There is often an ancillary to being a committed coast hugger. Whilst living in fiery southern England, access to the stretch of coast I explored was usually through the New Forest. Often, there was light streaming through the chaos of the trees and bracken, and so, rather than heading straight through, I started to stop and consequently concentrated on the forest itself. Soon, there was a project. The New Forest is an extremely popular place for visitors throughout the year, especially so during daylight hours in summer. Through the project, I wanted to show how the forest looked outside of those times and perhaps provide a motivation for other photographers to engage with an environment in their own personal way.

It is fair to say that much has been said about getting to know your part of the landscape, which is invaluable in terms of accessing and recording the change or nature of light and the way the land evolves. Such was my first engagement with Forvie in Aberdeenshire. Initially, it was the beach, the sea and how, in the winter months, the sea and sky merge within the same colour palette. That sense of peace and of losing yourself in the landscape and the photography process.

To get to the Forvie coast, there is a need to trek/hike/yomp (I call it a trek, but my partner says it is a mild stroll) through the sand dunes. I was used to a few dunes when living on the south coast, but these were something else. The Sands of Forvie are part of the Forvie National Nature Reserve, which covers almost a thousand hectares of sand dunes and dune heath between the North Sea and River Ythan estuary.

During the past five years, there has been an extensive engagement with these dunes and I have made many photographs of the textures, the abstracts and of the dune system.

The first engagement was in late January and was mostly about recording the dune system in context by making wider images with the sea as background and some sunset sky. There was also the attraction of recent frost, causing the dunes to look as though covered by an icing sugar coating with a strong sun, allowing a variety of textures with shadow lines like mini fantasy worlds. It was wonderful - the curves of sand lines leading to the dune tops with a small cloudscape accompanied by images of an abstract nature of the sand patterns and the effect of the frost alongside the relationship with the grasses. Well, it was all very enjoyable being out next to the coast in the fresh Aberdeenshire weather, and something obviously had happened. I wanted to return and although there were no project ideas at that time, I felt that it had to be in frosty conditions and to immerse myself in a relatively small area of the dune system.

I returned a year later due to the frosty conditions and although they were a few dune portraits, they did not have the sea as background - they were isolated against cloudy skies. I began to take more and more abstract images as though as if from a panoramic view of an Arabian landscape. The strong sunlight really helped, as did the strong winds of the previous days that had swept away any footprints and provided excellent ripples. This sort of approach continued into the next year with more and more concentration on abstracts and forms.

In 2022, there was a different shift in my approach. During a second visit in March, I thought could I make a coherent project from just a day's visit with images being part of a wider body of work? From that single day, I made a small monochrome project called March Days (March as, well, that was the month and March as in the route March takes to get to the dunes…), and a subsequent book was printed.

There is something special about losing yourself in the photographic process, trying to create a series of works within a tight time and geographical constraints. On reflection, it is the way that I work within my projects, although never intentionally.

A visit is best after a good wind-bound day and ideally frosty conditions, and there is no need for the so-called golden hours as I have and continue to make work in the bright, cloudless midday sunshine with the consequence of wonderful textures and shadows.

This article concerns my long-lasting love affair with a wild meadow next to where I live.

Church Meadow lies next to the River Brett in Suffolk. The river meanders through the mid Suffolk countryside, past unspoilt medieval wool villages like Kettlebaston, Chelsworth & Kersey before joining the River Stour on the Essex border in ‘Constable Country’. The river is bordered along much of its route by water meadows.

Meadows like this have been retained over the centuries as a defensive flood measure. They have the capacity to accommodate flood water after heavy rain. Apart from mills, houses were generally built further back from the river on slightly higher ground. This has allowed the meadows to remain undisturbed for a very long time.

This particular meadow has been much the same for many hundreds of years. Thanks to old Manorial Court Rolls the ownership and use of all this land is known from about 1300. Two medieval timber-framed houses once stood at its edge till the Lord of the Manor demolished them in about 1750. A small part had an orchard once. Another section was a ‘tenterpiece’, where skins and fleeces were dried and stretched out on ‘tenterhooks’. There is no trace of the old houses. What remains is about 5 acres of unspoilt wild meadow. The meadow appears in many old photographs from 1860 onwards. These images and numerous paintings of the village over the years confirm that it really hasn’t changed much. I feel less like the owner and more like the current custodian of something that needs to be preserved for future generations.

