesichts erst einmal die Dünen über eine Flanke zu erklimmen. Diese großen bzw. hohen Dünen fanden ihre Grundform bereits vor Jahrtausenden. Sie wirken wie fest verwurzelt und verändern lediglich ihre Oberflächenkontur mit dem Wind. Doch das reicht vollkommen aus, um unseren Routenverlauf aus dem Vorjahr an die neuen Gegebenheiten vor Ort anzupassen.
Der Tagesverlauf unseres Abenteuers passt sich dem Stand der Sonne an. Wie zu Hause, bieten die Morgen- und Abenddämmerung aus fotografischer Sicht das interessanteste Licht. So starten wir mit der Morgendämmerung gegen sechs Uhr im Camp und suchen uns eine geeignete Aussicht in der näheren Umgebung. Häufig findet sich unser Fotospot in unmittelbarer Nähe – nur eben 50 bis 100 Höhenmeter über uns auf einem der Dünenkämme. Nach dem Frühstück räumen wir unser Lager und brechen gegen neun Uhr auf. Stoßen wir untertags auf beeindruckende Perspektiven, legen wir einen Fotostopp ein. Hierbei verzichten wir in der Regel auf den Einsatz des Stativs, ausgenommen beim Focus-Stacking oder bei Panorama-Aufnahmen. Die Mittagspause verbringen wir im Schatten unserer Fahrzeuge, zwischen denen wir ein Sonnensegel aufspannen. Befindet sich ein Brunnen in der Umgebung, kombinieren wir die Pause gerne mit einer erfrischenden Duschmöglichkeit.
Am späteren Nachmittag erreichen wir für gewöhnlich bis 15Uhr30 unseren nächsten Übernachtungsplatz. Je nach Vorliebe, richten sich die Teilnehmenden ihr Zelt her, während sich andere mit ihrem Schlafsack direkt unter dem Zeltdach von abertausenden Sternen betten. Ist das Camp soweit eingerichtet sitzen wir bei Tee / Kaffee / Kakao und Plätzchen gemütlich beieinander, bevor wir erneut zum Fotografieren aufbrechen. Zum Abendessen versammeln wir uns rund um das Lagerfeuer.
Tagsüber während wir die Dünentäler durchfahren, hängen wir von Zeit zu Zeit der Frage nach, ob wir uns hier in einer Landschaft oder doch eher in einem Natururraum im Sinne von Wildnis bewegen. Sprechen wir doch so oft von einer Wüstenlandschaft. Wüstenlandschaft – das sagt sich so selbstverständlich. Doch setzt eine Landschaft nicht auch immer eine menschliche bzw. kulturelle Nutzung, Prägung voraus? Waldlandschaften im gegenwärtigen Mitteleuropa beziehen sich für gewöhnlich auf Forstplantagen als auf ursprüngliche Wälder. Berglandschaft sind kulturgeprägt von Almen, Wander- und Skigebieten und Verkehrsadern. Fluss- oder Seelandschaften von Menschenhand begradigt, aufgestaut und kontrolliert, mitunter auch erst erschaffen.
Hier‘ wo wir uns in der Wüste bewegen, sind die Dünen ausschließlich von Wind und Wetter geprägt. Die ehemals freilebenden Kamele werden heute von Hirten begleitet, die die Tiere mit Wasser und Futter versorgen, Kamelkühe melken und zu gegebener Zeit schlachten. Abgesehen von ihren Spuren im Sand hinterlassen sie hier keine sichtbaren Veränderungen in den Dünen. Etwaige Reifenspuren werden wie die Kamelspuren von Wind und Sand zugedeckt. Was bleibt sind die abgefressenen Büsche an den Dünenflanken wie in der Ebene. Auf uns wirkt dieser Naturraum alles andere als negativ. Wildnis – unter Berücksichtigung der geografischen Gegebenheiten, in welcher wir uns respektvoll bewegen.
Reizwort Wildnis: in früheren Zeiten wurde diese eher mit negativen Eigenschaften in Verbindung gebracht. Beispielsweise als unberechenbar, unmenschlich, unproduktiv, unfreundlich, unbehaglich, ungezähmt, unheimlich, unsentimental, ungerecht, ungeschönt und verschiedene Negierungen mehr. Wir spüren während dieser Tage, wie gut uns dieser ‚leere Raum‘ ohne menschliches Einwirken tut. Es scheint so, als würde der Entzug von Sinneseindrücken unsere Wahrnehmung sensibilisieren. So entpuppt sich eine Reise durch die Wüste nicht selten als Gratwanderung zwischen verändertem – gestärkten Bewusstsein oder auch einer Halluzination. Denn je nach Standpunkt könnte man auch meinen, dass die hier erlebte Wirklichkeit einer Halluzination gleicht, welche durch den Mangel von Ablenkung (Konsum, Erlebnishunger, etc.) entsteht.
Unterwegs genießen wir die Aussicht, vor allem die Weite, die sich hier nur schwerlich in Worte fassen lässt. Auch wenn unsere Sichtachse immer wieder von höheren Dünen verdeckt wird, so wissen wir doch, dass es hinter diesen, für uns sichtbaren Dünen noch unzählige Kilometer so wüst weitergeht. So entwickelt sich über die Tage die Theorie, dass es sich bei der Wüste um einen Ort der Gegensätze handelt. Beispielsweise:
bewegen wir uns in einem nicht greifbar oder vorstellbar weiten Raum, werden wir durch unsere eigenen physischen, wie psychischen Möglichkeiten in unsere Grenzen gewiesen. Weiterhin wird dieser scheinbar unbegrenzte Raum durch unten (Wüste) und oben (Himmel) geteilt – ähnlich wie Tag und Nacht.
die Dünen: stillstehend, verwurzelt und doch unterliegen sie in ihrer Oberflächenkontur durch den ständigen Wind einer kontinuierlichen Veränderung: die Vergänglichkeit des Moments im Angesicht der Ewigkeit.
umgeben von trockenem Sand droht so mancher Geist in seinen Gefühlen und Emotionen, auf die er zurückgeworfen wird zu ertrinken.
unser europäisches Gehör, sehr auf die städtische Topografie konditioniert, wird mit der Stille der Wüste (gleichzusetzten mit der Ewigkeit) konfrontiert. Was die einen als puren Genuss bezeichnen, gleicht für andere einem stillen innerlichen Schrei.
Die Farbe Grün – auch wenn sie sehr reduziert in der Wüste in Augenschein tritt – es gibt sie! Verteilt in den Dünentälern wachsen häufig, bodennah kleine sattgrüne Büsche mit ledriger Oberfläche. Gelegentlich erheben sich knorrige Schirmakazien in den Dünen empor. Beeindruckend nehme ich die zahlreichen, feingliedrigen Büsche wahr. Sie bieten mir in der Morgendämmerung liebgewonnene Motivmöglichkeiten. In der näheren Umgebung der Büsche, sind in den Morgenstunden unzählige Spuren aus der vorangegangenen Nacht sichtbar. Sie gehören zu Käfern und Mäusen, gelegentlich einem Wüstenfuchs. Sie erfreuen sich an unseren Gemüseabfällen vom Abendessen.
Breche ich zu Hause auf, um in der Landschaft zu fotografieren, nehme ich mir gelegentlich Zeit, um ein und dasselbe Motiv zu unterschiedlichen Tageszeiten zu inszenieren – hier in der Wüste, drängt sich diese Vorgehensweise geradezu förmlich auf! Erreichen wir in den Nachmittagsstunden unseren Lagerplatz, versinken die ersten Dünentäler bereits in langen, dunklen Schatten unter dem hellblauen Himmel. Am Morgen darauf, steht die Sonne direkt gegenüber dem Dünenzug, der Himmel alles überthronend leuchtet in einem kräftigen Blau (wohlgemerkt bei demselben Weißabgleich inkl. Tonung). Schatten scheinen zu dieser Zeit nicht zu existieren – bemerkenswert dabei: die Farben des Sandes. Häufig wird die Frage gestellt, ob der Sand ‚wirklich‘ so rot ist. Unter uns: Ich weiß es nicht! Je nach Tageszeit bzw. Sonnenstand sowie der Blickrichtung zur Sonne, zeigt sich ein dieselbe Düne in unterschiedlichen Farben: Weiß-gelblich im Gegenlicht, mit Seitenlicht zur Sonne hin erscheint er in einer fahlen Mischung aus Ocker und stumpfen Gelbnoten, orange-farben im Seitenlicht mit der Sonne oder rotbraun mit der Sonne im Rücken. Ein Farbspiel das seines Gleichen sucht!
Bei all den Farben bieten sich auch gezielt farblose Aufnahmen, reduziert auf einen Hell-Dunkelkontrast sowie Strukturen und Formen, in Schwarz-Weiß an. Hier rückt die Farbe des Sandes gezielt in den Hintergrund. Stattdessen liegt mein Fokus auf dem kurzweiligen Licht- und Schattenspiel in den Morgen- und Abendstunden.
Bei all der Faszination und Begeisterung für die sandige Weite und Leere, freuen wir uns nach zehn Tagen in der Wüste auf die Annehmlichkeiten der Zivilisation. Mit dem Eintauchen in diese nehmen auch die Reize wieder zu, visuell wie auch all die anderen Sinnesorgane. Doch bevor wir uns der Reizüberflutung auf dem abendlichen Souq in der Stadt hingeben, tauchen wir Abseits der touristischen Hot-Spots mit Haut und Haar in die Wellen des Arabischen Meeres ein.
Ungeachtet der Frage, ob wir jetzt eine Natur in ihrer wilden wie ursprünglichen Form oder eine Wüstenlandschaften durchquerten, in Anlehnung an den US-amerikanischen Naturphilosophen Edward Abbey (1927 - 1989): „Wildnis ist ein notweniger Teil des menschlichen Geistes, sie ist ebenso wichtig für unser Leben wie Wasser und gutes Brot.“ Oder wie es ein arabisches Sprichwort formuliert: „Wasser reinigt den Körper – die Wüste reinigt die Seele.“
We interviewed Marc Wilson at the Royal Armouries way back in 2013 when he was out promoting his Last Stand book on the relics of wars. He's currently promoting a Kickstarter campaign to help in the publication a new and predominantly landscape project about the relics of our industrial past. We asked him a few questions about the project.
Can you give us a short summary of how you found yourself on the verge of going to print with this new book and what it’s about.
Even before I made The Last Stand (2010-2014) during much of the first decade of this century, I was travelling throughout the UK, making inroads into various projects that were never completed for various reasons.
Above all my not being satisfied with them. These covered topics such as tourism, leisure and perhaps not surprisingly, give the landscapes I was finding myself in, industry.
So whilst on the face of it the landscape itself has become the subject, I view it very much as object as well as subject, much as I did the man made fortifications in The Last Stand. I work very much on each subject I approach on an individual level, not working to any pre-determined formula, either in terms of the visual or the working method.
So in 2023, when I began this work in earnest, I already knew how I did not want to make it, which conversely allowed me quite quickly to find the way I did and, more importantly, the why and what I wanted to talk about. So much of the next 2 years, during the winter months, were spent walking and working under grey and often very wet skies.
Do you see The Edge of Ruin as a conceptual continuation or as a new chapter in your long-term documentary narrative?
For me it is very much a continuation of one of the two strands of work that I make - which are both connected of course. My long term projects have taken the form of either more overtly Documentary work - such as ‘A Wounded Landscape, bearing witness to the Holocaust’ and ‘The Land is Yellow, the Sky is Blue’ and my more topographic, but still subject based, work, ‘The Last Stand’ and ‘Remnants’. This new work, ‘The Edge of Ruin’ ‘fits’ more into the topographic / survey strand of my work. So whilst on the face of it the landscape itself has become the subject, I view it very much as object as well as subject, much as I did the man made fortifications in The Last Stand. I work very much on each subject I approach on an individual level, not working to any pre-determined formula, either in terms of the visual or the working method.
So for each new body of work, alongside initial subject research is a period of visual research where I will visit locations and find the best working method in terms of both what is of interest and my approach, feeling, light, weather. So I can then take this visual methodology into each location with me, still though allowing for the locations and what I discover there to determine the final photograph.
What drew you specifically to the industrial landscape and what kind of story do you think these sites are still telling today?
For me the point of interest here is the created landscape, formed by both nature and man, borne out of industry and the search for power and wealth. So what you find at these places is something that is at the same time both natural and artifice. What I have avoided is making work about the remaining edifices, the man made buildings. Whether these stand, preserved for heritage, or crumble into the landscape, what I soon found I wanted to do was look beyond these and onto the physical landscape itself, much of which is as much as an artifice as the buildings.
What I found whilst making the work also is that these sites became for me a marker, not just of the past but a likely future if we continue on our current path, in terms of our disdain for the natural world around us.
Many artists incorporate the physical act of walking and exploration of terrain (both internal and external) in their work. Did this process become part of your project and influence the emotional tone of your images?
Whilst not visualised in the work, the act of having to walk in many cases long distances to these sites, certainly played its part in forming the imagery for this work. Both in literal visual sense but also in the mood it led me into once I had arrived to make work. I found I was never simply waiting to arrive at my destination but the whole journey there became the lead up to the photograph, to my understanding of the land I was walking into, and then through.
How has your experience of book creation (design and commission) developed since your original publications?
With each new book I hope I learn not simply more about the production process, through collaboration with designers, copy editors, etc, but more importantly how the books are viewed and read by the audience. Then I take those thoughts into my next book and try focus the design to answer those questions.
Questions such as size, cover material, paper choice, placement of text, etc. They all play such an important role in the overall ‘feel’ of the book, which is different every time depending on the subject matter. These days the costs of production have increased so much since I first self published
The Last Stand in 2019 that many of these choices have to be made within a budget - both in terms of the funds available to print (what I can raise on the Kickstarter) and balancing the cost of the book for the buyer.
I notice you’ve included mentoring rewards in your Kickstarter campaign. Is this something you’ve done before and is it something you’d like to develop?
I’ve done lots of teaching over the last 20 years, both in semester long modules and visiting lectures and tutorials. So for me starting mentoring a few years ago was a natural extension of that. I really enjoy the process as it allows you to work with an individual on long term projects, giving them all the help they are looking for both in terms of a specific series they are working on but also, more long term with their overall photographic practice. These can work both in person and online so which is great.
Currently for example I am working with one photographer in The Netherlands online and one in my home city of Bath in person.
Part of the Kickstarter process inevitably creates a connection between an artist and their audience. I’ve seen you making these connections before in your previous developments. How important is this to you and what do you see as the advantages and disadvantages of either a standoffish approach to an overly familiar one?
It’s important to me. I enjoy that connection with my audience. I don’t feel the need to create an ‘aloof’ aura, rather preferring to let the work set itself apart, if that makes sense. It is also the element of my appreciating the support for my practice that people give me. Obviously people buy my books and prints because they choose to for the subject, but I do feel there is an element of their feeling that at the same time they are ‘supporting’ me and I really like that. So the connections I try to make and foster are a part of that. It’s also how I like to be. The way I make and present my work is very much a reflection of myself so whilst I can see the potential advantage to setting yourself up on a pedestal, it’s just not for me.
Tell me about a couple of the most important images to you in the project.
I’ve never found it easy choosing any single image over others in my work. Some I can later on, as I discover the impact of the work on its audience more.
For now, there was a location in North Wales that was certainly the wildest conditions I have made work in. Not the coldest as I have worked in minus 22 in Ukraine, but wind so strong I had to brace myself before each small press of the shutter and so much horizontal rain, that I had to really work quickly as soon as I brought the camera out of my bag to my eye, knowing exactly where my frame needed to be, and back into the bag again. It was wild but I enjoyed it.
Luckily it was a location not too far from my car so I returned to dry off, found warmth in a cafe with best beans on toast I think I’ve ever had, and then walked back out to the location to make more work from a different perspective.
Were there any surprising discoveries whilst researching or exploring the landscape for this book?
I found how alone you can feel very quickly here in the UK. The time of year and weather I was purposefully walking into helped of course but I walked to and returned from the 60 plus locations, almost always without seeing another living soul. Sheep, horses, birds of prey yes but so few people. But this feeling only helped me in making the images I wanted to, allowing me to concentrate fully on the subject in front of me, my gaze not diverted by others, my concentration fully on each step I made and the history unfolding before me.
You can find out more about the project, and hopefully help raise money for it's publication, at its Kickstarter campaign.
My first job after graduating from Liverpool Veterinary School was in West Kirby on the Wirral peninsula, just a few miles north of the University’s Leahurst campus where I had studied.
Over the four years that I lived in the area I regularly explored local walking paths and enjoyed spending time along the coast. I thought I knew these locations well until I came across Marianthi’s work some years later after I had returned to the South of England. I realised then that I had barely scratched the surface of coming to know the place, the landscapes of the miles-wide Dee Estuary with its mudflats, saltmarshes, sandflats, dunes and intertidal habitats. Marianthi’s main body of work includes many unique, expressive interpretations of the littoral landscape from the mouth of the Dee estuary, and deeply embodies the dynamic nature of an ecosystem in constant flux.
The image I have chosen for this end frame was made by Marianthi in collaboration with another estuarine habitat, the Cromarty Firth, whose principal river’s headwaters lie in the Scottish Highlands. This multilayered cyanotype image has been exposed twice. With each exposure, sand, salt and seaweed get dragged across the paper at the whim of the natural movement of waves, and the photosensitive paper becomes physically imprinted with their marks. The first exposure was co-created by an incoming nocturnal tide in the Firth, and the second, where Marianthi mixed the cyanotype solution with gold pigment ink, by an outgoing morning tide at the same location.
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.
I’ve just plonked my comfortable bottom down on my comfortable sofa. And selected some Nat King Cole from my playlist. All in preparation for writing a few words for your perusal. But on opening Microsoft word its informed me that if I press “+L” Copilot will write my blurb with me. Or maybe it will write it for me. I’ve no idea. I don’t know who, or what, Copilot is. I’m guessing that Copilot is a more organised individual than I. With a much bigger brain. But if I start using Copilot (or Otto as I think I’ll start calling him/her/it), how long will he be happy being a copilot.
How long before I’m a passenger, stuck back in economy, complaining about the lack of legroom, while Otto flies me on a route entirely of his choosing? I don’t want any help to rite these few words. Other perhaps than a few spelling suggestions. I’m not really sure I want any other grammatical suggestions. I’ll start and finish a sentence however I want. .
My cameras are mostly of a decent age. They’re still quite simple. But how long before they come with their own version of Copilot? iPhones are well on the way with artificial intelligence.
However, the mood takes me. And my photography is the same. I’m not really fussed about any fancy grids on the screen, pointing out the rule of thirds. However, I’m not against the histogram. I’ll call that my spellchecker.
My cameras are mostly of a decent age. They’re still quite simple. But how long before they come with their own version of Copilot? iPhones are well on the way with artificial intelligence. Not that I mind too much. I turn off most things and just point and shoot. A bit of straightforward snapseedery and I’m happy. It's me choosing what I’m taking a photograph of, and me that’s deciding how I want to present it. It’s the same as when I’m using the big camera. A simple, straightforward image, processed in Lightroom. Looking at the picture as I process it. Deciding how dark I want the darks to be and then deciding how I’m going to tone it. Hopefully, in such a way that it matches the image in my head. I don’t really want to rely on any other form of intelligence other than my own. I don’t even want to see suggestions as to how the finished article would look like. Tim and I spoke to Damian Shields the other day.
We were talking about how long it took to make an image. And I was in completely in agreement with the wee man. I talk about some of my pictures being snapshots. But they aren’t. The image I made last night of the Isle of Lewis from my bedroom window took me over 62 years to make. Because everything in my life that led me up to that moment influenced me. Otto wasn’t looking over my shoulder, making little suggestions..
The image I made last night of the Isle of Lewis from my bedroom window took me over 62 years to make. Because everything in my life that led me up to that moment influenced me. Otto wasn’t looking over my shoulder, making little suggestions.
Now, I’m not saying that artificial intelligence is a bad thing in itself. It’s a bit like a no age statement whisky in a way, blended with all sorts of ingredients. Whereas, I’d describe myself as more of a very well aged single malt. Peaty, smoky, maybe a bit of sweetness from being encased in an Oloroso cask for 25 years. Bottled at cask strength. Richly individual. My cupboard is full of such whiskies. Maybe not the same age as me. But they are all individual. All to be savoured at different moments. Matching a whisky to a mood. A bit like the photography and the photographs that I enjoy. From David Ward to Sandra Bartocha to Rachael Talibart to Joe Cornish to Valda Bailey. Individuals all. Amongst an ocean of individuals. All bobbing up and down with no artificial buoyancy aids. Plotting their own course.
And yes. I know. I spelt write wrongly about 350 words ago. But it made me giggle, so I left it in. And I’ve no idea what I had been planning to write about. But in a way, Copilot made the decision for me.
For Tara Workman a desire to acquire (another) new camera unexpectedly opened the door to creativity. What began as a hobby became serious, obsessive even; I think we all know that feeling. From varied monthly challenges, she gravitated towards the nature around her in the Pacific Northwest.
Photography offers Tara a space where she doesn’t have to follow the rules, in contrast to her profession as a family physician. She can experiment, simplify, and over time is learning to avoid the things that can stop photography being an uplifting, positive, experience. To keep it as a passion, a gift.
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 Barbados and moved to the US in 2007. I was a late bloomer when it comes to photography. I’m a full-time family physician (GP), and my earlier hobbies were mostly related to sports and physical activities, e.g. golf/tennis/hiking. I never considered myself a creative person, but I always loved taking photos. Family and friends on holiday; snapping random photos on trips simply to create a collection of memories. If you told me back then that I would someday be interviewed about my photography, I would never have believed it.
How did photography come into your life? What were your early images of, or about?
Back in the day, I had this unproductive habit of buying new cameras. I say unproductive because I knew nothing about cameras or photography. I shot primarily with the automatic settings, but could somehow still rationalize why I needed a new one. When I mentioned to my husband that I found a new camera that I thought would be perfect for me to ‘grow into’, he said that if I wanted said camera, I should actually learn to use it. Admittedly, I couldn’t argue with this logic, and I immediately enrolled in a “Basics of Photography” class.
Once I learned how to use the camera, it unlocked a new obsession. Initially, I photographed EVERYTHING. I took the camera everywhere and set myself monthly challenges to focus on certain topics e.g. slow shutter, the color blue, bokeh and people. It was a great way to learn, and to learn to pay closer attention to the world around me. I live in the Pacific Northwest and over time I, like many in this area, gravitated towards nature as my main focus. All other hobbies took a back seat from then on, and the rest is history. In some ways, I suspect my husband regrets not letting me simply buy the new camera with no strings attached.
Who (photographers, artists or individuals) or what has most inspired you, or driven you forward in your own development as a photographer?
My more recent style has been influenced the most by folks like TJ Thorne, Huibo Hou, Sarah Marino, Bruce Percy, and Alex Noriega, to name a few. They all have their own creative styles, but I think they’ve all influenced certain aspects of my own work.
Special mention to David Thompson, who has been an incredible mentor (He’d probably deny this, but it’s true). He’s been a grounding force in many ways but also helped me refine the knowledge I already had, and it really helped take my work to a new level.
Special mention to David Thompson, who has been an incredible mentor (He’d probably deny this, but it’s true). He’s been a grounding force in many ways but also helped me refine the knowledge I already had, and it really helped take my work to a new level
There are also so many others that I enjoy outside of the nature genre, and it has encouraged me to branch out more in recent years and begin exploring other subjects as well.
Beth Buelow, Jerad Armijo - a hodgepodge of creative exploration
Stephanie Johnson - ICM
Tania Malkin and Carolyn Cheng - Aerial
Allan Schaller - Street photography
Angie McMonigal - Architecture
I’ve revisited the ‘why’ behind my photography often in recent years. I naturally tend to be a rule follower, but photography has been the one aspect of my life where I want to break all the rules. Tripods/previsualization/rule of thirds: it all makes me want to run in the opposite direction. I’m most inspired by those photographers who carve out their own way of photographing the world, and if you ask them all about technique, they’ll likely give you a wide range of answers. My personal goal is to embrace my unique take on the world, so that when I look back at my images, they feel like a true reflection of chapters in my life rather than photography trends. I also want to feel less encumbered by the constraints of making the most technically perfect image. For me, it more so boils down to whether the images make the viewer actually feel something. All easier said than done but it’s all a process, right?
Would you like to 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?
This first image will always be special because it was one of the first times I branched out of the usual landscape shapes and created something truly unexpected. It was taken on a trip to New Zealand, and we stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the day to check out a cluster of trees by a lake. I decided to play around with the ICM technique. I remember feeling like I’d just wasted time and space on the memory card taking photos I’d never use.
At home when reviewing the images, this one was by far my favorite of the trip. What I love most is that I was in one of the most popular places for landscape photography and I came away with an image that I could never have envisioned, created from a sense of play and without expectation. This is the feeling we all have when we first start a new hobby but often lose as we progress. This particular image bookmarks a turning point in my photography journey, and those serendipitous moments have now become the corner stone of my process.
With a full-time medical career it can be difficult to get out with the camera as often as I’d like. This forces me to make the most of opportunities as they come. Over the years I’ve had the most fun taking photos at our local dog park. My husband valiantly assumes the responsibility of tiring out the pups which allows me 30-60 mins of fun with the camera. I enjoy the randomness of the reflections which can change depending on time of day, weather and most importantly, how many dogs are splashing around in the water. And what keeps me coming back is that I always seem to find something new. Some of my favorite images were made here, and this one is from a recent collection of images where the colors and shapes take on a life of their own. I experimented with finding 3 images that seemingly fit together to create the panorama.
There are places you visit that resonate so deeply and will always feel like home. This is how I feel about the sand dunes of Death Valley National Park. I am drawn to its vastness and the unlimited compositional opportunities. I’m not one to look for the ‘perfect’ composition and then wait for the perfect light. I’d probably compare my method to a street photographer in the desert. It consists of wandering, observing, and taking advantage of the opportunities as the elements line up. I also enjoy removing elements like the sky or plants, abstracting away the context of size, time, and orientation in many instances.
Sand dunes are my ideal playground, giving unlimited creative opportunities and I may come away with up to 20 images to review from one day on the dunes. This current image is from my most recent visit. Taken in the throes of a sandstorm, I especially love the contrast of how peaceful this image feels knowing how chaotic it was as the sand whipped around in the wind while capturing the moment. In difficult conditions such as these, it feels like a well-earned reward to come away with a portfolio image.
How do you feel that your photography has evolved in recent years?
It’s been about 10 years now since I took that photography class and it has indeed been an interesting journey. Reflecting on it, I feel like things have come full circle in a lot of ways. In the beginning I took photos of things that caught my eye and had no real concept of the rules of composition, light etc. As I ’studied’ the craft I found myself emulating as one often does when learning, and I was influenced mainly by the communities on social media.
My “a-ha moment” came from realizing that the photographers I enjoyed the most were making unique images I hadn’t seen done before. I also discovered that the images that meant the most to me came from a sense of play without preconceived ideas. As time has gone on, I’ve found that I’m most productive when I’m open to what opportunities are available to me and the secret sauce truly is having fun. My most recent work has been a rediscovery of play and following my curiosity instead of the trends. It feels like I’m once again starting to reconnect with the eager photographer I was when I started.
My “a-ha moment” came from realizing that the photographers I enjoyed the most were making unique images I hadn’t seen done before. I also discovered that the images that meant the most to me came from a sense of play without preconceived ideas.
With regard to style, I have a tendency to isolate areas of interest within a scene incorporating a minimalist feel. Most notably, there’s been an ever-growing love of creating abstract imagery. I find they lead to interesting and often unexpected viewer experiences. The feedback I get can highlight new perspectives of the image which I find quite rewarding.
A final key development, as mentioned previously, is that I’ve put more focus on fostering photographic opportunities and shedding things that could hinder the creative experience.
I know you enjoy travelling, but is there anywhere local that you keep being drawn back to?
As discussed previously, I have spent a lot of time at the dog park over the years, but another local area that I return to frequently is the Oregon coast. I find wandering the beach in the early mornings so good for the soul. It has been a staycation spot for us over the years, but I truly connected to this area photographically during the height of the pandemic when travel was limited. I made some of my most meaningful images there since it was a place I could roam freely without fear or anxiety. With a camera in hand the noise of the world around often disappears, and this was incredibly healing at that time.
As discussed previously, I have spent a lot of time at the dog park over the years, but another local area that I return to frequently is the Oregon coast
Can you give readers a brief insight into your set up? This might be photographic equipment through to processing, but it’s good to hear which parts of the workflow especially interest you and where you feel you can make the most difference to the end result.
My goal these days is to photograph with as few limitations as possible and to spend more time in the field than on the computer processing. I have been actively reducing the gear I walk with; the tripod is usually the first on the chopping block.
I have 2 setups depending on the circumstances.
For dedicated photography trips, I carry the Sony A7rV with the Sony G Master 100-400mm and the G 24-105mm. In low light conditions, I will begrudgingly use the tripod.
For every day, spur of the moment, use or on family vacations, I now have the Sony RX100 VII. I am more frequently substituting my main camera for this tiny point and shoot, and I’ve been having a blast. It allows for quick clicks in most situations, not to mention my back is a lot happier. There are definitely trade-offs dealing with increased noise in low light, and far fewer bells and whistles, but overall, I’d say having the freedom it provides has been worth it.
I tend to treat photography as a solo venture, but I have a few close friends that I travel with. Once we find an area of interest, there’s an unspoken understanding that we’ll split up to wander around and meet up again later to debrief.
The wandering is my favorite part of the process. It’s the time where my mind has one singular focus; being open to whatever nature has in store on that day.
In the past after a trip, I would load the images as soon as possible and would process a few that day. These days it may take several weeks and a few outings before I even take the card out of the camera. I used to stress about the backlog of images, but a wise friend once told me, it forces you to be more selective in the images you do choose to process, therefore showcasing your best work. I’m choosing to believe he’s right.
Is it important to you that other people see your work in print? If so, how do you choose to print and present your pictures?
I rarely print my work. I know this may be taboo in many circles, but I’ve come to realize that it’s the making of the images that means the most to me. I enjoy the sharing and I’m incredibly pleased when my images resonate with others (especially those whose work I admire).
I rarely print my work. I know this may be taboo in many circles, but I’ve come to realize that it’s the making of the images that means the most to me. I enjoy the sharing and I’m incredibly pleased when my images resonate with others (especially those whose work I admire).
At the end of the day though, I already have a full time job and this is my passion. The moment I started to take things too seriously was the moment I lost my spark.
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, or gained from it?
Photography is my happy place. For me it is the peace in the messy turmoil of life. When I have the camera in hand it’s like all the stressors disappear and I don’t think there are many other things in my life that have that effect. When I look at my images, I can only deduce that they are a reflection of elements in life that make me happiest. Simplicity, Color, whimsy, mystery, wonder. Location is secondary.
Images can be found on drives, vacation and not just dedicated photo outings as long as you’re open and curious. It has been such a gift to appreciate the world around me in a way I never had before. The best way I can describe it is, it’s as if my eyes were open but since photography I can finally see.
Hobbies have a way of sucking us in, and even something as apparently simple as sharing images online can begin to throw up hurdles. It stops being a relaxing activity; diverts our focus and time, edges into something more akin to work; and we can simply trip up over our own expectations of progress even before others come into the equation. Have you managed to find a path that works for you?
This is definitely something I had to actively work on. I went through a period of caring too much about what others thought, and it definitely hindered my creativity. I also put some unnecessary pressure on myself to ‘do something’ with my photography. I had this silly notion that the next step was obviously to make it into a business of some sort - workshops, prints etc. The more I contemplated the next steps the less I felt inclined to photograph, which defeated the purpose entirely.
I do feel it was important for me to explore all of these options to solidify what I ultimately want to get out of this journey. I have the luxury of pursuing a passion and keeping it separate from my career. I’ve realized (at least for now) it’s important for me to maintain those boundaries in order to continue to enjoy the process.
This is definitely something I had to actively work on. I went through a period of caring too much about what others thought, and it definitely hindered my creativity. I also put some unnecessary pressure on myself to ‘do something’ with my photography.
Where do you now look for inspiration, or draw motivation from?
I love to look at the images of other photographers. I still scroll social media regularly even if I’m not actively posting. It’s always a treat to come across a new image that stops me in my tracks. I’m especially motivated by photographers who’ve been at this for years and continue to push boundaries. It reminds me that there’s always a new image to be made, and your best images may still be yet to come as long as you keep clicking.
Do you have any particular projects or ambitions, techniques or themes that you would like to explore further?
In recent months, I’ve found myself creating several small series’ of images, 3-5 in a set. No particular focus subject-wise or goal beforehand, but I’m enjoying the process of curating small cohesive bodies of work as I go along. Feels like a new unlock with how I present the images.
I have also been branching out from nature photography a bit. Taking the point and shoot around gives new opportunities to experiment with other subjects. The beauty of photography is that we can draw inspiration from so many dimensions. I plan to explore as many as I can.
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? Is it still a long list, or have you managed to moderate yourself moving onto the ‘next thing’?
In the past year I’ve gone back to playing golf and tennis, with photography interspersed where reasonably possible. I tend to go overboard with interests and hobbies, but I think I’ve finally found a better life balance. For now at least… until the next thing.
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.
Any of the photographers listed previously would be worth diving into to but 2 additions that I think could use more attention would be Anna Morgan and Krista Mccuish. Both wonderful!
Thanks Tara. It will be god to see where your camera takes you next.
We celebrate the artworks and the artist, but we rarely celebrate his choices. Personal choices can lead us to devote time and tranquillity to art making, or not.
Choosing often seems like gambling on our future. It requires vision, character and determination, the same quality needed for art making.
The passing of time is the greatest motivator a person has to stay focused on making choices, without delaying them or wasting time, and to act upon them to best devote time doing what is most meaningful.
Carl Linnaeus, Swedish biologist and physician known for being the "father of modern taxonomy", noted on his Öland expedition in 1741: “Öland is different - as soon as we have touched the beach, we noticed that this was totally different from the other Swedish provinces. The wide, flat and open landscape stretches to the distant horizon, which is marked by the Baltic Sea.”
Öland, which is my second home (the first one being Italy), is a narrow and long island joined to the city of Kalmar on the mainland by Europe's once longest bridge. The name Öland translates as “Island Land”, Ö being the Swedish word for island.
Around 26,000 people live there permanently. However, during summer months, the population multiplies drastically, with Swedish and foreign tourists descending on this summer destination.
Most of Öland's landmarks go back in history hundreds and thousands of years. The island contains several Viking burial grounds, and there are several primitive stone‐walled forts, the most noteworthy of which is Graborg in the middle of the island.
The northernmost tip of the island is characterised by the so called “Trollskogen”, the Enchanted Forest, a stand of pine woods, crossed by series of paths leading to white beaches, wild flowers and picnic clearings, but so far I haven’t seen any trolls…
The central part of Öland is home to the “Mittlandsskogen”, Europe's largest contiguous deciduous forest area below the mountain range and here is also Sweden's largest hazel forest.
The central part of Öland is home to the “Mittlandsskogen”, Europe's largest contiguous deciduous forest area below the mountain range and here is also Sweden's largest hazel forest.
However, my preferred photographic environment is located in the agricultural landscape of southern Öland, which is a living mixture of fields, characteristic linear villages, pastures and coastal areas. The area has a history of several thousand years. In fact, the ancestors of today´s farmers have made southern Öland to the UNESCO World Heritage Site it is today.
The plateau produces plant life uncharacteristic of Scandinavia. In spring, many different species of orchids bloom there, including “Ölandssolvända”, which has not been found anywhere else in the world.
Probably the most typical agrarian monuments are the characteristic stone walls. The many kilometers of stone walls connect the history of several centuries. For more than 2000 years, the islanders have built stone walls into fences. It was not until after the middle of the 20th century that knowledge of the art of laying walls began to decline. With the walls disappearing, both a piece of Öland's history and part of the plant and animal life are at risk of vanishing.
Part of this southern landscape is the limestone steppe called “Stora Alvaret” (Great Alvar), a treeless plateau that is unique in Scandinavia. The plateau produces plant life uncharacteristic of Scandinavia. In spring, many different species of orchids bloom there, including “Ölandssolvända”, which has not been found anywhere else in the world.
The coastlands and coastal meadows still have today a unique continuity of use. For thousands of years, they have been used for or as haymaking, as is clearly reflected in both flora and fauna. The coastlands include several highly distinctive plant communities and are an important habitat for a great number of rare and vulnerable bird species. Often round shaped boulders and rocks shaped by past glacial times can be found in this open landscapes offering interesting photographic opportunities.
Inspired by this somehow minimalistic atmosphere, I try to capture the essential elements in the landscape and to communicate this great sense of peace and quietness through my images. Öland is a place for slow photography, almost meditative photography; it’s about space and time. It is here that I live my photography.
Finally, reaching Ottenby at the most southern tip of the island, the visitor may be surprised by a savannah type of landscape, with open grasslands and very sparse trees which sometimes remind the shape of the typical African Umbrella tree. In particular, this area is home to a large number of birds, and likewise, birdwatchers wandering around the various bird sanctuaries and the museum dedicated to birds and their migration.
For far more than a hundred years, researchers, artists, authors, bird watchers and other nature lovers have been attracted to Öland by the light, the unique nature and the richness of the birds. In a similar way, it is here where I have discovered my true photographic style. Inspired by this somehow minimalistic atmosphere, I try to capture the essential elements in the landscape and to communicate this great sense of peace and quietness through my images. Öland is a place for slow photography, almost meditative photography; it’s about space and time. It is here that I live my photography.
An old hymn still sung in the villages of the island records, “This is the fair land of summer, the island of wind and sun. . . .”
My Favourites
Snowstorm
Ölandsfåk is the characteristic snowstorm on the island of Öland in Sweden. The wind blows so strong that it seems to snow horizontally. Huge drifts of hard-packed snow form in wind shielded areas while the ground can be almost bare out in fields. There are many old stories about people who got lost and froze to death in this weather. I took this picture from a safe distance from my house. This is one of my favourite winterscape pictures I took on the island. I like the contrast between the typical stone wall in the foreground and the painting like background of the trees in the snowstorm. It has a dramatic atmosphere, but at the same time, it transmits a sense of peace and quietness.
Savanna
Öland’s savannah is the title of this image. Indeed, the southern tip of the island reminds one of the typical landscapes of Africa, with its open grasslands and sparse trees. This picture summarises three elements of the island which formed my photographic style; the big and often dramatic skies, minimalistic landscapes and birds (even if I’m not a particular bird photographer). It is somehow a meditative image.
Stoneway
The island of Öland is about slow photography. I really like to slow down and almost absorb the landscape before taking a picture. This image is an expression of this feeling. I entitled it “Stoneway to Heaven” due to the almost endless line of rocks which seem to touch the horizon. Also, often my image titles make reference to songs or compositions since music is another important part of my life, I both love listening to music and playing it myself.
There is something immediately appealing about Eugène Atget’s 1912 albumen silver print L’Éclipse—a sense of spontaneity, playfulness, and ease with which the Parisian photographer pulls us right into the center of the crowd that gathered on Place de la Bastille to observe a solar eclipse. I feel almost compelled to turn my head to the left to follow the gaze and hand gestures of the spectators and, like them, expectantly stare into the sky.
Atget titled his photograph L’Éclipse, but he focused his large format wooden camera on the crowd of about twenty-five Parisians that gathered on a small platform on top of the stairs of the Place de la Bastille. We can only infer what the figures are looking at from the photograph’s title or perhaps from the viewing apparatuses that several people are holding to their eyes. Others simply shield their vision with their hands, thus guiding our attention nicely to the object of their fascination. This spontaneous composition is further enhanced by the arrangement of the figures who positioned themselves in a slight curve around a column and in front of an iron fence that provides a natural frame.
In the background, several buildings establish the exact geographic location of the gathering: Phares de la Bastille. The scene is completed by a few lamps and a row of trees lining an empty street. The absence of leaves informs us that the eclipse takes place either at the very end or the very beginning of winter—a detail supported by several figures sporting long overcoats.
Judging from their clothes and in several instances work uniforms, the moon gazers are middle and working class and, except for a middle-aged woman in the row closest to the camera, mostly men and children. There is something democratic about this gathering, a nod to modernity as the photograph depicts people of different social statuses, ages and genders, a group that might not otherwise gather in one place, all intently staring into the sky. Well, all but one. A young man with a cheeky grin has climbed a bit higher on the column to get himself a viewing advantage over the crowd. However, he finds Atget, who is likely standing relatively close to his subject, more worthy of his attention than the eclipse, and looks intently in his direction for what must be a minute exposure at the least.
One of the attractive aspects of my project about European canyons is that it has introduced me to nature in Eastern European countries. Honestly, I had never been to Eastern Europe before, let alone photographed there. But Slovenia, Montenegro, Serbia, and Albania all have interesting and significant canyons, so they were high on my list of places to visit for this project.
The most exciting and most exotic destination for me was Albania. Although this country has been gaining increasing attention in recent years—primarily because of its beautiful beaches and low prices—it remains quite an unspoiled land, with few landscape photographers appearing to have an interest in it. The tradition of blood vengeance and the country’s interesting recent history, particularly its rule by the communist dictator Hoxha from 1944 to 1985, added to my curiosity. I had planned a trip with my good friend Michel Lucas, who, although not particularly interested in canyons, was curious about Albanian landscapes and the potential new photographic opportunities there.
The trip was scheduled in the middle of summer. This had to do with the water levels in the canyons. In May and June, there is usually a lot of water, and rafting and kayaking are common in the large canyons. However, for photography, this is less suitable because you usually cannot descend into or walk through the canyons at that time. Consequently, photographic opportunities are generally more limited, relying on viewpoints at the canyon’s edge and possibly drones. So, we planned our trip for the latter half of July, when water levels are lower and you can walk through many parts of the canyons.
A major drawback of this period is that Albania can be very hot—sometimes even outright scorching. Temperatures between 35 and 40°C are quite standard inland, and during our stay, the hottest day saw temperatures over 43°C. Having a car and hotel with (well-functioning) air conditioning was essential, and fortunately, we had both. At night, it cooled down somewhat to around 20°C.
There is definitely a conscious effort on my part to make the viewer aware of the picture plane, the surface of the image, the ‘thingness’ of photography. I’ll often try to suppress the camera’s vanishing point so that the eye is free to roam a little more.