Church Meadow has been managed in the traditional way as much as possible. The key is to avoid the build up of nutrients. Wildflowers do best in ‘poor’ soil. Grazing with livestock is very useful as the grass is eaten right back, and nutrients are removed from the soil. Alternatively, in some years, in June or early July, the meadow is cut for hay, which is then taken away. Combined with an autumn graze, this is a great way to keep the grasses very short over winter so that wildflowers have a better chance at the start of the next growing season. This also helps discourage plants like nettles which only grow well in nitrate-rich soils.

I have optimised the management of my meadow as much as possible for over 20 years now. A previous owner cut the grass in the meadow fairly regularly to keep it short. The cuttings were always left in place, meaning that nutrients were not being removed. Over the years of my management, the changes have been very pleasing. The number and variety of wildflowers has increased greatly. Cow parsley erupts in May, along with great swathes of buttercups, where once only little clusters of these plants appeared.

The range of plants is more diverse than one might imagine on a quick inspection. A ten minute survey a few years ago reached a count of 40 different species in one corner of the meadow. The plant and flower names are a rich source of fascination and beauty in themselves. Reading the names pulls you back to the days of folk remedies and lore. A few of the plant and flower species include: Oxeye daisy, Common mallow, Stitchwort, Lady’s Bedstraw, Pignut, Ground Ivy, Cow Parsley, Hemlock, Ramsons (aka Wild Garlic), Common Sorrel, Broad-leafed dock, Tufted Vetch, Red Clover, Bugle, Cowslips, Primrose, Cleavers (aka Sticky Willy, Goose Grass), Cranesbill, Stitchwort, Red Campion, White Campion (‘Grave Flower’), Speedwell, Poppies, Stinging nettle, Ribwort Plantain, Dead nettle, Teasels, Buttercups and various Thistles. There is a huge variety of grasses, including: Tufted Hair-grass, Quaking grass, Red Fescue, Cocksfoot grass, Meadow foxtail, Yorkshire fog, Lesser Timothy etc. as well as various sedges and rushes.

Much of the fauna in the meadow remains hidden from easy view. Significant numbers of mice, shrews and voles inhabit the long grass. I can occasionally stumble upon a group of tiny, newly emerged baby mice playing outside their hole. When the meadow is cut, the tractor is followed closely by a Kestrel that swoops periodically to mantle over an unfortunate vole and carries it off to the nest.

Winter is a quieter time in the meadow, but larger plants, such as the poisonous hemlock, can be 8 feet tall or more. They die off slowly, covered in frost on some mornings. Teasels similarly retain their structure for months.

For years now, I have come to love sitting or even lying in the meadow in Spring or Summer and taking the opportunity to feel more connected with nature and to experience the sense of peace and tranquillity there. In this mad rush of a modern world, this feels very important to me. This has also nurtured my creativity. The seasonally evolving tapestry of colours, textures and tones is a constant source of inspiration. Witnessing its subtle beauties has instilled in me a deep appreciation of the wonders of life and a sense of responsibility towards the environment.

I have been taking photographs of this meadow for almost 30 years. I’ve owned it for 21 years. Initial images were all wider views, such as of the expanse of buttercups between the mature oak and chestnut trees or of horses grazing in the long grass. One year a young New Forest pony that had been captured in the regular round-up there, was allowed to graze the meadow for a few months with an older point-to-pointer for company. I loved watching it grow and develop as it slowly shed its fluffy coat and turned into a promising but spirited adult. That made for quite a few pleasing images.

In more recent times, I have begun to transition to more personal, perhaps even expressive image making in the meadow. Rather than wide views, I have started to get closer, to make images of the details and of the feel of the place. I particularly like the late afternoon light as it rakes over the meadow, with long shadows cast by the mature trees of the churchyard next door. I have made images with my back to the light and into the light, as well as side lit.