View into the Osumi Canyon, from one of the bridges over the canyon
Besides the high temperatures, the intense midday sunlight posed a challenge for photography. This meant we had two very good reasons to get up early and start each day very early. Actually, three—because during the first hours of daylight, the canyons are usually still wonderfully quiet, and we had them all to ourselves. Since it gets light around 5:00 AM at this time of year, we often left the hotel around 4:15 or 4:30 AM, arriving before sunrise. Waking up that early was sometimes tough, but the relative coolness, tranquility, and the better light were enough rewards to keep us going every day. After a few intense hours, you naturally get tired of photographing and it’s time for breakfast, image editing and selection, a long siesta, and then a late afternoon dinner. In the evening, we usually had another 2 or 3 hours reserved for photography, although it was considerably warmer than early in the morning.
When we last featured Guy Dickinson, his tracing silence project was already well underway, seeking the "quintessential manifestation of place." Since 2018, Guy's distinctive work has continued to mature and expand, embracing monochrome, and pushing to continually evolve series which mix photography, digital layering and collage. We talk about the extension of his practice into bookmaking, writing, and exhibiting, as well as what now inspires Guy.
I was shocked to realise that seven years have passed since we featured you, Guy. Has anything given you particular enjoyment or satisfaction, photographically, in the intervening period?
I’ve definitely reached that age where the passing of time seems to accelerate exponentially, but on the plus side, that has injected a sense of urgency and drive into the project and helps focus my attention. I’m happy to say I still find the project rewarding and creatively stimulating.
I’ve exhibited a bit more since our last interview and also published a book with Another Place Press, which felt like a bit of a milestone. It was great fun working with Iain Sarjeant; I was absolutely thrilled when he asked. Passage was a collection of work I made in 2017 in response to a walk across Iceland, from the mountains in Landmannalaugar to the coast at Skogar. Most of the images were made on the final day, on the stretch from Porsmork that runs between the Eyjafjallajokull and Myrdalsjokull glaciers, then follows the Skogar river down to the coast.
Passage was a collection of work I made in 2017 in response to a walk across Iceland, from the mountains in Landmannalaugar to the coast at Skogar. Most of the images were made on the final day, on the stretch from Porsmork that runs between the Eyjafjallajokull and Myrdalsjokull glaciers, then follows the Skogar river down to the coast.
My self-published work is all done in isolation, so it was a new experience for me working with someone else on a book. It was great to hand over all the hard work and logistics to an expert. The way Iain responded to the images with his pairings and spreads led me to look at the work in a very different way, identifying cross threads and connections that hadn’t occurred to me before. I tend to work in a bit of a bubble, so it was valuable to be reminded of the benefits of collaboration and the stagnation that can result from maintaining too much control. You can be too close to your own work to always make the best calls on how it might be presented.
In the summer of 2023, I set out to hike the 500-mile Colorado Trail from Denver to Durango. I brought with me a single camera and a 28-200mm Tamron lens, unsure of exactly what I would photograph, but deeply certain that I needed the walk. What unfolded over the next five weeks became one of the most creatively and personally transformative experiences of my life. I didn’t plan the images. I didn’t chase epic conditions. I didn’t even know if the photos I was making would be any good. And that was precisely the point.
As a full-time photographer, it’s easy to fall into the trap of always shooting with a purpose: for a portfolio, for a client, for a competition, for the algorithm. But walking the Colorado Trail reminded me of something I had lost sight of: the power of presence. Of slowing down. Of making photographs not for anyone else, but as a way of being in relationship with the landscape. It was a return to curiosity, patience, and authenticity - the very values that first pulled me into photography in the mountains of Colorado decades ago.
The following is the first of several trip journals from the Photographer’s Note in the upcoming book: Gwazhal Cordillera: Life and Art in the Brooks Range. Scheduled for release later in 2025, this book explores the little-known landscape of Alaska’s Brooks Range.
With a 4x5 camera in hand, searching for the concepts of mood and lighting, Claude has spent 20 years making trips to the Gwazhal. In the book he is joined by essayists: Roman Dial, Caroline Van Hemert, Bill Hess, and Nancy Lord.
I walked up the street to Sharky and Cosmo’s house. The street was buried under four feet of snow. I followed the footpath my wife, Nancy, and I had packed down from our parking spot on Highway 4. During the winter season, we lived in a snowbound subdivision just down the road from Bear Valley—our Sierra Nevada winter home. Sharky was back from a summer of bush-piloting in the Brooks Range. He’d spent the season in the tiny and remote village of Kaktovik, flying for former bush pilot and Waldo Arms Hotel proprietor Walt Audi.
My impression of the Brooks Range started with a photo from the October 1953 Sierra Club Bulletin. In the photo, a lone caribou is swimming across what I would recognize as Peters Lake on the north slope of the Brooks. The photographer was Lowell Sumner. I was invited on a trip in 1983, but I had detoured on an expedition to the West Ridge of Mount Everest, and the High Sierra still had me under its spell. Twenty years passed. I needed to reconnect with a couple of old friends I hadn’t seen in a while. Tom had completed a Ph.D., and Danny was busy running a contracting business. Nancy and I were raising a daughter, and I was running a construction outfit in the resort town of Mammoth Lakes, California—not to mention entering the middle part of life.
Sipping a glass of wine, Sharky said we should call Audi and set up my overdue trip. Alaska time was an hour behind Pacific time, so why not give him a call? Audi picked up and in his high-pitched voice said, “Yeah sure, mid-August. We’ll see you then.” And that was it - reservation made. The limited communication added a sense of uncertainty to the trip.
The plan was to run the Hulahula River, which seemed more than reasonable. Tom was a former Grand Canyon dory guide. The plan also included an ascent of Mount Michelson from the river. So a few mountaineering items were added to the packing list: a rope and ice axes, runners and carabiners. We’d pick up rafting gear from Audi.
We flew to Fairbanks on a Friday night. The bar next to the hotel had a parking lot packed with dented pickup trucks and muscle cars. I could feel the Carhartt Nation vibe.
At 6 am, I made it to the hotel lobby for the start of the continental breakfast. Fox News was on the television, and a hotel employee was filling the coffee urn. A mix of what looked to be salespeople, military personnel, and construction workers filtered in and found their way to the packaged muffins.
Tom and Danny showed up, and we talked about how much food to buy and what extras we needed. Danny wanted to get a pair of water shoes and some fishing lures.
The plan was to run the Hulahula River, which seemed more than reasonable. Tom was a former Grand Canyon dory guide. The plan also included an ascent of Mount Michelson from the river.
The supermarket was only a hundred yards away from the hotel. The parking lot at the neighboring bar still had a couple cars in it. We made a few trips back and forth between the hotel and the supermarket, and soon had the room sprawled out with trip stuff. With the food packed and our gear organized, it was time to head to the sports shop for Danny’s water shoes and lures.
We taxied to downtown Fairbanks, a funky cluster of older ramshackle buildings. In the sport shop, our salesperson told us he hunted grizzlies with a bow and arrow outfit. The next day’s flight over the Gwazhal/Brooks Range was a mind-boggling visual feast. No amount of map reading or any written description can match what one sees from the air. Flying north over the Yukon Flats, the wings of the aircraft reflected light over countless ponds, lakes, and waterways.
We crossed over the silty brown Yukon River. The land tilted into foothills and drainages inclined toward the Brooks. The mountains appeared as a convoluted mix of colors. Gray, brown, green, and white folds and striations curved through the peaks. Canyons and streams twisted and diverged.
And then the plain of the North Slope tundra extending out toward the Beaufort Sea appeared like the top of a globe curving downward in every direction. I kept trying to come up with boundaries for the landscape. Mountains end; tundra begins. Tundra ends; sea starts. The endless horizon line stretched out and made me grasp for a visual definition.
The landing announcement pulled me out of my reverie. The plane circled the cluster of buildings and the Cold War–era DEW (Distant Early Warning) station that Kaktovik comprises. It appeared to be as lonely an outpost as is Baker, Nevada. A group of ATVs met the plane, some to unload boxes of diapers or groceries, others to pick up family, and there also sat our ride: a beat-to-hell pickup truck with Walt Audi in the driver’s seat. Walt was somewhere on the sunset side of life’s hill. His white hair was in a ponytail under some sort of seaman’s hat.
Our introduction was brief. The three of us piled our duffels into the rusting truck bed, and we rattled the short distance to the Waldo Arms. The hotel was a series of trailers joined together by thickly insulated plywood. We squeezed into our rooms and wondered if Walt was going to introduce us to the plan. We got a brief tour of the kitchen, the menu, the dining room, Walt’s office (radio, satellite phone, piles of paper), and the TV room, with a wide-screen set and sagging couches. It felt like a renovated mining camp.
We got a brief tour of the kitchen, the menu, the dining room, Walt’s office (radio, satellite phone, piles of paper), and the TV room, with a wide-screen set and sagging couches. It felt like a renovated mining camp.
The tour ended, then we were back in the truck headed to the post office to help load packages. Somewhere during the excursion, Walt told us that the pilot would not be back for a while. This was fine with me. I was curious about Kaktovik and the photographic quality of light that might obtain so close to the Beaufort Sea. Danny seemed mildly irritated with the lack of a definitive plan. Tom remained silent.
Walt had a raft for us to use and some fuel for the stove. The fuel was stored in rusting gallon cans. The raft looked like it had been rolled up for quite a few years. As we started unrolling the boat Danny started laughing. Dried mud and withered tundra were stuck to most of it. The forward tube had prominent holes from polar bear bites. Our only option was to try to fix the thing. Tom had brought a repair kit, and Walt said there was another with the raft. There was no doubt the kit would look like an ammo can from World War II. It did. In the end, with the mud and grass chipped away, paddles and life jackets located, and the raft in a semi-inflated state, we finally took a walk around Kaktovik.
We did not christen the raft. I’d been in plenty of places that diverged from the manicured suburbia I grew up in. Kaktovik had evidence of projects started, stopped, completed, and in progress. Mostly old, plus some new buildings. Construction detritus everywhere. Human life detritus everywhere. The edge of the continent … the edge of human existence.
The anthropology of human migration to and settlement in North America tells us that during the Ice Age, Asia and North America were connected by a land bridge known as Beringia.
The anthropology of human migration to and settlement in North America tells us that during the Ice Age, Asia and North America were connected by a land bridge known as Beringia. Stone tools, animal bones, and remnants of human dwellings, along with volcanic ash, fossil pollen and seed, dental anomalies, language characteristics, and oral histories passed down through time—together these provide us the early stages of a historical record. Back home in the Eastern Sierra, the rock shelter rings, human decoys, obsidian chips, and petroglyphs of the Great Basin are a sketch of life as it was lived thousands of years ago. Along with the dendrochronology of ancient bristlecone pines, we now know that what we’re seeing and experiencing is not representative of the past—or the future.
Our pilot showed up late in the day. We planned to head out the next morning.
Tomorrow arrived, and I packed up, anticipating an early takeoff. This was not to be. Audi bustled in the kitchen, and the pilot was somewhere unknown. Restless, I twisted and fidgeted, couldn’t eat, and finally decided to auger into the couch and watch a morning talk show. Just as my mind had become somewhat occupied with a news program and commercials, Audi and our pilot informed us it was time to go. Tom and Danny would fly first. The round trip to the landing strip on the Hulahula would take a couple of hours. The weather was sunshine and little wind. I sat on my pack at the runway and heard the occasional engine growl of an ATV. I decided to walk out to the Beaufort Sea shoreline. There was no chance of missing my flight.
I walked to the water’s edge and saw a dark speck headed down the coast. A small boat. As it got closer, slapping through the chop, I saw that something was being towed behind it. A group of ATVs showed up as the skiff arrived with a walrus tied to the back. I was told this was a prominent hunter from the village. He stepped off the boat and crushed a cigarette. A couple all-terrain vehicles pulled the walrus onto shore.
The ivory and beard on the walrus’s face were prominent. The dun-colored skin, gray cobble, green sea, and clouds were monochromatic, and a little bleak. The sea ice, open water, tundra, and distant peaks felt like physical boundaries. Travel or survival through one of them does not ensure travel or survival through the other. Different worlds.
The ivory and beard on the walrus’s face were prominent. The dun-colored skin, gray cobble, green sea, and clouds were monochromatic, and a little bleak. The sea ice, open water, tundra, and distant peaks felt like physical boundaries.
The sea slapped small waves against the shore, and footsteps crunched gravel and sand. I felt unsure of how my presence was being received, so I kept quiet. Not wanting to misstep, I walked away when I felt I’d escaped notice. The sea was a layer of white noise.
Back at the runway, I eventually heard the Cessna’s approach: It was now my turn to fly into a new landscape. Airborne over the Arctic plain, there seemed to be a limitless mix of tundra and ponds. It reminded me of a sprawling, primordial California Central Valley—the place I learned about bird migration, habitat, population loss and growth, the effects of lead and DDT. The patterns of the natural world had felt reassuring as I grew up. My reassurance turned to a niggling fear that the patterns of life were not as solid as I might like. I don’t remember exactly when, but I began to think about how a sustainable planet might look. What would life be like? Was sustainability even possible?
For thousands of years the Indigenous people of the Gwazhal cordillera hunted killed, butchered, and stored waterfowl, fish, whale, and caribou. Built communal homes to survive the harsh environment. Traveled by foot, dogsled, and boat. Battled for territory and people. Had leaders, healers, and shamans. Thousands of years of a complex history traveled in a new direction when Russian and Yankee traders and hunters found their way to the riches of the Arctic. The myth of a Northwest Passage stranded and starved English mariners there. They were seen and watched by the native inhabitants.
We landed at Grasser’s landing strip in the sunburning light at 11 p.m. Danny was walking around in shorts, and I proposed a toast. The raft did not look so good, but Tom shrugged and said that its condition would add to the adventure. Good enough for me. I crashed into a deep sleep, glad we had finally made it to the start of our journey.
The next day, we walked upriver to where the headwaters of the Hulahula divide.
The next day, we walked upriver to where the headwaters of the Hulahula divide. I would return to this place again in 19 years. The tundra was a mix of fall color, river cobble, side creeks, nearby and distant peaks, and the sound of rushing water. It was a beautiful chaos that for the moment presented no photographs to be made, but I could sense the possibilities.
I would return to this place again in 19 years. The tundra was a mix of fall color, river cobble, side creeks, nearby and distant peaks, and the sound of rushing water. It was a beautiful chaos that for the moment presented no photographs to be made, but I could sense the possibilities.
Grasser’s had a Quonset-hut-like tent set up for the hunters that rotate through the operation. I walked over to the current group, sitting in lawn chairs and camouflage, who had hung a small grizzly skin out to dry.
The next morning, we inflated the squishy raft and packed our gear. We shoved off into a swift current that was easy to manage. No gravel bars to avoid, certainly no steering through difficult rapids. We stopped early to camp. The stream alongside us was lively, tumbling down a steep grade into the main river channel. A gentle tundra slope, alive with color, fanned upward into the peaks. The light was soft and made gentle moves and shifts.
I became absorbed, mind and body, into the landscape. There had been other times—climbing an ascending ridge in a rhythm of movement and breath, walking a forest path through dappled light, sun warming a night-cooled meadow—that made me feel as fully aware as I was then.
I made my first two photographs of the trip using my mainstay equipment: Linhof 4x5 view camera, Gitzo Studex tripod, Arca Swiss ballhead, and Fuji Astia film. Making the photographs got me past the inner tension of wanting to see and create a composition. Like sitting at the bottom of a mountain is for the mountaineer: It’s a relief to start the process of climbing. Having mind, body, equipment, and situation come together and work together is as good as it gets.
Lost in thought, I wandered back to camp, where Danny raced into my serenity. Apparently, there were three sheep hunters stranded on the opposite shore. The river was up, and they couldn’t make it back to our side, the side they were camped on. Okay. Tom and I followed Danny down to the raft. I could see the hunters on the far shore, and Danny was preparing to launch the craft. Tom and I decided to get in as well. We grabbed paddles and pushed off from the shore. Danny shoved hard and then belly-flopped into the water. I couldn’t tell if he was going to try and haul himself into the raft or simply grab the bowline in his teeth and tow us across the current. He took the former option, grabbed a paddle, and pulled hard for the opposite shore.
Danny’s enthusiasm did not surprise me. I had known him for a long time, and he never did anything in a small way. A Force of Nature. I had watched him carry someone at a run with a sprained ankle, collect firewood by the cord, and duct-tape ill-fitting crampons onto tennis shoes. The young version of him cutting fire line as a U.S. Forest Service hotshot would have been fun to watch.
The hunters were grateful for the ferry across the Hula. Our trip continued to the confluence of the Hulahula and Koloktuk Creek.
The hunters were grateful for the ferry across the Hula. Our trip continued to the confluence of the Hulahula and Koloktuk Creek. I walked along the creek for hours. The multi-colored carpet of the tundra worked on me like a kaleidoscope.
I walked along the creek for hours. The multi-colored carpet of the tundra worked on me like a kaleidoscope. Patterns and colors where a stop to consider a photo was inevitably abandoned, as the next step or a turn brought on new variations of crisscrossing lines, shapes, and textures. The day of our excursion to Mount Michelson, we crossed over a gentle ridge and got a view of the Esetuk Glacier below us. It made a broad, gradual, elegant sweep into the cirque below Michelson and Tugak peaks. Large crevasses cut across the ice-exposed expanse. We made our way onto the concrete-hard ice and walked toward the head of the valley. The 8,852-foot summit of Michelson sat on the north side of the glacier and was just out of view. It was easy to walk around the crevasse openings. The air was warm in the late afternoon. A loose scramble took us to an easy walk along the summit ridge.
At the summit, a 360-degree view extended to the Beaufort Sea and across waves of peaks. By the time we turned toward our return route, we realized that we wouldn’t make it back to camp before the Arctic twilight. Stopping along the way to wait for morning light wouldn’t be a problem. It did get dark enough to make walking a challenge, but a large flat rock tablet along the way made for a perfect nap spot.
Just as I was sinking into my first dream, Danny shook me awake. “Check out the strange clouds.” he said in a questioning tone. My first thought was, Oh shit, a storm is moving in.
Wispy, ephemeral clouds had appeared and seemed to be headed in our direction. As they twisted and turned, we realized they weren’t clouds at all but the northern lights! Their color shifted in intensity from dark to light green as if putting on a live performance. The lights passed overhead and finally lost their intensity. It’s here and then it’s gone. At around 3 a.m., it was light again, so we covered the last leg back to camp. I made a batch of pancakes and then read, listening to the rise and fall of the sound of the Hulahula. Water therapy.
Further down the river at the outlet of Esetuk Creek, a dismal fog-and-rain morning occasioned another stroll through the colorful tundra. The fog broke open, and diffuse light then played across the river and adjacent hills. The tundra color was deeper in the overcast. I made two photos over the course of the morning.
Further down the river at the outlet of Esetuk Creek, a dismal fog-and-rain morning occasioned another stroll through the colorful tundra. The fog broke open, and diffuse light then played across the river and adjacent hills. The tundra color was deeper in the overcast. I made two photos over the course of the morning
Back in camp, we brewed up coffee and wondered if the slow-leaking raft would survive to the end of the trip. A few shafts of sunlight materialized, so we decided to pack up and head downriver, where a couple of Class III rapids waited. After the short and exhilarating rapids, we headed into the exposure of the Arctic plain. The air off the Beaufort Sea bit harsh with cold. We pulled up onshore to camp on a gravel bar with sparse willow trees that did little to break the cold breeze. The fire we got going helped, but the warmth would be short-lived, and an early dive into the tent was called for.
As we headed further into the Arctic plain, even with the sun out we were chilled. Sitting in the boat at water level didn’t help, so it was best to keep moving. We passed what I assumed was a two-story hunting house. The plywood sides poked skyward and looked out of place with the landscape.
The outpost later became the landmark of a grizzly bear encounter: Sometime after our trip, a grizzly pulled a couple out of their tent, mauled them, and killed them—their rifle was no use. Soon after, the same bear chased a group in a raft down the river. The group escaped only when the current outran the bear.
We pulled off the river at a marked tundra airstrip. We were scheduled to be picked up the following day. I leaned against the cutbank of the river and planted my boots in the water to feel it rushing by. I had a bit of Arctic Dreams to read. Perfect timing. The end of a great book and trip.
It’s now been more than ten years since my wife and I visited the German island of Sylt for the first time in October 2014. We were immediately taken by this unique landscape. Its exposure to the untamed forces of nature impressed us deeply.
Sylt belongs to the North Frisian Islands and is the northernmost island of Germany. It is well known for the 25-miles sandy beach along the west coast. Due to the exposed situation in the North Sea, there is an ongoing loss of land during storm tides. To the east of Sylt, there is the Wadden Sea, which ranges over to the mainland, which mostly falls dry during low tide. Since 1927, the island has been connected to the mainland by the Hindenburgdamm causeway. It was constructed for rail services only, the trains also transporting vehicles, buses and heavy trucks.
The northern and southern parts of Sylt are built up of sand deposits, while the central part consists of a geestland core, which becomes apparent in the form of the Red Cliff of Wenningstedt in the west. Facing the Wadden Sea in the east, the geestland turns into fertile marshland.
The Wadden Sea has a high biological diversity and is an important area for both breeding and migrating birds. Historically, the coastal regions were often subjected to large floods, resulting in thousands of deaths. Some of these also significantly changed the coastline. Numerous dikes and several causeways have been built. This makes it among the most human-altered habitats on the planet.
Moraines from the older ice ages formed Sylt like the mainland geestland. The sandy core was exposed to a strong current along the island's steep basement when the sea level rose 8000 years ago. The west coast was shifted gradually 6 miles eastward, while the island extended to the north and south. Beyond this, dunes drifted to the east by sand shifts and threatened settlements and arable land. Sand drifts were stopped partially by the planting of marram grass.
Sylt has repeatedly been endangered by severe storms to the point of breaking in two. The part of the island near the village of Rantum, which is only 500 yards wide, is especially threatened. Dating back to the early 19th century, groynes of wooden poles were constructed as a measure of protection against erosion. The constructions did not have the desired effect. The only effective means so far has been flushing sand on the shore, which began in the 1970s.
Being aware of the history and possible fate of the island, my wife and I stood in awe facing the forces of nature when we felt the sand of the western beach underneath our feet for the first time. We have never seen Sylt during the tourist season in summer. Instead, our first impression was a quiet period in autumn. This gave us the opportunity to explore the island hiking for hours on our own along the dunes, the Wadden Sea and especially the exposed west coast.
Sylt has repeatedly been endangered by severe storms to the point of breaking in two. The part of the island near the village of Rantum, which is only 500 yards wide, is especially threatened.
The second time we visited the island was at the turn of the following year. No fireworks took place at midnight, as they are forbidden due to the thatched roofs. Instead, people walked silently to the beach, accompanied by the ringing of church bells. The sea and waves were invisible in the darkness. We stood at the water’s edge, almost devoutly listening to the roar of the surf, feeling the wind and smelling the salty air.
After that, we returned during winter months twice again, and once also in spring, developing a growing closeness to this small part of the world.
In 2025, we arrived at the end of February. What we had not yet experienced before was a week of persistent fog. Visibility was sometimes only as far as 50 or 100 yards. The sea, sky and land seemed to merge. Making photographs under these particular conditions, it appeared appropriate to me to make also use of long time exposures in order to emphasize this phenomenon of visual merging. Most of he time it was not even possible to estimate the dimensions of the island due to the fog.
Sylt with its diverse facets – the rough sea at the west, the unstable dunes and the ever changing world of intertidal ecosystem in the east – seemed to be summarized in these images for me. Even the Red Cliff appeared only sketchy in such moments, although we were facing it at a distance of only 50 yards.
The mental and physical feel of vastness when walking along the water’s edge of Sylt is engraved in our minds. Maybe some of the images are able to convey this state of mind.
It might be easy to assume that, as a landscape photographer, I draw most of my inspiration from others within the same genre. But that couldn't be further from the truth. I find myself far more inspired by work that lies outside the traditional boundaries of landscape photography—by photographers who create in ways I don’t personally master. It could be street photographers capturing the intensity and chaos of urban life, or artists working with abstract expressions that move me in ways I can’t quite explain—work I deeply admire, but know I don’t have the skills or mindset to replicate.
Kjetil Karlsen is one of those photographers I return to time and time again. His work is instantly recognizable and unmistakably his own. It’s not traditional landscape photography, nor is it easy to categorize at all. There’s something elusive about it. And yet, I connect with it on a very personal level—perhaps because he comes from the same remote region in the far north as I do. A place where childhood was steeped in stories of the supernatural—tales of strange creatures that fired up our imaginations and filled us with both fear and fascination. Karlsen’s work stirs the same emotions in me now. His photographs spark the imagination, and I love when an image can do that.
Some of his images feel like they could be pulled straight from a horror film. Figures—more creature than human—often appear blurred, lurking on the edge of visibility, usually within Arctic landscapes that feel deeply familiar to me: the mountains, the fjords, the coastline, and especially the dark, enigmatic forests. If I had to label his work, I would call it hauntingly mysterious.
Max first got in touch in 2014, when we featured his Brockwell Park project in an exhibition at Carnegie Library Gallery. Since then, we’ve published four more articles on his photography and the camera he built by hand.
This year, after Max won International Garden Photographer of the Year, it felt like a good time to check in again—to see how his work has progressed and hear about his latest project: building another 5x4 camera.
Tell us about why you love landscape photography? A little background on what your first passions were, what you studied and what job you ended up doing.
I don’t think I knew anything at all about landscape photography when I was younger. What I really spent my time doing when I was a child was building and inventing things, drawing and painting and studying the natural world. When I was 5 or 6 I discovered Sellotape and started trying to make machines out of cardboard and paper, and then worked my way up through wood, plastic and metal. I built pottery kilns in my garden and a miniature foundry which I used for casting in aluminium, brass and bronze, so I became quite committed to making things properly. My granddad, who was a precision engineer and inventor of mechanical printing machines taught me a lot about engineering. I used my growing set of new techniques and materials to make the things I found interesting, and quite a lot of these were related to light: projectors, microscopes and telescopes. My grandparents sometimes took me to the theatre and I was always interested in the different kinds of lights, which I tried to re-create at home. When I was a bit older this led to creative conflicts as I was just as interested in acting and being in the spotlight as I was making the spotlight itself, although I’ve managed to keep doing both on and off. The last spotlights I made were quite substantial and I still use them for portraits.
At the same time I loved natural history and learned a lot about insects and plants. I bred moths at home, which my mum was interested in, and my earliest attempts at taking pictures were mainly to record insects I’d seen at home or on holiday.
We’d often go to France in the summer and the time I spent in the countryside and the mountains made a big impression on me. Even then, despite being in some spectacular places, I don’t remember the scenery as much as the insects or the lizards I’d try to get close to, although I did become very interested in the weather, which like a lot of things just seemed more intense and dramatic there than it was in England. I loved watching thunderstorms and was so curious about lightning that I built high voltage generators back at home to do experiments. It might seem difficult to reconcile these things but from making huge sparks in a dark room and roaming around under the big beautiful skies of France there was a kind of romantic admiration for nature that I felt alongside curiosity, and I don’t see any problem with looking at the world simultaneously as an artist and a scientist. Maybe the simple explanation for why I’m a landscape photographer is just that art and illustration were second nature to me and I had a particular interest in skies and plants.
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. See our previous submissions here.
I love travel and with it comes landscapes. A long time photograher since my school days over 50 years ago. I enjoy visiting the Western Ghats, a range of hills running on the west side of southern India. It's mainly forests and tea estate country and with scattered small towns hosting visitors.
At an elevation of 4000 - 6000 ft the weather can change from sunshine to fog and at times heavy rain. Morning and evening mist hangs over the hills and its a joy to create images that have mood and mystrey. For this i use both my digital and Analogue cameras the Rolleiflex and Hasseblad 500 cm.
Snow changes landscape to create intriguing forms which have a transitory existence before being obliterated by the next storm or by thaw. This ongoing project started with the capture of my first Snowform in Norway's Rondane National Park in March 2008, although my search had started at least a year before. Since then, I have found them in: other locations in Norway (Huldreheimen, Skeicampen, Setesdalsheiane, Lyngen Alps); Glen Feshie and Strath Nethy in the Cairngorms; Vanoise, Valmorel and Queyras in France; Yllas in Finland; Seefeld in Austria; Leysin in Switzerland; and the Pentland Hills above my home in Edinburgh.
Despite minimal post-processing, the work is pleasingly abstract and ambiguous. Influences include the paintings of Alison Watt, and the sculptures of Barbara Hepworth and Henry Moore. Recently, I made a small book of images from this work
Megaliths, these monumental structures erected thousands of years ago, remain timeless enigmas, witnesses to a humanity that continues to challenge our understanding. Whether aligned as standing stones, grouped in circles, or raised as dolmens, these imposing rocks captivate us with their eternal presence and mystery. Who erected them? Why? The answers are lost in the mists of time, leaving room for imagination and a sense of wonder unique to humanity when faced with the unknown.
This photographic project was born from this fascination, from a desire to capture the symbolic power and raw beauty of these mineral colossi. Black and white emerged as the ideal medium: it transcends the rugged textures and rough edges of the stones, intensifies the interplay of light and shadow dancing across their surfaces, and dramatizes the relationship between these timeless monuments and the ever-changing skies above. The soft light of a misty morning or the dramatic contrasts of an approaching storm provide a natural stage that elevates these human constructions, anchoring them in a profound dialogue with the elements.
To photograph megaliths is to capture the silent conversation between time and matter. Each stone inhabits the landscape while resisting it, as if carrying an ancestral memory, a forgotten message. These images aim to evoke that tension between the ephemeral and the eternal, between the fragility of human existence and the enduring presence of these giants that have outlasted us for millennia.
This project is an invitation to slow down, to observe, to let the mind wander before these immovable witnesses of the past. They are not merely blocks of stone; they are symbols, portals to another time, and perhaps echoes of an ancient spirituality we have long lost. Through this contemplative and graphic exploration, I sought to celebrate the raw poetry of these monuments, their visual power, and their ability to remind us that, in the vast expanse of time, we are but passing visitors.
The sea is a vast expanse, seemingly empty. This emptiness calms your body and mind. However, the sea is often unpredictable, shifting from exceptionally violent to remarkably tranquil or any temperament in between. It provides a sense of peace as you walk along the shore and breathe in the fresh air. As you gaze into the distance, the sea frees your mind of thoughts.
In Leaving the Land, photographer Estelle Slegers Helsen takes you on a journey along the coast and captures what your eyes see as they move from land out to sea. Her photographs evoke the liminal place where land and sea meet. The square format constrains the wide-angle view and triggers your imagination.
Through long-exposure photography, she creates a soothing depiction of the sea, embodying stillness, serenity and simplicity. The images evoke dreamy scenes filled with abstract geometric patterns that our eyes can’t see and our brains can’t imagine. Moving objects and people become translucent or disappear. Waves and water transform into an ethereal seascape, creating a misty, magical world that contrasts with static elements like piers, lighthouses, groynes, breakwaters, rocks and offshore wind turbines. The visible becomes invisible while your eyes focus on what you can’t see.
Below the weirs at Gloucester, the movement of the tide on the River Severn reveals its powerful influence on the exposed riverbanks. With each ebb and flow, the landscape undergoes a subtle transformation as strong currents tirelessly shift mud, sand, and stones. This relentless movement crafts a dynamic topography, where the water meticulously sculpts the earth, carving out new shapes and contours. Debris briefly settles upon the banks, taking a moment to rest before the river, once again, sweeps it away on its continuous journey to new destinations.
I am a relative newcomer to landscape photography, having spent much of my career focusing on people and portraiture. My transition to landscapes has awakened a fascination for detail that I hadn’t previously recognised. In this series, I find myself drawn to the small, overlooked elements—square patches of riverbank no larger than a metre across, positioned directly beneath my tripod. These fragments distil the essence of the landscape into intimate compositions, revealing an elemental ecology that might otherwise go unnoticed. Finding the right patch requires a slow, deliberate walk, eyes scanning the ground ahead while ensuring I don’t leave a footprint in the wrong place and spoil the shot. This process has almost become an obsession for me–a treasure hunt for the next object, interesting pattern or shade of colour.
After The Tide began in 2020, initially as an offshoot of another project exploring the River Severn. It was the river’s tidal nature that captivated me—its twice-daily reversal of flow, carrying vast quantities of debris, both natural and human-made. The first time I witnessed an incoming tide, I was struck by the sight of huge trees drifting past at speed, like tall ships racing toward Gloucester—only to surge back out toward the sea hours later.
It was the river’s tidal nature that captivated me—its twice-daily reversal of flow, carrying vast quantities of debris, both natural and human-made.
It occurred to me that some of these objects could be engaged in an infinite journey, travelling up and down the river, held in perpetual motion by the tides.
The river's many sandbanks serve as temporary resting places for some of these wayfaring objects, gently deposited and left until the next tide comes along. At Garden Cliff—a rapidly eroding wall of fossil-rich deposits on one of the river’s bends—this process is particularly visible. I’m captivated by how the Severn’s geology has formed into multi-coloured sandstone deposits; this fragile rock easily disintegrates, reshapes, and is washed away by the strong currents. The textures and shapes become integral to my compositions, with cracks in soft rock forming geometric patterns and asymmetric structures. Waves shape the sand into intricately flowing lines, and the occasional man-made object is a stark reminder of pollution and the fragility of the river’s ecology.
At 354 km, the River Severn is Britain's longest river, winding its serpentine route from the hills of Plymlimon in Wales to the Bristol Channel, gathering countless tributaries along the way. The estuary, stretching from Gloucester to the Second Severn Crossing, spans some 70 km, and it is here that the tide meets the outflow, creating the famous Severn Bore. This tidal wave—sometimes several metres in height—surges inland at speed, a challenge eagerly met by surfers who attempt to ride its advancing crest.
As anyone photographing in a dynamic environment will know, understanding the rhythms of nature is essential. This came to bear when I did not understand how the tide times affected the river. On my first walk along one of the exposed sandbanks, I had checked the tide tables and felt confident in my timing. Camera on tripod, bag heavy on my back, I was absorbed in composing a shot when I heard an ominous sound behind me—the unmistakable rush of water. I turned to see a wave, nearly a foot high, racing toward me. A clumsy, scrambling retreat up the riverbank saved me from being caught. It was only later, after some head-scratching, that I realised my mistake. At that location, the bore arrives a full hour before high tide. Now, I carry a bore calculator—and I’m far less inclined to venture onto the sands without careful planning.
On my first walk along one of the exposed sandbanks, I had checked the tide tables and felt confident in my timing. Camera on tripod, bag heavy on my back, I was absorbed in composing a shot when I heard an ominous sound behind me—the unmistakable rush of water.
Garden Cliff, in contrast, offers a more stable vantage point, where I can explore at low tide without the same immediate threat of rising water. These quieter moments—when the riverbed is most exposed—allow for a different kind of observation, one where I can take my time, fully immersed in the process. I’ve learned that creativity flourishes when I’m at ease with my surroundings, rather than battling against them.
This connection—the intense experience of being present in the landscape—has reshaped my approach to photography. It has made me realise that the final image is not the ultimate goal, but rather a record of the journey.
This connection—the intense experience of being present in the landscape—has reshaped my approach to photography. It has made me realise that the final image is not the ultimate goal, but rather a record of the journey. The photograph becomes evidence, a trace of an experience that cannot be fully captured. This shift in perspective has changed how I see my own work. Perhaps it is a radical thought for a photographer as it changes the significance of our work and how we see it.
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.
One evening in October, the three of us sit together with a package on the table between us. Photographers Wenche Dahle and Lars Andreas Dybvik, along with book designer Bodil M. Olsen. The book Blåtone has arrived, fresh from the printing press. A complex book design, none of us has seen before, gives room for many errors and misunderstandings. We open it and see three books, each with its own colored cover. As we start flipping through the pages, we find no errors. Everything has fallen into place. The pages of different sizes, the cover reappearing a few pages in, and the thin, almost transparent paper in the latter part of the book. Everything is as it should be. We toast with prosecco, relieved. Outside, the evening has taken on its unmistakable blue tones.
We rewind nearly three years. At that time, we were holding a masterclass together and came up with the idea of creating a diptych as a gift for the participants. One image from each of us, combined into one. Printed, signed, and numbered. This is how the very first artwork in what would become the Blåtone project was created—a stylized reindeer combined with a drone photo of ice on still water.
Diptych as an art form traces back to antiquity. Art a thousand years ago was something different from today and served another function. The church’s need to communicate biblical stories to a largely illiterate population meant that images were the solution. By combining multiple images, they managed to tell a story. Two images—a diptych, or three—a triptych. One of the world's most famous works is The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch, completed at the very beginning of the 1500s—a triptych depicting the Garden of Eden, Earth, and Hell.
Today, it is not uncommon for photographers to create such compositions. However, when we decided to explore this, we chose to push the norms a bit. We quickly agreed that we did not want a 50/50 division of the surface. We let our instincts decide, and some of the compositions show only a narrow strip of one of the images. We aimed solely to focus on the visual weight one image exerted on the other. Could we create friction, a dissonance, a Blåtone? Could we create pairings that together provided an experience beyond what our individual images conveyed?
It is perhaps appropriate to elaborate on the term Blåtone. The word is Norwegian and can be translated as blue-tone or blue-note. The immediate understanding for many is the color blue. For us, it is the musical meaning that is guiding. Blue notes in music are perceived as dissonant ("off" or "out of tune"). The term is associated with blues, jazz, and folk music. Blue notes are created by raising or lowering a tone, producing friction in the harmony. And that is exactly what happens in the diptychs.
Both of us are genuinely concerned about biodiversity and share a strong worry about how humans impact nature, both globally and locally. A dissonance has emerged between humans and nature. Has humanity moved that fateful half-step away from the rest of nature, out of harmony? These aspects are important to us both and have played a natural role in shaping the diptychs.
We started with 50 images each, which were printed and spread out so we could see them all at once. We worked this way for several days and eventually narrowed it down to 20 diptychs. Only at this point did we decide to make an exhibition of the material. Up until now, the entire project had been a playful experiment to see if we could create something we found interesting enough to share with others. This was an important aspect for us—not having to perform or meet a set deadline. Keeping it as a passion-project driven by the desire to collaborate was crucial. Experience shows that in creative work, distance from what one creates is healthy. If one can detach and reset the immediate perception, one sees the work with fresh eyes and can be one's own critic. We worked consciously on this.
We started with 50 images each, which were printed and spread out so we could see them all at once. We worked this way for several days and eventually narrowed it down to 20 diptychs.
The exhibition premiered in the summer of 2023 at SAGA Center for Photography. The images were printed as two separate photographs and mounted together in frames. This made each framed piece unique. We could have combined them digitally and made life easier, but we wanted to retain elements of craftsmanship in everything we created.
One of the feedback points we received from the exhibition was whether we should also create a book. This was not part of our plan at all. Producing what would essentially be an exhibition catalog seemed uninspiring. However, during the fall of 2023, a new idea took shape. The diptychs were created by concealing parts of one image behind the other. Only a few of them consist of two complete images side by side. What if we could design a book where one could "fold up" the diptychs and reveal what had disappeared in the process of combining the images? A highly ambitious task that would require extensive work and professional design assistance. Just explaining precisely what we envisioned proved challenging. So, we made a physical mock-up by cutting and stapling pages together to test the idea. Just as importantly, it provided us with something to show others to communicate our vision. Another crucial aspect of the potential book project was the financial side. Bringing this to life required professional help, which is expensive.
We reasoned as follows:
Photographers around us spend huge budgets on constantly upgrading their equipment and traveling. Why shouldn’t we spend our money on a book if it gives us the same deep sense of purpose? And so we did.
It was important for us to find a designer unfamiliar with the project. We wanted resistance and a fresh perspective, not a yes-person who respected us and assumed we knew best. Fortunately, we found exactly the right person locally, which made working on the book not only more practical but also more social. We learned a lot about systematic work and about being creative without letting creativity take over. Through a thorough analysis, we defined some key concepts—anchors—related to the book.
It was important for us to find a designer unfamiliar with the project. We wanted resistance and a fresh perspective, not a yes-person who respected us and assumed we knew best.
For each idea we came up with, and there were many, we measured it against these anchors. Would it enhance and strengthen the project, or would it confuse and distract? This methodology proved very useful as we moved into the book’s development phase.
As mentioned, explaining in words how we envisioned the book was difficult, and even designer Bodil remained uncertain for quite some time. To attempt an explanation: The book has a width of 24.5 cm. Some pages are shorter—20 cm, for example. This means that when you see the 20 cm page, you also see 4.5 cm of the page behind it, as it extends further due to the book’s full width. When you turn the page, you get to see the entire page that was previously partially hidden. In this way, we have created an interactive or experiential book. You get a spread where you see a diptych, and then you can lift away one image in the diptych to reveal the hidden part beneath.
What thrilled us even more was that Bodil introduced several intriguing design elements closely tied to our key anchor—dissonance. The book uses four types of paper, creating a dissonance between glossy and matte textures. The text has a slight displacement in the middle, reinforcing our diptychs both visually and symbolically. The book’s cover reappears inside after a few pages. We love these subtle details that make the book feel like a small treasure chest—full of surprises to discover as you flip through the pages.
We have given several artist talks in connection with the exhibition. A common question is whether we have disagreed or argued. The answer is no—we set ground rules early on, which made the collaboration smooth.
We do not count square centimeters. Who has the most or least image space is irrelevant. The final visual expression is more important than the individuals.
We are not in a hurry. We both have our lives to live and families that should not be neglected.
The one most suited for the task can do it. Suitable does not mean "the best" but the one who has both the time and the competence. We wish each other success without measuring each other's contributions.
Everything is interconnected, balancing on a knife’s edge. Nature always finds the best relationship between dissonance and harmony - the perfect Blåtone.
We do it because we want to. Because we want to develop ourselves. Not to achieve wealth and fame. If no one likes what we do, it is not a loss. We have still enjoyed pushing our own boundaries. That has its own value. That is what we are chasing.
Now, we look forward to showcasing both the exhibition and the book in galleries and festivals. Nature does not need us, but we need nature.
Everything is interconnected, balancing on a knife’s edge. Nature always finds the best relationship between dissonance and harmony - the perfect Blåtone.
The view south of the two main stacks and Thurle Door matches their jagged appearance.
Nearing the end of 2021, I found myself in a mindset that I’m sure many of you can relate to, though enjoying going out with the camera, I felt a lack of motivation and direction.
I say local area, I feel lucky being born, growing up and living on the Caithness coast, I used to include the NW Sutherland coast, Assynt, Coigach, Durness as local, but as they have become overrun, partly due to the dreaded NC500, I’m happy with the relative quiet in Caithness.
I work full time, and photography is a hobby, but I do devote as much free time as I can to taking photos, mostly landscapes of my local area. I say local area, I feel lucky being born, growing up and living on the Caithness coast, I used to include the NW Sutherland coast, Assynt, Coigach, Durness as local, but as they have become overrun, partly due to the dreaded NC500, I’m happy with the relative quiet in Caithness. It doesn’t have the obvious in your face features of other places, you have to slow down, take your time and work more to be rewarded.
Looking forward, I questioned what the solution was. I’ve never been a planner, so even that question put me in uncharted territory. I’ve never thought about doing a project, but that quickly sprang to mind, but what? For years, I’d thought about gathering enough photos for a book on the Caithness Coast, perhaps I could complete some areas I was lacking, but that felt too vague and what I was already doing. I needed something fresh, more specific, a smaller area perhaps, but where?
The main two stacks and the smaller Tom Thumb, a mere 40 ft tall as a snow shower passes. Over the year I took this over 30 weeks and sometimes just sat and soaked in the view, a spot I’ll never tire of.
I quickly remembered my thoughts when, after lockdown, we were going to be allowed to venture 5 miles from home. At the time, I questioned where I would go, 3 miles to the beach or 5 miles to Keiss castle, which I’d done a 4x4 on here a few years earlier, but thinking of doing it over a year, was there enough scope there? As tempting as that was, the place I was longing to get to at that time was Duncansby and the sea stacks.
Looking over the Pentland Firth to Stroma, illuminated by late evening rays.
The sea stacks and the rugged cliffs are an exception to my local coast not being obvious photos, as the most North Eastern point on the UK mainland and on the feared Pentland Firth it was known to mariners as “Hell’s mouth” it also looks out to the now uninhabited island of Stroma, my father’s birth place. It was my go to happy place and only 20 miles away, decision number one made.
Should I shoot one view and repeat it each week? Very tempting, but knowing that was likely to have 40 near identical grey flat skies and rain, I thought it needed more variation. There are 3 or 4 obvious popular views, but again, I felt it needed more. The stacks are on the east coast, stretching a mile south of the lighthouse, so tied to early morning light, but the mile west of the lighthouse, the flatter north coast gave more options for light directions, a beach, the view to Stroma and over to Orkney. Decision two made, but rather than shoot the 3-4 popular views, try to find something different.
Should I shoot one view and repeat it each week? Very tempting, but knowing that was likely to have 40 near identical grey flat skies and rain, I thought it needed more variation.
Some backwash sweeps around a stone on the beach as another wave crashes in
The final decision was how often, I felt that was a necessary part of the structure I needed, a 365 wasn’t realistic, monthly lacked the dedication and effort I was looking for, so that left one a week. I thought that would put on enough direction and focus, but to add a little more “accountability”, I’d set up a website www.Duncansby.me and post the photo of the week as I went along. Later in the year, I thought that if I put everything in a book, I could include more than just the 52 weekly photos.
It seemed perfectly simple, but from week one it didn’t quite go to plan. There was a lot of sea movement, and I picked out the lesser stack and Tom Thumb as a different view, which is the first image in the book. I was happy with that, but just before packing up for the day, I caught the anticrepuscular rays looking north. It was too good not to use so week one I began with one of the most popular views I was trying to avoid!
The view North with the anticrepuscular rays that started the website
Six weeks flew by, and I was really enjoying the challenge, but then I faced my first and only real dilemma. It had been in my mind to go over to Orkney, and I booked a last minute long weekend on Hoy, it wouldn’t hurt to miss a week, I initially thought, but that quickly changed to missing a week would be the end of the challenge I’d set myself. As I’d have no daylight before travelling, what could I do?
Maybe some astro, but the forecast was cloudy for the next few days. I’d previously shot the road twisting up the hill to the lighthouse in daylight, could I do it at night and catch the car’s light trails? The following night, bitterly cold with 30 mph+ winds blowing in sleet showers, guess where I was? Yes, setting up the tripod and putting the camera on a timer, then driving up and down the road to the lighthouse!
Maybe some astro, but the forecast was cloudy for the next few days. I’d previously shot the road twisting up the hill to the lighthouse in daylight, could I do it at night and catch the car’s light trails?
A tangle of kelp on an overcast day at low tide
Another issue that cropped up early was trying not to repeat similar views too close together, sometimes that resulted in not using what I’d consider to be the best photo. Week 13, and I used an image of the Geo of Sclaites, partly for variety, but it’s an inspiring spot to see the 30M high sides of the narrow geo. On getting home and posting it on the website, I thought I’d check the map and see when the sun would rise in the centre, wouldn’t you know it, only two weeks away!
Two weeks later, I went out to get another view for just after sunrise and thought I’d quickly get the shot looking out the geo, then move to the other shot. It was perfect, even getting a sun pillar! Slightly disappointed I couldn’t use it I thought it wasn’t all a loss, I could get the same alignment in 5 months, the time passed and I went out four days over two weekends only to be defeated by low cloud.
Unplanned Geo of Sclaites and two weeks later
I had started thinking there might be enough content to make a book again. I could add in some explanations, use a second or third photo from the week, maybe tell a few stories of things that happened. That thought took a bigger boost in week 20 when I rediscovered a Line of poetry carved in a boulder at Sannick beach. I hadn’t realised what it was when I found it a few years earlier.
This time I researched it and it was by the Chilean Nobel Literature Laureates, Pablo Neruda and wow did it take me down a rabbit hole. Over the next few weeks I went on to discover another 28 unknown carvings, it took me on a journey from my little two mile stretch of coast on the furthest NE point of Scotland around the Globe to Chile via University Spanish literature experts in the UK, Europe and the Americas, speaking to sculptors, ending up on the Radio 4 program The Poetry Detective.
I had started thinking there might be enough content to make a book again. I could add in some explanations, use a second or third photo from the week, maybe tell a few stories of things that happened. That thought took a bigger boost in week 20 when I rediscovered a Line of poetry carved in a boulder at Sannick beach. I hadn’t realised what it was when I found it a few years earlier.
“The moon lives beneath her skin” Pablo Neruda and the adventure begins
Later in the year I started to look into producing a book, reading articles, watching vlogs and the common themes seemed to rely on pairing images, creating a cohesive flow and consistent style. My project was the polar opposite, it’s main reason was to find different shots so I put it to the back of my mind again.
On completing the year I was happy with the results and again doing it as a book cropped up, the following week a good friend who I highly respect both his opinion and photography was staying in the area. I took a few prints of the alternate shots when I visited and was going to ask his thoughts if a book was possible. It was a good catch up getting all the gossip from the outside world, talking photography, as he had said through the year he enjoyed the project which he still felt on it’s conclusion, I was just about to ask if he thought there was a book in it and he said “Have you thought about putting it together as a book?” in my mind I screamed YES!!! And punched the air but before I could say anything he said “just one for yourself!” speak about deflated!
The big stack looking South as the cliffs catch some early morning light
That was January 2023, I had brief thoughts repeatedly after that but between the standard book guides and what I took as a knock down from my friend I always talked myself out of it. Then in April this year 2024, I decided there was only one way to find out, just go for it, I could always stop if bringing it together wasn’t working. I chose one of the printers that will do from one to as many as you want thinking it would be a nice simple template, how wrong I was! It took a lot more effort and learning to bring together than I expected and the result is an A4 landscape, 116 page hard covered book, on 170 GSM silk paper, with 114 images. It is available direct from me at ajrs@live.com for £35 + £5 p&p Despite some big upsets I feel I’ve learned a lot and the next one will be easier. I am happy with the final result and would encourage others to try but I say “next” firmly tongue in cheek then again there is that original Caithness book idea!
The wind had been out of the SE for 3 days and as I was braced to a fence strainer, I measured gusts over 100mph, occasionally blowing the spray off monster waves up over the head some 180 feet high!
The view south of the two main stacks and Thurle Door matching their jagged appearance
The main two stacks and the smaller Tom Thumb, a mere 40 Ft tall as a snow shower passes
Looking over the Pentland firth to Stroma, illuminated by late evening rays
Some backwash sweeping round a stone on the beach as another wave crashes in.
The view North with the anticrepuscular rays that started the Website.
A tangle of kelp on an overcast day at low tide.
Unplanned Geo of Sclaites and two weeks later.
“The moon lives beneath her skin” Pablo Neruda
and the adventure begins
The big stack looking South as the cliffs catch some early morning light
The wind had been out of the SE for 3 days and as I was braced to a fence strainer, I measured gusts over 100mph, occasionally blowing the spray off monster waves up over the head some 180 feet high!
It's a profound pleasure to contribute to On Landscape's End-Frame series, sharing an image that has captivated my imagination and artistic sensibilities. When considering which photographer's work to highlight, the choice emerged naturally and without hesitation: artist Dan Harnett.
I admire Dan's creative work and his artistic approach for years.
The artwork I've selected—Wild Dusk Watchers—represents a stunning convergence of his photography and chromatography that transcends conventional nature images. For me Dan’s unique approach, blending chemical process with artistic vision, reveals the invisible narratives embedded within natural materials.
When I ask Dan where he gets his inspiration, he told me: “I am inspired by a deep connection with the sea, my work blends photography and chromatography, spanning abstract compositions and still life studies. My photography captures human relationships with the sea and land, while my chromatography practice reveals the invisible—patterns, pigments, and chemical traces inspired by seashells, seaweed, driftwood, tidal treasures, leaves, twigs and minerals. These vibrant patterns reflect the layered narratives of maritime voyages, bridging science and art.”
Wild Dusk Watchers utilizes raw materials from a chestnut tree—leaves and nuts gathered from the forest floor at a country house museum in North Yorkshire. What strikes me immediately is how these ordinary natural elements have been transformed into something extraordinary and evocative, and finally into a piece of art.
In the fjords of Chile, somewhere between Ushuaia and Puntas Arenas, I watched William Nourse lean over the edge of our sailboat, not to capture the looming cliffs or moody skies like the rest of us, but to photograph chunks of ice slicing across the Starboard of our boat: small, graphic details most of us ignored without a second glance.
Later, when I saw the image, it felt more like a Rothko painting than a landscape photograph. Simple, precise, and quietly charged. It was then I realized that William isn’t chasing drama; he’s chasing form. And beneath that form lives a question: what does it mean to witness beauty in a world we’re watching slip away?
When you print an image, you never know what might happen. In Daragh’s case, exhibiting and selling photographs led him to commit himself fully to selling prints. Although he stumbled into photography through a love of outdoor activities, the two feed and reinvigorate each other. He has a particular passion for working in projects, often contemplating cold places and in so doing, their fragility.
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself such as where you grew up and what you were interested in? Did you have a particular set of studies, or vocation, that you initially wanted to pursue? I sense that you were maybe more of an outdoor person.
I grew up in Dublin and the outdoors was a big part of my life… lots of hiking in the Dublin/Wicklow mountains with family and scouts. Also, lots of sailing in the Irish Sea.
I was obsessed with rugby in school and was becoming half decent until I tore my ACL (anterior cruciate ligament), which ended my rugby career. The repair of the ACL back in those days was not what it is these days.
As regards knowing what I wanted to do… I hadn’t a clue… I ended up doing economics at college here in Dublin, something that I wasn’t interested in. I loved the social aspect of college, but the course was a bit of a drag. After a summer trip to the USA, I became interested in surfing and that became a new obsession over the years.
I loved the outdoors, and that same trip to the USA, we bought a van and drove from East to West coast, staying and hiking in many, many National Parks as we travelled across. This really opened my eyes further to Nature’s wonder.
You fell into photography through another passion. At what point did you decide that this could be the career?
Yes… I did a PADI open water dive course in Florida, and it honestly blew my mind. I felt like I was flying on another planet. The dispersion of light reflecting under the surface was a spiritual experience for me. When I returned to the surface, I was given a questionnaire to fill out reviewing my experience, and there was a checklist as to other areas of diving I might be interested in. Underwater photography was one of them. Something clicked for me then, and I decided to buy an SLR and learn the mechanics of photography… with a view to returning underwater at some point. I bought a Canon AE1 with multiple prime lenses and began to snap away, making plenty of mistakes.
I shot all sorts at the beginning… lots of travel photography as I travelled extensively through Central and South America, Australia, New Zealand, South East Asia, India and Nepal.
After trying many genres of photography, which I was enjoying immensely, I got an extra lift when I started shooting abstract patterns, forms, and colours within Nature. The energy I felt while shooting, connecting me to Nature while staring into beauty, was life changing. And reviewing the colour transparencies when processed extended this magical experience. So I began shooting more and more in this style. I got myself a macro lens which enabled me to view the natural world with a new eye. Details, patterns, shapes, colours, in Nature all fascinated me. I loved the abstract images that could be made, giving the viewer an image that they would be unsure of what they were looking at, but all the while enjoying the natural forms and drinking up the colours.
To start with a direct answer, I would say there is nothing wrong with landscape pictures that please us. Every issue of On Landscape features stunning pictures of pristine and wild landscapes.
I can look at them with great pleasure and admire the makers’ skills. And to be honest, these are often skills that I lack. I don’t have the patience to wait for the right light, etc. But would I really want those skills? I discovered that I am often more fascinated by pictures that I don’t immediately recognize or understand—no ‘celebration of recognition’. Or I wonder why the photographer made this picture, and I am caught by the question, ‘What is it?’
This started with my first experiences while being outdoors with the ambitious intention to make ‘good, impressive pictures’ (I stopped photographing for some years when digital techniques appeared). Outdoors meant with a backpack, several days self-sufficient through the Scottish Highlands. This way of travelling is always a mixture of excitement, loneliness, musing and desire. Without a doubt I can travel stimulated by wanderlust,‘fernweh’and with the undermining burden of homesickness. Elusive and contradictory.
Maybe because I live in a flat country, all mountains make a big impression, something I cannot comprehend. And, maybe also because of the way I travel, this landscape is sometimes beautiful and sometimes threatening. Slightly disconcerting, no protection. The space and silence are overwhelming, I can feel welcome, and I can feel completely lost.
Cairngorms, the making of this picture was determined by conflicting emotions, the overwhelming impression of the land, the feeling of being lost but with the paradoxical sensation of how beautiful this experience is, in this powerful land, the rising and disappearing fog.
Somehow, I wanted to see these mixed emotions in the pictures. However, initially, every time I looked through the viewfinder, I could never capture this feeling, as if it disappeared at the moment I wanted to make a picture. Looking back, it was always disappointing. I had no idea what was going on. It seemed that I had to rediscover photography again.
Doubts. Lots of doubts. Later, I understood that I needed those doubts to discover my way of making pictures. For a long time, I always made pictures of things. Buildings mostly. What I was now looking for, but wasn’t fully aware of yet, was something that is nothing. Resulting in the question of what a landscape actually is. What a landscape photo is.
Doubts. Lots of doubts. Later, I understood that I needed those doubts to discover my way of making pictures.
Making plans, setting goals. Knowing where to go to and knowing exactly why. However, an interesting thing that can happen is an unexpected change in topic. Some years ago, driven by the text and reflections of Petrarch, I visited Mont Ventoux. Walking through woods and steep stony planes, reaching for the top. Making photos up there had to be wonderful. But what I didn’t know was that my personal journey had yet to begin. At the start of the descent, I was tired and thirsty. Halfway through and in the beginning of twilight I passed some caves. This was a bit scary, uncanny at this time of day. But as caves are, they also provide shelter. The darkness, the shape of the rocks and small traces of people became an uncomfortable but irresistibly more attractive subject to photograph. A little uneasy with the suspicion that a monster could appear at any moment. But what seemed more likely was an unexpected reflection of myself.
As we know, it’s not always the destination where you are heading for, but the road that leads you there. You think you know what to show from the earth, but what is the earth asking you to show?
Unexpected caves during the descent of Mont Ventoux and a monster that appears at the end (with rustling sounds of wild boars).
What also brought me to the big question is to what extent we, as landscape photographers, are responsible for showing what is happening in nature today. Climate change and global warming, whether caused by humans or not, can no longer be denied. The immense use of raw materials we extract from the earth will never return to their original state and place. The consequences will be devastating in a relatively short time, which is absolutely worrying. How do we deal with that?
So, one thing is showing great nature photos. Impressive beautiful pictures, hoping this leads to awareness and change in behaviour. That we realize how great and vulnerable the world can be and that the world is the measure of everything. This is one approach. Confronting ourselves immediately and explicitly with the brutal consequences of what we do, is another.
Somehow, perhaps caused by an introverted character, I am looking for a kind of consideration. I don’t have the intention to literally show what is going on. I prefer pictures that are open for interpretation. Taking a step back, making room for introspection. It is not about the ‘how’ and ‘why’ in the world, but the fact that we are here and that we can be aware of that. I can find that extremely fascinating.
Somehow, perhaps caused by an introverted character, I am looking for a kind of consideration. I don’t have the intention to literally show what is going on. I prefer pictures that are open for interpretation.
Tears of the Rhine. A series about the old courses of the river Rhine.
In this I discovered the profound significance of history and events in relation to landscape. Landscape and history became an important guide that led met to the subject of some of my photography. This started with a series of bunker pictures I made in the dunes and flatlands of my country. Unsatisfied by the more or less documentary style of the first pictures (‘thing – pictures’), I started looking for what really captivated me about these buildings. Violence is an abomination to me and I see a bunker as a rude intervention in the landscape. I sometimes work in grey light conditions and many times I had the experience of how ‘unheimisch’, eerie these buildings are in the landscape. But somehow it is in these circumstances that the bunkers show their true nature. Wandering through the country I discovered that what fascinated me was the contrast between the visible beauty of this country and the hidden history of atrocities. So the bunkers became a metaphor of who we are and how we treat the land. And so there appeared my landscape photography: a visual story of beautiful landscape, history, events and memory.
Land and Traces. A project about land and history. How do beauty and atrocities in the landscape relate to each other?
Somehow, taking a step back, I find it necessary to become aware of our existence and our relation to the world. And that, in my opinion, by now we have a disturbed relation with nature, a different way of life and behaviour as a result of the Neolithic Revolution. And I doubt if we are capable of changing this. I am not suggesting here that we should go back hunting and gathering again –although some politicians already seem to exhibit this behaviour- but we are faced with the task, the challenge of coming up with something new, of reinventing ourselves.
While writing this article, I’m doing some research for the next project, which will be a continuation of the land and bunker project. For this, I want to visit the borders of Italy, Austria and Slovenia. Great mountain areas with a lot of history and remains of buildings from the First World War. It is unimaginable that they built and fought on mountains above 7,000 feet.
While writing this article, I’m doing some research for the next project, which will be a continuation of the land and bunker project. For this, I want to visit the borders of Italy, Austria and Slovenia. Great mountain areas with a lot of history and remains of buildings from the First World War.
Last year I visited this area as a first exploration. In addition to these remains, some parts of the country were used for terrible atrocities and war crimes. What can be seen when little factual remains? What does that country look like? What is left of it, and what can still be seen or felt? What will the earth show me?
The increasing use of all kinds of digital screens has created even more distance from the world (nature and people) around us. And perhaps, due to a slight but increasing resistance, the desire arose to start working with film again. Can’t explain exactly what it was, a wish to see photography more as a craft next to digital work. Also, I have never seen a digital black and white print that had the feel of a gelatin silver print. So what to do?
The very beginning of this all was making my own 6 x 12 camera. Well, 18 months later, I had to make the enlarger myself too, it seems I have now completely returned to film. Impossible to stop myself. It’s still experimenting and discovering, because this working method forces me to look again, to rediscover the subject matter.
The camera, the film, the landscape, making composition under a black cloth, making prints in the dark room. There are no digital screens under that black cloth, only the ground glass. And time passes more slowly.
Landscape and memory, the border area of the First World War. Also here a landscape of great beauty and dark history.
It’s all slow but it feels intense, real. As a preparation, another trip to the Scottish Highlands is planned, before I travel to the historic grounds of Italy and Slovenia. And I have to prepare myself for a backpack with a big camera. But I can hardly wait to discover the country and what the earth will show me to photograph. And I have no idea if these photos will please us.
Land and Traces. A project about land and history. How do beauty and atrocities in the landscape relate to each other?
Tears of the Rhine. A series about the old courses of the river Rhine.
Unexpected caves during the descent of Mont Ventoux and a monster that appears at the end (with rustling sounds of wild boars).
Unexpected caves during the descent of Mont Ventoux and a monster that appears at the end (with rustling sounds of wild boars).
Cairngorms, the making of this picture was determined by conflicting emotions, the overwhelming impression of the land, the feeling of being lost but with the paradoxical sensation of how beautiful this experience is, in this powerful land, the rising and disappearing fog.
God the Father, on a visit to the Valais in the company of St. Peter, offered the Valaisans who complained about the retreat of the glaciers and the aridity of their climate, to take care of the problem of water if they wished. St. Peter saw that the locals were hesitating, and encouraged them to accept the offer, telling them that God himself was a Valaisan. Was it this remark that got them thinking? In any case, they declined and from then on the Valaisans had to make up for their lack of water themselves. ~Rose-Claire Schüle, 1995, Les bisses dans les récits traditionnels (my translation)1
One of the fascinating things about the study of hydrology for me, as a hydrologist, is the long history of modification of natural sources of water by man. There are records of irrigation systems developed in China going back some 5000 years; there is the water supply system required for the Gardens of Babylon that appear in the Bible; there are the ancient underground canal systems in the middle east bringing water from the mountains to cities such as Tehran (called quanats in Iran, but also known in Iraq, Afghanistan and India); and the extensive aqueduct systems of the Roman Empire2. The “bisses” of the Valais in Switzerland are not of the same order: they are small man-made water courses that were used to channel water from the heads of valleys around the slope for supplying water to villages and alpage pastures. Some are still in use today. They are quite variable in size, slope and construction but all represent an enormous effort by both the men and women of the communes involved to both create and maintain them over long periods of time3.
Indeed, one of the wonderful things about the mountains of Switzerland is the way in which humans have, over centuries, made use of a challenging - if beautiful - landscape. Swiss bergers or armaillis still take herds of sheep, goats and cows up into the alpage pastures in summer, even where the animals may still have to climb several hundred metres to alpages without road access. They still produce cheese from the milk even in places where it is still only possible to bring the cheese to market on the backs of mules (some of the very best Gruyère and Etivaz4 cheeses come from such alpages in the Cantons of Fribourg and Vaud). They still use some amazingly steep slopes for the production of hay for winter feed for the animals, sometimes so steep that that the hay is still collected by hand raking. It is certainly true that some alpine pastures and hayfields have fallen into disuse and are gradually being reclaimed by trees, even at high altitudes. Despite all the new construction that is widespread throughout Switzerland it has one of the highest percentage reforestation rates in Europe.
..summers in Switzerland can be dry, and to maximise hay production and the number of cuts that can be made, water is needed. This led to one of the most remarkable ways in which humans have modified the alpine landscape by the construction of the “bisses”, particularly in the Canton of Valais (or Wallis in Swiss German).
But summers in Switzerland can be dry, and to maximise hay production and the number of cuts for winter feed that can be made, water is needed. This led to one of the most remarkable ways in which humans have modified the alpine landscape by the construction of the “bisses”, particularly in the Canton of Valais (or Wallis in Swiss German5). These channels bring water from a reliable summer supply (often glacier melt or a limestone spring source) to where it was needed, especially for the irrigation of hayfields, vegetable plots and vines. Without irrigation water, it has been estimated that the area has a water deficit of about 300 mm (or litres per square metre) over the summer.
Bisses are already documented in some of the first manuscripts surviving from the region in the 13th Century. The Valais historian Pierre Dubuis has put forward the hypothesis that up until the middle of the 14th century agriculture in the Valais was mainly producing cereals, which did not require irrigation. By 1350 the plague had decimated the local population, causing them to gradually abandon this type of cultivation. The agricultural land available was turned into pastures and hayfields which favoured the development of breeding livestock. The numbers of livestock increased dramatically and consequently the hayfields required extensive irrigation to produce the winter feed. One of those early channels, the Bisse de Riederi, which runs from Blaten to Ried-Morel near Naters, can be traced back to 1385 and was used until the 1940s.
Bisse de Riederi, near Naters, Valais c.19306
The statistics describing the bisses of the Valais are impressive. The first comprehensive inventory was made by an engineer, Léopold Blotnitzki, in 1871 who found a total of 1536 km of constructed channels. A later survey by Fritz Rauchenstein in 1907 found 80 additional channels that had been constructed since 1870, and a total of 207 bisses with a length of 1400 km. A modern valley by valley inventory lists a total of 413 bisses7, with several of the tributary valleys having more than 20 listed. The longest listed is the Grand Bisse de Saxon at 29km which takes water from the Printse to serve the Communes of Nendaz, Isèrables, Riddes and Saxon and was constructed between 1863 and 1876. There are many others that are more than 10 km long.
This gives some idea of the scale of the Bisse network in the Valais. What it does not convey is the nature of the construction. In some places, this was relatively simple, a shallow channel, with shallow slope, more or less following the contours around the valley to where the water was needed, upslope of the fields. Given the steep nature of the terrain, however, this was not always possible – there were sheer rock cliffs and steep sided gulleys to traverse, while some sections would need to be protected from rock and snow avalanches. In many places, the channel was constructed of wood and attached to a cliff face. In others, it was necessary to dig tunnels through the rock. Later construction and modernisations also introduced some metal channels.
This gives some idea of the scale of the Bisse network in the Valais. What it does not convey is the nature of the construction. In some places, this was relatively simple, a shallow channel, with shallow slope, more or less following the contours around the valley to where the water was needed, upslope of the fields.
The Rauchenstein survey also listed 72 bisses with sections that had tunnels or had been covered.
Thus, because of the sheer effort needed in building and maintaining the bisses they represent a communal activity, which required significant degrees of organisation and regulation to make sure they worked and that the water was distributed fairly. Documents of contracts and rules of operation (and conflicts) date back to the 15th Century. Several communes constructed bisses in the 1400s, a time when the numbers of cattle requiring winter feed was increasing. Later, of bisses where the date of construction is known, only 18 were built between 1500 and 1800. This is in part due to a change to a colder and wetter climate when the glaciers were generally advancing (the period of the “Little Ice Age”).
In the 19th Century, particularly after 1850, there was again an expansion partly due to rewarming and partly due to an expansion of meat and cheese products with the arrival of the railway in the Valais, opening up new markets. In the early 20th Century there was again an expansion and a policy of modernisation, including some subsidies from the Government, with projects to replace some of the more spectacular cliff transversing wooden channels with tunnels. The spectacular Bisse du Torrent Neuf, with a tunnel through the cliffs of Prabé near to Savièse, dates from this time.”
However, the special nature of the bisses was recognised in 2023 in the listing by UNESCO as a World Cultural Heritage Site. This was preceded by some investment to create safe access for tourists to some of the more spectacular sites, such as the Bisse du Torrent Neuf and Bisse du Rho, including the construction of walkways and suspension bridges to allow the routes of those bisses to be followed more easily. Not all the bisses still carry water, or only along parts of their length, but many can be walked as there was always access alongside or over the channel to allow for maintenance and control of the distribution channels.
Some are more exposed than others, while those hanging from cliffs that have not been maintained can be downright dangerous (though for spectacular exposure try the Circuit of the 3 Bisses near Vercorin7 or the Bisse des Sarrasins south of Sierre8). Some of the old photographs showing men – and women – working on maintenance on the highly exposed sections are really rather scary.Some have been replaced with pipes to minimise the maintenance necessary. Some have simply not been maintained and run dry. There is a fascinating Bisse Museum in the village of Botyre not far from the Bisse d’Ayant and a web site with a map of the bisse networks and suggestions for walks along them9.
Bisse maintenance, Bisse de Rho (Ro, Luyton or Lyston), Montana, Valais10
Suspended section of the Bisse du Rho, Montana, Valais
I have now walked many kilometres along different bisses (though not the most exposed….). They are always interesting in that they differ a lot in their characteristics (even along the length of a single bisse).
They are always interesting in that they differ a lot in their characteristics (even along the length of a single bisse). They can include sections in wood or metal, steep tumbling reaches, smooth flowing shallow flows, and places where there is no flow and it is difficult to see where the bisse used to run.
They can include sections in wood or metal, steep tumbling reaches, smooth flowing shallow flows, and places where there is no flow and it is difficult to see where the bisse used to run. While I have taken many images of the bisses themselves (see below), they also offer an opportunity for intimate landscapes of the water within them.
This is partly because of the fact that the flow is often relatively shallow so there can be reflected light from different coloured rocks (or, in places, wood or metal) on the bed, partly because of caustics due to refraction within the waves at the surface and reflections from the bed , and partly because they often run through trees so that there can be interesting patterns of light and shade on the surface. There can also be steeper waterfall-like sections where it was necessary to lose elevation along the route (such as in the Bisse du Petit Ruisseau near Champex-Lac below). As always, the challenge is to find a good composition with the light at hand.
Les Bisses de Rho, du Petit Ruisseau, de la Tour
Le Bisse Vieux and Bisse de l’Ayant
The images that follow are a small selection of those taken in different bisses in recent years using a variety of techniques.
Bisse du Petit Ruisseau, Champex-Lac, Valais, Switzerland, 2024
Bisse d’Ayant, Anzère, Valais, Switzerland 2022
Bisse Vieux, Nendaz, Valais, Switzerland, 2020
References
Rose-Claire Schüle, 1995, Les bisses dans les récits traditionnels, in: Annales valaisannes : bulletin trimestriel de la Société d'histoire du Valais romand, 1995, p. 341-350
One of the interesting things about the Roman Aqueducts is that they are reported to have been designed without taking account of the velocity of the water in estimating their capacity, based on the contemporary writings of Vitruvius. While that is quite possible based on a history of engineering experience if the slope of the aqueduct is maintained at a standard value and if the lining does not vary too much in roughness, it does seem somewhat unlikely however given the all too obvious variations in velocity in natural rivers.
More information about many of the bisses and suggestions for walking routes can be found (in English) at https://www.les-bisses-du-valais.ch/en/ (also available as a phone app). There are also books available such as Balades le long des bisses du valais by Gilbert Rouvinez, 180° Editions, 2020 (in French). There is an Association des Bisses du Valais with a site at https://bisses-encyclo.ch/association/ (in French).
Etivaz cheese has an interesting history. In the 1930s, a group of 76 farming families producing Gruyère cheese in the vicinity of the village of Etivaz decided that government regulations were allowing cheesemakers to compromise the qualities that made good Gruyère so special. They withdrew from the Swiss government's Gruyère program, and started to call their own cheese, L'Etivaz. They founded a cooperative in 1932, and the first cheese cellars were built in 1934. A recent attempt to protect the name of Gruyère cheese to the valleys in Switzerland where it is produced failed in the United States where the term was held to be “generic” so that US produced cheese can also be called Gruyère.
Valais consists of nearly all of the valley of the Rhone upstream of Lake Geneva (Lac Leman). The lower part of the valley is French speaking, the upper part, above Sierre, German speaking). The name bisses is mostly used in the central part of the valley; in the lower part the name “raie” is more common, and “suonen” or “wasserleite” in the upper Valais. Bisse appears to derive from patois variants on the word “bief”, a leet in English, and has been used since at least 1569. Similar irrigation systems are found in parts of France and Italy. In the Val d’Aoste they are known as “rus”.
Despite the struggle for recognition, this should not discourage your desire to create. For the joy you experience through artistic creation is what truly matters, regardless of the judgment of others.
Despite the struggle for recognition, this should not discourage your desire to create. For the joy you experience through artistic creation is what truly matters, regardless of the judgment of others.
To encourage you to present your work to the highest and greatest administrations you can think of. Without fear and without hesitation, but with the pride of someone who is capable of creating, of putting things together —unlike critics, who can only tear things apart.
History has an ironic way of repeating itself.
Gatekeepers have a careless way of repeating the same mistakes.
Artists have a fatalistic way of sharing the same struggle.
15th October 2024, 10:30 AM, bright sunlight shines on my face as I walk on Pont du Carrousel to cross the Seine River. No one expected such a hot day in Paris at this time of the year.
I’m almost sweating when I pick up my pace to be on time for my meeting. I made it to the staff entrance of the Orsay museum 10 minutes ahead of time. I pause, take off my jacket and put it in my bag, next to a copy of my book. In a minute, I will present it to the director of the museum bookstore. After five years of work on my photography book and months of waiting for this meeting to happen, here I am.
I enter the museum from the staff’s entrance, pass security and explain who I am supposed to meet. Of course, no one knew about my meeting there, and the bookstore’s director was nowhere to be found. Experience has taught me that it would have been naive not to expect this inattention to my meeting, even from the person who granted and scheduled it for me, so I was not affected by the subsequent waiting time. Twenty-five minutes passed before anyone managed to find the director of the bookstore, reminded her of our meeting, and only then was I accompanied to her.
I have images I love wholly aesthetically, in which I would like to be lost, and at which I could sit and look for hours; then, as a writer, I have images I love because of their complexity or context and the different angles they offer for exploration or the stories they tell about their creation. This – Road from Abiquiú (1964-68) by Georgia O’Keeffe – is one of the latter.
O’Keeffe is part of the story of modernist photography whether she likes it or not. She was married to Alfred Stieglitz, who took more than 300 photographic portraits of her (some of an explicitly erotic nature), and she was friends with the likes of Paul Strand and Edward Steichen. She was clear about her artistic goal from the outset, however, stating: ‘I want to be a painter, just a painter.’ Nevertheless, she also said: ‘Art must be a unity of expression so complete that the medium becomes unimportant – only noted or remembered as an afterthought.’ Accordingly, the photographs that O’Keeffe took in her later life (from the mid-1950s onwards) overlap significantly with her paintings in terms of (often abstracted, if not abstract) form and composition, light and shadow.
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.
A new book by British photographer Craig Easton is a lyrical reimagining of the time George Orwell lived on the Isle of Jura, where he wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four. A kickstarter campaign runs until 6th June, offering reduced price signed books and exclusive prints.
Celebrated for his award winning portraits and social documentary, Easton turns his large format camera to the landscape of the Hebrides, but maintains a political undercurrent to his new work.
We asked Craig to write about the background to the project, his connection to the Isle of Jura and George Orwell and a bit about his working process shooting 8x10 film and making hand-made silver gelatin prints toned in tea...
A Hebridean dream
Thinking always of my island in The Hebrides, which I suppose I shall never possess nor even see.
So wrote George Orwell in his diary on 20th June 1940. But he did see it… albeit after the unimaginable and cataclysmic events that had happened in the intervening years - on the global level, of course, but also on the most personal level for Orwell himself when he lost his wife, Eileen, to a devastating and untimely early death.
A principle reason for the move was to escape the pressures of his journalism commitments in London and to give himself the time and space to focus on what he considered his real work.
The Isle of Jura had been a dream for both of them… writing to him in March, 1945 after corresponding with the owners, she described Barnhill as "Quite grand - 5 bedrooms, bathroom, W.C., H&C and all, large sitting room, kitchen, various pantries, dairies etc. and a whole village of “buildings” - in fact just what we want to live in twelve months of the year."
Eileen never got to see it, though, and it was a year later that Orwell took up the lease.
A principle reason for the move was to escape the pressures of his journalism commitments in London and to give himself the time and space to focus on what he considered his real work: “My house is in the Hebrides, and I hope to be fairly quiet so that I can start a new novel” he wrote to Yvonne Davet on 8th April, 1946.
And that’s the bit I intuitively understand; the need to escape, the need for time and space to allow yourself to think and be creative.
And so, in a time of political turmoil and confusion, I drew comfort from Orwell’s words and made my way to Jura to read, to walk and to refocus my energies. My two most recent books, Bank Top and Thatcher's Children, were both political in their different ways and I needed time to think, to find joy in the small things in life: the landscape, the weather (yes, even the Scottish weather in February!), the aesthetics of wind-blown trees or chipped teapots. For days and days, I walked and looked and photographed, then spent the night by the fireside imagining Orwell’s life there in the 1940s, reading and sipping some fine Jura whisky that the owners had kindly left out for me.
Orwell, the islands and me
But what was it about Orwell and Barnhill that made me want to make this work?
I know the islands well of course (this is book one of a trilogy). I’ve read a lot of Orwell and have been to Jura umpteen times over many years. And I knew of Barnhill but had never been to the far north end of the island - it's quite a schlep from the end of the public road.
“The only real snag here is transport – everything has to be brought over 8 miles of inconceivable road...”, Orwell wrote to Richard Rees on 5th July 1946.
There are the obvious sociological and political parallels between Orwell's warnings from the 1940s and the concerns that resonate today of course – you can hardly open a paper without reading the word ‘Orwellian’ - and I can’t deny that that was part of why his writing was on my mind, but beyond the dystopia of Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four I was also interested in what drew him to Jura.
There are the obvious sociological and political parallels between Orwell's warnings from the 1940s and the concerns that resonate today of course – you can hardly open a paper without reading the word ‘Orwellian’
Finding hope
As well as his novels, I knew of his nature writing and his need for balance – the political and the poetic. I too need that – I often joke that I do love songs as well as protest songs… and so, like my earlier work Fisherwomen, this is perhaps a love song, a homage to Orwell and an acknowledgement of what he once wrote in his essay Some Thoughts on the Common Toad:
Is it wicked to take a pleasure in Spring and other seasonal changes? To put it more precisely, is it politically reprehensible, while we are all groaning, or at any rate ought to be groaning, under the shackles of the capitalist system, to point out that life is frequently more worth living because of a blackbird’s song, a yellow elm tree in October, or some other natural phenomenon which does not cost?”
“I think that by retaining one’s childhood love of such things as trees, fishes, butterflies and – to return to my first instance – toads, one makes a peaceful and decent future a little more probable, and that by preaching the doctrine that nothing is to be admired except steel and concrete, one merely makes it a little surer that human beings will have no outlet for their surplus energy except in hatred and leader worship.”
With that in mind, then, I took off up to Jura with my old 1952 Deardorff, a box full of 10x8 film and an even bigger box of books. I had been invited to stay at Barnhill – almost untouched since Orwell’s time – and found the place both challenging and restorative, an opportunity to regroup and refocus.
I wanted to challenge the widely held misconception that Orwell went to Jura as a lonely, dying man full of angst to write a tirade against a fearful future, but rather focus on his optimism and hope and his belief in a better world.
And for me, the work I made there is about hope, a chance to find joy in the small things, to celebrate what’s good in the world. I wanted to challenge the widely held misconception that Orwell went to Jura as a lonely, dying man full of angst to write a tirade against a fearful future, but rather focus on his optimism and hope and his belief in a better world. Despite the horrors of the war, despite losing his wife, and the challenges of severe tuberculosis, he was determined to build a new life for himself and his young son Richard, who, now aged 80, has written the foreword for the book. It was with that sense of optimism that he moved to Jura, to think, to grow vegetables and to find time to write what was essentially a warning to all of us of the horrors that come if we allow authoritarianism to take over.
And in that vein, I too, took solace in the landscape and the quiet of the old house – so still and so quietly evocative of the time that Orwell had sat up in the top room, typing out his great novel.
Printing and toning with tea
Back in the darkroom, the connection and the pure joy of photography continued; after much experimenting, I settled on toning the silver prints with tea – a nod to Orwell’s famous love of the drink and his delightful essay of 1946, ‘A nice cup of tea’.
The book’s title comes from a letter to Stafford Cottman on 23rd April 1946
“I have taken a cottage in the Isle of Jura in the Hebrides… it’s an extremely un-get-atable place, but it’s a nice house and I think I can make it quite comfortable with a little trouble.”
Book Details & Kickstarter
An Extremely Un-get-atable Place will be published by GOST Books as a large format monograph – approx. 14”x11” printed in beautiful tri-tone by EBS in Verona
I am running a Kickstarter campaign to part fund the printing and production costs. If you feel able to support me, I would be very grateful.
Thank you.
Younger readers of On Landscape and most photography magazines or websites might be forgiven for thinking that contemporary photography equates solely with digital cameras, computer image processing and inkjet printing. However, silver-based film and traditional darkroom printing are making a healthy comeback in art colleges and among amateurs. Whether silver-gelatin is really ‘alternative’ photography is a moot point.
It’s certainly an alternative to an inkjet printer. My personal definition of ‘alternative’ excludes silver-gelatin film photography but embraces instead a vast collection of lesser-known methods. Contemporary photographic print-makers have a bewildering range of print media with which to show their work, whether in landscape or any subject matter. This is not the place to list them all, but see https://www.alternativephotography.com. Other valuable overviews are Christopher James’ The Book of Alternative Photographic Processes, Third Edition (2016, Gengage Learning) or Lyle Rexter’s Photography’s Avant-Garde (2002, (Harry Abrams Inc., New York). The former book is a great one-stop shop if one wishes to learn the methods.
Among the better-known ‘alternative’ methods are albumen, argentotype, calotype, gum bichromate, kallitype, salted paper and Van Dyke processes. The list of processes is so long that only a few are going to be celebrated here, focusing only on the iron-based processes or siderotypes. Among all these ‘types’, siderotypes are easily defined: these are processes that depend on the light sensitivity of an iron-compound (from Greek sidēros "iron"). Note that all these processes are contact processes: the printed image will be the same size as the negative. Any large-format photographer using film can easily generate these, but it is more common now for practitioners to make, from small-format film or digital images, the required large ‘digital negatives’ (a misnomer, since obviously the negative is not digital, but rather the process used to get there is).
Cyanotype
Let us look at just three families of siderotype: cyanotypes, platinotypes and chrysotypes. Cyanotypes are by far the most commonly practised. Cyanotype papers are widely available and cheap. Amazon will sell you a pack of dozens of ready-prepared papers for less than £10, requiring only a negative or flat object, such as a leaf, as your subject, and UV light, such as the sun. These papers are already coated with a sensitising solution (which is NOT an emulsion, despite numerous references to such in the popular literature and online).
The process is now over 180 years old. It was invented by Sir John Herschel in 1842 and was the first successful non-silver photographic printing process, as well as the basis of office and other official ‘blueprints’.
The process is now over 180 years old. It was invented by Sir John Herschel in 1842 and was the first successful non-silver photographic printing process, as well as the basis of office and other official ‘blueprints’.
The first book to be printed and illustrated entirely by photography was Anna Atkins’ Photographs of British Algae: Cyanotype Impressions, an exceedingly rare and privately published book of 1843. The images can be seen in Sun Gardens – Cyanotypes by Anna Atkins (2018) by Larry Schaaf (The New York Public Library). Cyanotype is certainly useful as an inexpensive, easy introduction to hand-coated papers and alternative printing. Those who find the strident blue colour (due to the pigment Prussian Blue in all pure cyanotypes) unsuitable for their subject matter (such as landscape) can tone the print in a host of unlikely ‘chemicals’ such as tea. A greatly improved version, the New Cyanotype, was introduced by Dr Mike Ware and is finding wide acceptance.
Plantinotype (Platinum-Palladium)
From the ridiculously simple and inexpensive to the sublime: let’s look at Platinotype or, more correctly in most applications, platinum-palladium printing. Note that Pt and Pd are the only chemically correct abbreviations for these elements. Unlike cyanotype, one cannot buy ready-to-use papers, that is, papers that have already been coated with the light-sensitive chemistry. However, such papers were once available, testament to the popularity of the process: William Willis’ patent of the Platinotype in 1878 accompanied the sale of pre-sensitised paper and processing solutions. Platinum became the method of choice for luminaries such as Frederick Evans, Alfred Stieglitz, Paul Strand and others. But by the early twentieth century, platinum had been elevated to the role of an essential catalyst for manufacturing nitric acid, itself used in the manufacture of explosives for the Great War. In 1917, palladium (a metal closely related to platinum) was introduced and quickly adopted.
The commercial values of platinum, palladium and gold fluctuate widely, but palladium was once the cheapest, only to become the most expensive later; now, gold again is the most valuable. These fluctuations are reflected in the prices photographers must pay for their supplies. All commercial production of pre-sensitised platinum-palladium printing papers had ceased by the 1930s, and the 1930s to 1980s was a period of dormancy in printing with these metals. Now there has been an extraordinary and exciting re-emergence of handmade photographs, ‘hand-in-hand’ with other tactile pleasures (think vinyl records and cars with a manual gearbox!).
Printing in platinum and palladium is perhaps the summit of ‘alternative processes’. Revered for permanence and subtle beauty and composed of platinum and/or palladium metal embedded in the uppermost fibres of the print’s paper, these photographs are characterised by luminosity, longevity and an extraordinary tonal range. The appeal of this process is timeless and is endearingly described by Malde & Ware in Platinotype (Malde & Ware, 2021, Focal Press): “precious metals precipitated so finely that higlights slide to the edge of the paper’s base white.
Printing in platinum and palladium is perhaps the summit of ‘alternative processes’. Revered for permanence and subtle beauty and composed of platinum and/or palladium metal embedded in the uppermost fibres of the print’s paper, these photographs are characterised by luminosity, longevity and an extraordinary tonal range.
At the other end of the scale, persistently whispering shadows are often not as intense as in some other processes, and generally do not have the deep black values of emulsion-based silver prints.”
The traditional method of making platinum-palladium prints (the ‘development method’) is still very widely used and requires two stages: the platinotype sensitiser (a solution of platinum and/or palladium salts) is mixed with ferric oxalate and used to coat (by brush or glass coating rod) a sheet of fine, generally 100% cotton, paper. (Here is not the place to describe how this is done, but it is not difficult to master). After drying, the paper is pressed into contact in a printing frame with the large negative and exposed to ultraviolet light. The iron is reduced to the ferrous form (by accepting an electron). At this point, no further chemical reaction can occur in the dry state. The paper is then transferred to an aqueous developer, which provides conditions for dissolving the ferrous oxalate, whereupon it reduces the platinum and/or palladium salts to the precious metal element(s), Pt and Pd, which are deposited within the cellulose fibres of the paper. This development is dramatic: an image appears almost simultaneously, and many videos online like to show this (for example, https://www.nga.gov/audio-video/video/conservation.html).
My own platinum-palladium photographs are made using the newer Malde-Ware process that provides a 'print-out' image. Dr Mike Ware has made available a comprehensive background to his formulations for the platinum-palladium process as well as Chrysotype (see below), New Cyanotype (see above) and argyrotype ( a silver process related to the historic Van Dyke process. See https://www.mikeware.co.uk/mikeware/downloads.html. The rigorous physicochemical basis of these printout methods and the ability to judge the progress of the printing during UV exposure ensure economy of materials and optimal print control without using suspect additives. This is of enormous practical benefit. For example, since once the image in a platinum-palladium print is fully visible on development in the traditional method, it's too late to adjust the exposure time! This method is also exhaustively and admirably covered in Platinotype (Malde & Ware, 2021, Focal Press) and included here (https://www.nga.gov/audio-video/video/conservation.html). The chemistry uses different compounds, but the key point is that the paper is allowed to acquire a controlled degree of humidity, which will allow the reactants to form the image during exposure. After exposure, three successive baths remove the unreacted chemicals.
Chrysotype
The gold process was discounted long ago as a viable printing method and forgotten for eighty years until Mike Ware, armed with his professional background in chemistry, revisited the process and introduced a wonderful printing-out process in pure gold (chemical symbol Au). He named it the ‘new chrysotype’ (from the Greek chrysos) in honour of Herschel’s invention of 1842. Surprisingly, relatively few have embraced it, but those that have value its remarkable ability to endow the print with subtle split tones and hues in blues and pinks, or neutral hues approaching those achieved in the platinum-palladium processes.
The gold process was discounted long ago as a viable printing method and forgotten for eighty years until Mike Ware, armed with his professional background in chemistry, revisited the process and introduced a wonderful printing-out process in pure gold (chemical symbol Au).
This is another printout process, and so the method of making a print is very similar to that described above for the Malde-Ware platinum-palladium process.
Obviously, the chemistry is different. The gold salt (tetrachloroaurate(III) is bound to a stabilising sulfur ligand (3,3'-thiodipropanoic acid); the sensitising solution also contains, as for platinotype, a UV-sensitive iron compound, ammonium iron(III) oxalate. Again, the iron compound is reduced by UV exposure (ferric to ferrous), the latter then reducing the gold to elemental gold, Au(I), which is deposited in the print to form the image. After exposure, the paper with a clearly visible image is immersed in a series of baths, the first of which can radically determine the colour(s) in the final print. For full details, see https://www.mikeware.co.uk/downloads/Chrysonomicon_II_Practice.pdf.
One of its striking characteristics is that the final colours in the print are not “golden yellow” but dependent on a large number of variables, including the humidity of the coated paper prior to UV exposure, subsequent post-exposure hydration, the developing agent and the properties of the paper.
One of its striking characteristics is that the final colours in the print are not “golden yellow” but dependent on a large number of variables, including the humidity of the coated paper prior to UV exposure, subsequent post-exposure hydration, the developing agent and the properties of the paper. Paper choice can have a major influence on the colour of a chrysotype: gelatin-sized papers favour the formation of reddish images. The gold in the image comprises dispersed nanoparticles. When light falls on these particles, rather than being reflected, it is scattered and absorbed at particular wavelengths, depending on the size of the particles, which is in turn dependent on the processing of the print. Hence, the eye perceives different colours.
Repeating a colour achieved in one print can be challenging, satisfying or infuriating, depending on your outlook. Chrysotypes are rarely seen but deserve to be. Like platinum-palladium prints, chrysotypes are archival and permanent, gold being the least chemically reactive of all metals. Its use in jewellery or bullion is testament to this.
Any technical difficulties and requirements are not insurmountable. A strong UV source is more easily accessible now because of the ready availability of LEDs that emit in the UV range, and contact printing frames and fine art papers are common enough. The main stumbling block for photographers who cannot access the chemicals off-the-shelf from scientific vendors (that is, almost everybody in the UK, because of burdensome Health and Safety regulations, but not in the USA), is the chemistry. However, premixed sensitisers, especially for platinum-palladium, are available from a small number of sellers. My own protocol is to make up all the required solutions from ‘raw’, dry powders. I use an intense UV light source comprising a dense bank of LEDs emitting the optimal wavelength (365 nm) from Cone Editions, Vermont, USA and contact-printing frames from Lotus View Cameras, Austria.
Exposure times are a minute or more. My current papers are Arches Platine, Legion Revere Platinum, Ruscombe Mill’s Buxton, Talbot and Herschel papers and occasionally fine Japanese papers. For all these processes (cyanotype, platinotype, and chrysotype), I mask with Rubylith (or tape) the edges of the negative so that unexposed sensitiser does not leave an untidy margin around the final image. I find the traditional, rectangular frame unpretentious, which does not detract from the image content. I don’t think it’s necessary to ‘show the brush marks’ or extent of the coating in order to prove that it’s a handmade print. Connoisseurs will already know that. There is also a critical technical reason: the masked margin that has been coated with sensitiser, but is unexposed, provides the best visual test of the complete clearing of excess chemicals from the print during the wet processing. If those areas are unmasked, exposed, and darkened, one can never tell if the print has been properly cleared.
For all these processes (cyanotype, platinotype, and chrysotype), I mask with Rubylith (or tape) the edges of the negative so that unexposed sensitiser does not leave an untidy margin around the final image. I find the traditional, rectangular frame unpretentious, which does not detract from the image content.
Conclusions
These alternative printing methods have much to offer the landscape photographer, as illustrated in the images on https://www.alternativephotography.com. Examples of my own work in platinum-palladium and chrysotypes are shown here. A final remark: these methods rarely produce prints that are perceived as ‘sharp’ as silver-gelatin or computer-generated prints: the surface is absolutely matte, and the texture of some art paper bases can obscure the finest detail. But they are beautiful! Look at original platinum prints, not reproductions; like me, perhaps you’ll be blown away.
Over the past six months, Brad has contributed two thought-provoking articles to On Landscape (Learning to See Again and Cleansing the Soul) What stands out in both is his distinctive perspective on landscape photography. In one piece, he reflects: “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.” This idea—that the photographer’s voice is essential in developing a personal style—resonates deeply. Intrigued by his approach and his connection to nature, I reached out to Brad to learn more about his creative process and philosophy.
Tell us about why you love landscape photography? A little background on what your first passions were, what you studied and what job you ended up doing.
Landscape photography, for me, is, perhaps, the ultimate creative practice. It engages the mind, body and spirit as we must think about composition, reflect upon what out photographs mean, move our bodies to reach our desired location and engage with the spirit of Nature whilst we are outdoors. It is, therefore, a healing experience in so many ways. There are the somatic benefits of moving energy around our bodies as we hike across the landscape, as well as benefits to our mental well-being and spirit as we are given a platform to express our deepest selves by creating the photographs themselves, telling stories of ourselves and our collective existence to alleviate ourselves of psychological baggage and transmute our pain into creative power.
Fangan is an ongoing work recording the stone-built fanks of Mull, Iona, and the surrounding islands.
A fank is a structure in which to pen and handle sheep. The size of a fank usually reflects the number of sheep in a hirsel*.
Glen Cannel
It is early March, and having unloaded our quad bike from the trailer, we start following Jamie up the glen. It is bitterly cold, and the clouds threaten snow. The track follows along the side of Loch Bà, (Loch of the Cattle) and then, leaving the loch behind, winds its way along the bottom of the glen to the ruined farmhouse at Gortenbuie, last lived in in 1947. We stop to admire the view and just listen; the shrill call of a Curlew cuts through the silence.
From there, we head across the glen to the other side of the river. This is an ever changing river bed, its route forged over millennia by extreme volumes of water coming down from the surrounding mountains.
This fank has the largest gathering pen of any on the island, and can hold a lot of sheep. There is a cottage (now ruined) along one of the fank walls. Jamie’s family last used the fank in the 1980s. Now they walk the sheep from here down to the farm, five miles away.
Glen Cannel
Glen Cannel has a dark history like so many island glens. In the 1820’s the landowner instructed his factor to evict every family from their homes. There is no trace left of their houses.
The fank was built on the site of the Glen Cannel burial ground, and gravestones were used in the building of the fank walls.
In the 1830’s Mull had a population of around 10,000. By the 1880’s it was less than 4,000. What happened in between was a harrowing period of great suffering and adversity.
It is said the intention was to ensure ‘there was nothing for the people to come back to’.
Descendants of some of these families still live on the island. They hold the story of what happened to their families, an oral history handed down through the generations.
In the 1830’s Mull had a population of around 10,000. By the 1880’s it was less than 4,000. What happened in between was a harrowing period of great suffering and adversity. The islands experienced ten years of potato famine, the collapse of the kelp industry, and the Clearances. During this time, thousands of men, women, and children were removed, often forcibly, from their homes and transported across the world or relocated locally against their will.
Dhiseig
The Project
During lockdown, I was asked by the curator at An Tobar, a community art space in Tobermory, if I would show some of my drone photographs to accompany a textiles exhibition. Around the same time, I began photographing my neighbour’s fank; he was retiring, ending a several-generations family connection with the farm. It felt like a significant chapter in island farming was coming to a close.
Having photographed one fank, I began to look for more. I have lived on the island for 30 years, and being married to a farmer, I already knew where a few of them were.
However, I had no idea how many were still in use. I used the OS map to locate fanks all over the island, looking for the words Sheepfold or Sheepwash. Local knowledge was extremely helpful - one family farming a large area in the south of the island pinned twelve fanks on a Google Map for me, I have recorded 6 or so of those so far. Some are sited close to the road, with easy access. Others are several miles or hours walk from the nearest vehicle access.
When I started recording the fanks, I hadn’t made the connection between them and the Clearances. It wasn’t until I flew the drone over an unnamed fank on Lagganulva Farm a few months later that I fully understood this. I could see the shadowy impressions in the ground around the fank, of what had been houses. The stone from their walls had become the fine drystone walls of the fank.
When I started recording the fanks, I hadn’t made the connection between them and the Clearances. It wasn’t until I flew the drone over an unnamed fank on Lagganulva Farm a few months later that I fully understood this.
Unnamed fank at Lagganulva
Ensay
For many years, my husband ‘neighboured’ here. A team of family members and neighbours would help to gather the hills and work in the fank; health-checking the animals, dosing, dipping, sorting lambs for sale – different tasks according to the time of year. He remembers long days working within the chest-high stone fank walls in hot sun, cold wind, and rain; hours of hard physical work, but also hours of companionship and beautifully told island stories, drawing pictures of those who had gone before and the way things used to be.
Days punctuated by generous lunches in the farmhouse kitchen, and teas in the fank with chocolate cake. And afterwards drams to mark the work done, and more food, more stories.
Ensay
Glac Gugairidh
Glac Gugairidh is a ruined settlement near where I live, and our neighbour told me how once the people had left the village, the walls of their ruined homes were incorporated to create a fank.
I have now recorded over fifty fanks on Mull, and three on Iona, with more still to do.
I took Fangan to the local Mull agricultural shows in the hope that I would reach more folk than might visit An Tobar. I talked to farmers and crofters whose ancestors were removed from Glen Cannel. I talked to farmers who remember working in fanks, now disused, all over the island.
Fangan - the exhibition
Fangan has been exhibited in An Tobar (Isle of Mull), Edinburgh, West Kilbride, and Inverness.
I took Fangan to the local Mull agricultural shows in the hope that I would reach more folk than might visit An Tobar. I talked to farmers and crofters whose ancestors were removed from Glen Cannel. I talked to farmers who remember working in fanks, now disused, all over the island.
It has been good to show the work to a variety of audiences and for the photographs to have been received with interest. I realise that whilst the fanks make beautiful images, without explanatory words, the significance of their existence is not informed by the photographs themselves.
These are stories that should not be forgotten, so my next step is to create a book to present the fanks themselves and the stories connected with them.
The sky is a clear, featureless blue. Not a cloud anywhere to interrupt the monotone monotony. And yet, despite the obvious lack of obstructions, the sun is shining wanly on the land and sea that surrounds me. The spring colours aren’t vibrant. They’re washed out, desaturated almost. I’m wandering out of the house slowly with my old dog. At a pace we can both manage.
I don’t have a camera slung over my shoulder. My camera used to be a permanent fixture. Part of my body, my soul. Not so much a piece of highly engineered metal and glass but flesh and blood. As much a part of me as my heart or my lungs. Why haven’t I taken the camera out with me this morning? I don’t know. Tiredness perhaps. Not that I’m burning the candle at both ends. These days are long since past. I’m weary from travelling backwards and forwards across the country on one family errand or another.
But as I wander slowly with the dog, we’ve meandered down to the little beach that runs along in front of our house. I’ve let the slow moving dog off his lead now that we’re on the soft sand. There’s no one in sight. He has his little slice of heaven all to himself. And all of a sudden he’s no longer slow moving. He’s running like a rocking horse, the same sort of motion, head up, then bottom up. Bouncing. Mouth open in a big, slathery grin. And I can’t help but smile at him.
And as I smile, I notice the patterns in the sand. Left by the outgoing tide earlier this morning. The patterns are beautiful. That soft light I mentioned earlier is showing them off perfectly.
All I know is that my shoulders have dropped slightly and my breathing has slowed. My brain's working easily again. It's thinking about how I can capture these quiet little moments of beauty.
I lift my head and look up from the sand. Staring out to sea. Clisham, the tallest mountain on Harris, is clearly visible above the distinct outlines of the Shiant Isles. There’s a silveriness on the horizon. A dividing line between the distinctly different blues of sea and sky. I’m not sure what that line is. A slight hint of mist perhaps, or maybe it's just a calmer stretch of sea. I don’t know. And I’m not really interested in knowing.
All I know is that my shoulders have dropped slightly and my breathing has slowed. My brain's working easily again. It's thinking about how I can capture these quiet little moments of beauty. That marriage of heart and head, thinking about how I would capture what it is that I see in my mind's eye. A reminder to myself that it was always the landscape itself that inspired me to pick up a camera in the first place.
Photography has never been a cerebral exercise for me. I’ve no great technical expertise. My processing is rudimentary at best. My photography is more to do with bringing a little peace to my soul. Putting a smile back on my face. I was at a wonderful photography festival in Germany last year, where I was one of a number of speakers at the event.
Photography has never been a cerebral exercise for me. I’ve no great technical expertise. My processing is rudimentary at best. My photography is more to do with bringing a little peace to my soul.
Several of the photographers talked about conservation, and some showed some harrowing images. They were very moving talks. Very worthy talks.
And in a way, I felt slightly guilty when it was my turn to stand up in front of everyone. All I did was talk about myself and show some pretty pictures of my local landscapes. Some big views and some little ones. But. Perhaps before we think about saving the world, we need to think about saving ourselves first.
‘Near Sommarøy’ may not be David’s most beautiful photograph, nor his simplest and it is certainly not very mysterious but for me it represents, in one image, a turning point in my own photography and the influence that David’s writing and photography has had. It was an image made behind my back and therein lies the lesson.
Over 20 years ago, in the days before online photo competitions, I was lucky enough to win Practical Photography’s ‘Photographer of the Year’ competition. All the stars aligned, and my limited landscape output enabled me to win a couple of the monthly rounds, qualifying me for a final ‘shootout’ against another photographer in the Lake District, where again a landscape specialism gave me an unfair advantage.
Now, with an award to prove it, my family thought that I must be quite a good photographer after all, though I suspected I still had a lot to learn. With that in mind, I decided to spend some of my prize money on a photography tour with one of the pre-eminent landscape photographers of the generation. Unfortunately, all of Joe Cornish’s tours were fully booked so I settled on a trip with the non-award-winning David Ward instead. To be fair, I was already an admirer of his work through his writings for Outdoor Photography and his book ‘Landscape Within’ so knew I would be in safe hands, even if he did have a bit of a penchant for ‘detail’ shots.
The trip was to Northern Norway and the Lofoten Islands, a little-known archipelago south-west of Tromso (oh, how times change!). I was drawn to it by a single, splendid, panoramic image in the brochure of towering cliffs and a tranquil fjord. It looked like a place for some serious vistas...
There are two kinds of people who look at a circuit board. The first group sees a headache of wires and solder points; the second sees logic, elegance, and the potential for something to work beautifully. Ram Ganti belongs firmly in the latter camp. Before he ever picked up a camera, Ram was designing and building complex circuitry, soldering components directly onto printed circuit boards with the care of someone who understood that beauty could be found not just in how something looked, but in how it functioned.
When you look at Ram’s photographs, which are graceful and composed with almost mathematical clarity, you begin to understand that his background in engineering did more than shape his technical instincts; it trained his eye. Every curve in a dune, every line in the sand, every pocket of negative space feels like part of a larger, invisible circuit. His photographs do not just show you what he saw; they reveal how he thinks.
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. See our previous submissions here.
Growing up around the rugged beauty of Devon and Cornwall’s coastline, I developed an appreciation for landscapes that blend the raw, natural elements with human-made landmarks. My childhood was spent exploring the craggy cliffs, windswept moors, and the serene coves of Devon's and Cornwall’s coastal stretches. Camping holidays along the West countries sandy beaches and towering cliffs solidified my love for this region and set me on a path toward capturing it through a lens in later years.
Lighthouses certainly tick many boxes in regards to coastal landmarks, these iconic structures link not just our history of sea exploration, but also connect the landscape to it, and as such they make great fore to midground interest when it comes to seascape photography.
When I started traveling for photography, I always new lighthouses would form part of my goto locations, and here you can see four of my favourite lighthouses from four different countries.
I am a Devon-based landscape photographer with a love of travel and capturing the beauty of Southwest England for which im luckly to call home, my work includes landscapes and seascapes of Devon, Cornwall, and European locations like the Dolomites or Scandinavia.
My aim in photography is to catch original and atmospheric compositions. I have been an artist all my life, and for me, the camera is my brush and my pencil. I portray what I see the way I see it. My photography represents a crossover between a photograph and a painting. My composition is based not just on the subject itself, but mainly on the negative spaces that form the image, following the Japanese aesthetic concept of "ma" ('the space in-between').
Ninety per cent of my images get taken during rainy days when the atmosphere is most conducive to my style. I find the sound of the woodlands in these conditions an essential element to convey the attention to a specific view.
My post-process is based on a painterly style, using mainly subtle local adjustments with emphasis on the light and shade, color contrast, and a special tri-dimensional process that I manually apply in Photoshop to take the image and its details back as I saw them in the first place.
I avoid shooting popular famous places and prefer to challenge myself to find compositions that other photographers just ignore. Living in the North West England, the Peak District is one of my favorite destinations. As this is a very prolific area for many photographers, it is difficult to compose an original shot, but at the same time this is what makes it interesting for me. One of the most frequented places in the Peak District is Padley Gorge and the surrounded area (image 2 and 3).
In this stunning collection, **Mystical Sun: A Journey in Black and White**, we delve into the timeless allure of landscapes transformed by the mystical presence of the sun. Each photograph, rendered in black and white, captures the ethereal beauty and enigmatic shadows cast by the sun’s powerful rays. Through this monochromatic lens, we invite readers on a visual odyssey where light and darkness dance together, creating a symphony of contrasts that evokes mystery and wonder.
With each image, the sun emerges not just as a source of light, but as a celestial artist, painting the world with haunting silhouettes and surreal forms. From dawn's first whisper to dusk’s final embrace, these photographs explore landscapes that have been touched by the sun's mysterious hand, revealing a world where reality and dreamscape intertwine.
This collection celebrates the profound beauty found in nature's simplest yet most enigmatic moments. It encourages viewers to see beyond the ordinary, to experience landscapes not just as they are, but as they could be in our most mystical imaginations. By stripping away the colors, we unveil the raw, untamed essence of light and shadow, inviting a deeper connection with the soul of the scene.
A series of images from a trip to the Isle of Skye. There were so many places to visit across the island, heading over in July 24 meant having more hours of daylight and the opportunity to explore as much as possible during the week I was there. Taking in the scenic landscapes and the natural beauty that the place has to offer, with its wide range of majestic backdrops and hidden gems.
Watching the constant change in the weather meant I made sure to have my camera ready to capture the changing light, which highlighted a variety of details and textures in the mountains, providing dramatic scenes across the landscape.
Images 1 and 3 were both taken at the same Loch, with the small white house in the vast landscape, showing both the scale of the island and the quick changes in the weather. Skye is a breathtaking island where you definitely don't struggle to find an opportunity to take a shot, it's a very inspiring place.
For this issue, Damian Ward talks about how his photography has evolved over the past seven years. Stepping away for a while allowed a creative reawakening and inspired a shift away from increasingly popular woodland scenes to more personal, monochrome images capturing smaller scenes and embracing imperfection. We touch on the joys of working locally and how revisiting familiar places continually offers a new perspective, as well as the books that Damian has recently made.
Looking back, I was surprised find that it’s been seven years since we featured you in On Landscape. Time flies, as they say. What has given you most enjoyment, or satisfaction, in the intervening period?
During and around COVID, I took a little break from photography. I was starting to feel that my work was not evolving and was becoming predictable. At this time, there was also a growing trend amongst photographers to photograph woodland like myself. I just felt that I was not producing anything special that could not be seen by one of the many other photographers who were doing the same. Taking some time out gave me the opportunity to recompose and figure out what direction I wanted to take.
Last time we spoke, we talked about a project of mine called Entangled. The images in this project were more intimate and all shot in black and white. The black and white element must have planted a seed that grew into the new direction I chose to take with my photography.
Last time we spoke, we talked about a project of mine called Entangled. The images in this project were more intimate and all shot in black and white. The black and white element must have planted a seed that grew into the new direction I chose to take with my photography.
Starting again, I felt refreshed and eager to begin my new path.
Have your tastes in photography changed at all, or what you find inspiration in? Either in terms of your own work, or what you enjoy looking at.
I like to think my photographic style has broadened and developed. I tend to enjoy making images of small scenes rather than wider vistas. I also think I tend to do a lot more close-up work now too. Woodland scenes now feature less in my work, even though I do still enjoy photographing them, albeit in a different style.
The landscape and natural world continue to inspire me, but I am also comfortable making images in urban environments and places where you might not expect to find inspiration. There is beauty all around; you just have to look for it. I think I now try to embrace imperfection a bit more. To me, imperfections add character and realism. I think my taste in music has influenced me here, as the music I like is full of imperfections.
I have often written about the problems with photography competitions: the fact that they reduce a creative and personal art to a simple “this > that” equation; that they only rank those that ‘play’; and that it is impossible to compare a photograph of a flower and a volcano. All of this is before we look at how individual competitions are run, which can introduce a litany of potential problems.
It’s the idea of ‘competition’ that is anathema to most photographers. Of what benefit is there from pushing our most loved creations into a beauty parade? And yet the idea that, as photographers, we can avoid competition is also naive. So many of the things we want to do with our photographs rely on being put in a position of winning or losing. The potential exhibition where the curator chooses between artists; the inclusion or exclusion from a magazine or journal; The sharing/liking of one image over another on social media; the competition for an art purchaser’s discretionary spend. The list goes on and on. In fact, I would suggest that the only way to avoid competition is to remove yourself from any interaction involving your images at all.
But competition in art is not a recent development. In ancient Greece, around the 4th century BCE, professional art associations and guilds helped organise competitions. The “Technitai of Dionysus’’ ensured that prize money was distributed fairly and competitions were run on time. From Roman through Byzantine periods, artists competed for commissions by the ruling classes for the decoration of their churches and cathedrals. In the 14th century, a competition was declared for a commission to build the doors to the Florentine Baptistry. With thirty-four jurors and only eight entrants, it was probably intimidating for the artists involved but the commission would make them relative millionaires over the decades it took to build them.
One of the most recognisable art ‘competitions’ is probably the Paris Salon. Introduced in the 1600s, the Salon became the premiere event for artists throughout France. When a jury was introduced in the 1800s, the exhibition became an actual competition with the potential prize of becoming an established artist. As you can imagine, this became incredibly popular, and the minutiae of how the juries assessed work were deliberated over ad infinitum. Many of the choices were controversial, but the main problem with the Salon was that it was incredibly conservative. You were expected to work in a certain style and with specific materials, etc.
You’d think photography competitions are a more recent invention, but after a bit of research I found out that in the seven years before the Salon de Refusés (1856) was instigated, multiple photography competitions had already taken place.
Manet’s “Le déjeuner sur l’herbe” - Loser!
When more than two-thirds of the entrants for the 1863 Salon were rejected, including work by Courbet, Pissaro and Manet, many of those turned down decided to form their own exhibition and called it the “Salon des Refusés” or exhibition of the rejects; I cannot imagine the horror of being turned down for that show!
You’d think photography competitions are a more recent invention, but after a bit of research I found out that in the seven years before the Salon de Refusés was instigated, multiple photography competitions had already taken place. For example, in 1856 the Photographic Society of Scotland awarded medals in their open competition.
How about the equivalent of the Olympic games for art? Well you don’t need to imagine it. If you had been around in the early 20th century you could have represented your country in the Fine Art category and instead of including “Prize-winning photographer” on your website, you could have had “Olympic Gold Medal Winning Photographer.” What an accolade!
Early RPS Exhibition - V&A Archive
Over the next few decades, photography competitions became a topic of many discussions in the journals of the day with some winning portfolios travelling across the oceans to be displayed in front of learned societies worldwide. In 1893, the journal of The American Amateur Photographer discussed a display of competition slides from the 1891 London Photography Competition with some little moaning about the winner’s lack of originality in subject choice. Nothing really changes.
It is easy to look at winners and identify how the competition is helpful for them - after all, the process boosts both their pockets and their profile - but how useful is it to everyone else?
So what about more recent art competitions? There are quite a few juried exhibitions around now, such as the DeVos Foundation’s ArtPrize, Priz Pictet, The Turner Prize, the MacArthur Fellowship, the Guggenheim “Hugo Boss”, The Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, The Deutsche Börse Prize, etc. These have helped the careers of artists such as Cindy Sherman, Edward Burtynsky, Anish Kapoor, Richard Long and more.
It is easy to look at winners and identify how the competition is helpful for them - after all, the process boosts both their pockets and their profile - but how useful is it to everyone else? Most high-profile art competitions are connected with equally major exhibitions. Although many exhibitions are in small boutique galleries and are inaccessible to most people, others have major exhibitions at venues like the National Gallery and the Guggenheim. Other exhibitions rely on a book publication to share the work of a large number of entrants. These books then become a tool for collectors and curators around the world to research new artists. A book also has the advantage of remaining long after an exhibition has been dismantled.
For those who don’t find themselves in an exhibition or book, it’s more difficult to identify the advantages of entering a competition. In some cases, a competition will extend its remit to include portfolio reviews, talks and opportunities for networking for any who enter.
Of course, there are bad competitions out there that are only interested in collecting submission fees. I recently heard of someone asking a well-known photographer about a competition they were supposed to be judging and discovering that they knew nothing about it!
Royal Academy Summer Exhibition by Herry Lawford
There are obviously many poor reasons for entering competitions. If the only positive outcome expected from entering is a potential win, then I would suggest having a rethink. The process of entering a competition should be an opportunity to assess your work and find out how you think about it in relation to how others consider it. It is also an important moment to think about the relative objective and subjective sides to looking at work. Many of us have photographs that we love but that we know would not have much broader appeal; this should not devalue that work. However, most people want to share their work with a wider audience of their peers and the general public and the process of curating your own photographs in preparation for submission is a great time to reflect on your portfolio.
If a competition provides feedback, it is also useful to see how others look at your own work. For instance, which images resonated with the judges the most. We don’t have to agree with the results - after all, moaning about judges is a time-honoured activity for the seasoned artist!
For all of their quirks, I feel that well-run art competitions provide a useful service to artists. The results can show the wider public a cross-section of the many talented amateur and professional artists throughout the world. I feel privileged to have been part of many photography competitions and in the process, I’ve seen amazing and beautiful images in hundreds of different styles. The fact is that competitions will always play a part in nearly every creative pursuit and, as such, making sure they're as ethical and supportive as possible is a valid goal.
And on that note, the competition I set up with Matt Payne, Alex Nail and Rajesh Jyothiswaran five years ago is open for submissions as we speak (and until the end of May). If you're interested in entering, you can use the discount code "onlandscape15" at this link. You can also buy one of our books with a 20% discount by using the code "onlandscape20" at NLPA Hardback Books.
The RPS Landscape Group is set to launch its second Members’ Outdoor Exhibition, starting in May 2025 at the historic Southwark Cathedral in London. The exhibition will travel to over eight locations before concluding in Scotland in spring 2026, coinciding with the 10th anniversary of the Landscape Group, which now boasts nearly 1,200 members.
The 30-metre outdoor display, accessible 24/7, will feature 80 striking images ranging from sweeping landscapes and seascapes to intimate urban abstracts.
6 - 21 September 2025: Yorkshire Museum/Dame Judi Dench Walk, York
4 - 26 October 2025: Chester Cathedral, Chester
8 - 23 November 2025: Crow Park, Keswick
2026: Additional locations and dates to be announced
Selected Images from the Exhibition
Below are ten selected images from the exhibition, accompanied by insights from the photographers.
Broads Reeds - Vaughn Sears ARPS
This image was taken while I was on a boat trip on Rollesby Broad in Norfolk. This broad is less busy than most and has a good variety of birds. These reeds are seen all over the Norfolk Broads and grow out into the narrow channel between Rollesby and Ormesby Little Broad. The morning sunlight was nicely highlighting a row of reeds that stepped down in height and ended with a single straight reed apart from the rest.
Düsseldorf Theatre - Mark Reeves FRPS
Düsseldorf Schauspielhaus is one of Germany's leading theatres. It was designed by architect Bernhard Pfau following an international competition in 1959, with its striking appearance due, in part, to its aluminium panel cladding. The image was taken during the evening and the building was illuminated by artificial light. Apart from removing minor distractions, my edit was done almost exclusively through masking and tonal changes.
Edinburgh - Morag Forbes LRPS
This is a composite image of Edinburgh, creatively edited in Photoshop. I have tried to convey what I feel is the ‘essence’ of Edinburgh. Old town meets new town, the history, architecture, and transport network, the past echoed and melded and ever present within the new. The transient nature of the beautiful capital city of Scotland.
From the Tierberglihütte - Evelyne Peten
Spring is ski touring season, my favourite time of year! The Tierberglihütte (2,795 m) is a 3/4 hour hike from the road to the Sustenpass. Some parts are quite steep, depending on snow cover. The setting is spectacular, surrounded by glaciers, a lovely view west toward the valley and east toward the Sustenhorn (3,502 m), our aim for the next day. I’ve printed it on very thick Hahnemühle paper and really like the aquarelle effect.
Harbour Entrance, Whitby - David Rees
This shot was taken on trip exploring the very varied coastline of North Yorkshire. In addition to its beaches and cliffs I found the urban landscape of Whitby with its working port attractive. The high viewpoint revealed the simplicity of the harbour entrance whilst the evening light added warmth to the scene. Smoothing the water, the slight colouring in the sky and an indistinct horizon suggests a quiet end to the day.
Late Autumn Birch, New Forest - Roger Creber ARPS
I enjoy making images in the woods and commons of the New Forest. Especially in the autumn when the golden leaves of the wonderful silver birch trees put on a spectacular display of colour. This image was made one morning in early December when the colours were still amazingly at their peak, within the frame of the balancing tree trunks. The muted layers at the base and the exclusion of any distracting sky were also important.
Towards Coquet Island - Anthony Wright ARPS
Living near the Northumberland coast gives me the opportunity to plan a visit when the tides and light conditions coincide to capture this photograph of Coquet Island that I had envisaged. With the setting sun and dunes behind me, I set-up my tripod and camera on a rocky outcrop. The scene was set with low light hitting the island and leading rocks to the left. A long exposure helped to give the serene feeling I wanted to create.
Tranquillity - Keith Surey ARPS
Taken on Scarista Beach, Isle of Harris, this Intentional Camera Movement shot conveys the softness of the sand and the tranquillity of the sea with waves gently braking on the shoreline. The shot with slightly enhanced colours conveys the feeling of the beauty and calmness of Harris.
Trees in the Quarry - Clare Collins ARPS
This image was taken in Bolehill Quarry during a photography trip to the Peak District with members of my RPS Landscape critique group. I spent ages in the quarry photographing views of the trees and rocks. I had both my colour and infrared cameras but I found the infrared images more appealing. I chose this image as it seemed to give a painterly feeling to the trees which I emphasised in my processing.
Woodwalton Church - Michael Cant
St Andrew’s in the Cambridgeshire Fens is a redundant church, sitting in splendid isolation, a peaceful place except when a train passes by. The sweeping curve of the track led my eye straight to the church and the tree in the foreground perfectly framed it. The sky was ideal for infrared photography as the high level hazy clouds softened the light just enough for the image I had in mind. I hope it conveys the tranquillity.
Over the past five years, my photography journey has been a bit of a whirlwind. I’ve switched from digital to film, downsized (or upsized?) from full-frame sensors to large-format cameras, and completely overhauled the way I think about creating images. The biggest change? My mindset. For years, I had a pretty scattered approach. I’d photograph anything that caught my interest in the aim of getting my work into agencies, more for my own satisfaction at times, even before earning a living, which, looking back, is ridiculous; the only real purpose it served was keeping my shutter finger in shape.
To be fair, there was a perk: it made me a better lecturer for those who were looking at moving into the industry for a future career. I could give students some insider knowledge about the business side of photography, as I sold some of my work through agencies. But I have to admit, the motivation behind my constant shooting wasn’t exactly noble—it was more about getting a pat on the back when an image made the cut.
I recently listened to a talk based on convergent and divergent thinking, and it made me seriously look at my own work from today and the past.
When agencies turned me down, their feedback—“too weak” or “not enough impact”—was enlightening and gave me a good insight into what was wanted.
One memorable moment was when I got into a bit of a tiff with another lecturer. A student had asked for feedback on their work, and I gave an honest opinion based on my experience with agencies. The student appreciated it, but my colleague? Not so much. They thought I was being too harsh. However, if you’ve been in the industry, you know sugarcoating doesn’t help anyone. Anyway, those days are behind me now. These days, I’ve traded the hustle for a slower, more meaningful approach.
At first glance, it could be any ruined cottage standing abandoned in a moorland landscape, but this is no ordinary derelict cottage, nor is this any ordinary moorland.
A’ Mhòine (The Moss) is a large area of blanket peat bog covering most of the Tongue peninsula on the north coast of the Scottish mainland. Today, it is part of the ‘Flow Country’, which extends over wide areas of Sutherland and Caithness. It is managed by a number of organisations working to maintain and restore these rare peatlands for the benefit of people and wildlife and to return them to the important role of storing carbon absorbed from the atmosphere. Their efforts have been rewarded by the recent recognition of the Flow Country as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
Meanwhile, Moine House seems a rather grand name for what was, even when it was first built in 1830, a humble abode consisting of two ground-floor rooms and an attic. A large plaque on the east gable bears an inscription, now almost illegible, which tells the story of the house and the 14 miles of road that was built at the same time across A’ Mhòine, from Loch Eribol and Loch Hope in the west to the Kyle of Tongue in the east. The inscription begins with an explanation:
This house erected for the refuge of the traveller was to commemorate the construction of the Road across the deep and dangerous morass of the Moin, impracticable to all but the hardy and active native; to him even it was a day of toil and of labour. This road was made in the year 1830 at the sole expense of the Marquess of Stafford .
The Marquess is better known today as the Duke of Sutherland and as one of the most blameworthy of the landlords in the area, along with Lord Reay, for their overzealous “clearing” of crofters from their homes in villages such as Rosal and Achanlochy in Strathnaver. The inscription goes on to praise the evident improvement, warranting the plaque to be …
...put up and dedicated by James Loch Esq. M.P., Auditor and Commissioner ... and John Horseburgh Esq., factor for … Reay County, Strathnaver, Strath Halladale and Assynt, under whose direction this work was executed and who alone know the difficulties that occurred in its execution and the liberality and perseverance by which they were overcome.~Peter Lawson Surveyor
While these names are still discernible, no mention is made of the crofters by whose labour the road was actually built. Previously displaced from their homes in Strathnaver, etc., and struggling to make a living on the coast to which they had been required to move, they were at least paid for their labour constructing or improving the roads in the area. The problem of constructing a road over a bog was overcome by using bundles of heather laid under the surface to prevent it sinking. In the 1939 edition of the guidebook ‘Scotland for Everyman’ by H.A. Piehler, he calls the road “The Tongue road” and describes it as being in “fair condition” as it “… crosses a dreary peat-moss called the Mhoine, rising to 741 feet, with splendid views, and then descending the shore of the Kyle of Tongue”. This old single-track road was only replaced in 1993 by the new A838, which runs just north of the house.
While these names are still discernible, no mention is made of the crofters by whose labour the road was actually built. Previously displaced from their homes in Strathnaver, etc., and struggling to make a living on the coast to which they had been required to move, they were at least paid for their labour constructing or improving the roads in the area.
Moine House fared less well over time. Intended as a halfway house for weary travellers crossing the bog, it was also a family home and in 1881 it housed three generations, totalling four adults and five grandchildren. The last occupant seems to have been one of the grandchildren who was three years old in 1881. There was no mention of MoineHousee in the 1939 guidebook, but in 1981, when it became a C-listed building, it was described as being in a poor state, although still having a roof. The roof was removed for safety reasons in the 1990’s and photographs in 2020 show the interior walls used for artistic graffiti (later removed). Today, it still awaits possible restoration, adorned only with the last licks of blue-painted woodwork and yellow lichens.
For us, this was an ideal photographic location on our trip to north Sutherland in October 2024. We had several projects in mind, including the ecology of the Flow Country peatlands and the stories of the Highland Clearances.
Paul has a long-standing interest in the consequences for both people and the landscape of the Highland clearances, and we had already visited and been very moved by the stories and remains at Achanlochy and Rosal. The road across A' Mhoine was built about 10 years after the end of the clearances, but it illustrated a further manifestation of the difficulty of crofters needing to find a living after removal to poor agricultural land on the coast. On the peat bog itself, he found the movement of the vegetation on windswept Moine and around the house grabbed his attention, and the depths of the peaty pools gripped his imagination.
For us, this was an ideal photographic location on our trip to north Sutherland in October 2024. We had several projects in mind, including the ecology of the Flow Country peatlands and the stories of the Highland Clearances.
Sandy with her passion for ‘primitive’ plants such as mosses, lichens, liverworts and their environments, was very much in her element on A’ Moine, searching for different types of lichens and sphagnum mosses and appreciating how their life cycles create the dynamic and very substance of peat bogs, along with other bog or water-loving plants. She used vertical framing to convey the expanse of deep colours of the peat bog laid before the distant mountains while maintaining some plant detail in the foreground.
While we share interests in the natural world, landscape photography and social history, and often take photographs of similar subjects, our approaches differ to some degree.
Sandy likes to wander with a camera in hand, using one camera with a short telephoto lens. She looks for interesting compositions in the landscape, but particularly for smaller details. Often, she finds that a thread emerges (an idea, a feeling, the lines of a poem, a memory, even a story) that might connect the experience and link with the images. She takes mainly colour photographs and likes to make a series of images for a blog or small handmade books.
Paul works in monochrome with digital and medium format film cameras, nearly always using a tripod, which slows down the process and allows him to use slow shutter speeds or multiple exposures to capture the mood and movement of a scene in a mindful way in single or sequences of images. In our image-making, we are both interested not only in the feel of a place or subject and the emotions it gives rise to, but also in the notion of time passing, the paradox of past and future represented in the present.
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:
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" 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.
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
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