My first discovery was how the view changed completely if I squatted down low or even lay on the ground. I did this as carefully as possible, trying to keep damage to a minimum. I began to experiment with different focal lengths and wider apertures. I tried my macro lens up close, then a 50mm prime lens at a longer distance. I even tried using a 80-400mm zoom at 300-400mm. All of this was using manual focus and exposure, hand-held. I could have used a tripod but it felt too restrictive. It is absolutely fascinating, patiently panning around, zooming in and out, playing with the focus ring at wide apertures as the lens peers through the layers of thick, complex vegetation. Little seed heads, or flowers, or strands of grass would come in and out of focus. This very shallow depth of field drew attention to subtle elements and hidden treasures in the environment that might otherwise go unnoticed. For me the resulting images convey not only a sense of intimacy but also a sense of calmness, perhaps too of romanticism and even of mystery.

These images were greatly affected by the direction of light. Whilst shooting into the sun at eye level had worked well enough, it gave results that were too harsh and contrasty when crouching low.

My second discovery was playing with the lit and unlit areas, particularly late in the day. A friend suggested placing myself in an unlit area but shooting towards a lit area, with the resulting view ‘emerging’ from the shadows. I found this to be an excellent way of framing the view and distilling the subject.

Some days were productive, others weren’t. I tried different parts of the meadow, different times of day and different lighting. Even within the meadow, there is a lot of variety in the mix of the grasses, textures etc, so I had plenty of choice.

Other ideas I have tried include shooting fractionally above the tops of the cow parsley or grasses, focussing on a single stem or on a tree branch behind; shooting from under a tree, looking out through its leaves; shooting on dewy mornings with little spider webs catching the light.

I hope that my work conveys a sense of ethereal beauty, transporting viewers to a dreamlike realm where they can engage with the emotions and stories embedded within the frame. The images presented here concentrate on late Spring and early Summer when life seems to be at its most varied and abundant.

This year the meadow was cut earlier than I would like. Beggars can’t be choosers! I was given the offer of a free proper hay cut. The hay would be used by a local couple to keep their flock of Suffolk and Shetland sheep going over winter. Apparently, the North of England has a shortage of hay, but locally there is a great excess, so it was great to find someone to take it away and use it. If I’d paid for it to be cut I’d have paid a few hundred pounds. As it is I’ve traded the hay for the promise of some very fine organic lamb for the freezer in a few months' time. It was a good trade - a ‘win-win’.

When the day of the cut arrived, it was quite an emotional moment watching a giant tractor eat up my beloved meadow. In about 90 minutes, it was transformed from a chest high wonderland of long, lush grass and wildflowers to lower than ankle level and a whole lot of dust. The local kestrel enjoyed catching some of the mice and voles that were disturbed. A huge grass snake made a sudden bit for freedom and gave me quite a fright as I watched the tractor do its work.

My meadow has been cut really short. The cut hay has all been removed. Not all of the cow parsley and buttercups had set seed fully, but overall it's much better than leaving it uncut or partly grazed. I’m still hoping for a late autumn graze this year.

For now, further photography will have to wait.

A small group of young people hang out on one of the sunny lawns between the allées of trees, while another visitor stretches out for a nap.

Amidst the seemingly endless sprawl of concrete and asphalt that comprises Mexico City's landscape, there is a place where you can sit in a tree-rimmed meadow and listen to the morning calls of robins and warblers, the hammer of a woodpecker and the gentle thrum of the hummingbird. Viveros is a 96-acre park located in the southern municipality of Coyoacán, a vital green space in the heart of one of the world's greatest conurbations. I have spent many pleasant hours wandering around its expansive grounds, taking advantage of the shade and oxygen provided by the thousands of trees.

Viveros was founded and designed by the urban planner Miguel Angel de Quevado (1862-1946). Born in Mexico and raised in France, Quevado received his Bachelor of Science at the University of Bordeaux, then studied civil engineering and hydrology at the École Polytechnique in Paris. He returned to Mexico City in 1887 and worked in a variety of jobs, including as Director of Public Works and later as a high ranking official in the Secretariat of Agriculture, where he oversaw arboreal research and management. He founded the Central Committee of Forests and Tree Areas, which was the first environmental protection institution in Mexico.

Statue of Miguel Angel de Quevado, the "Apostle of the Trees," greets visitors at the southwest gate of Viveros.

Quevado was part of a generation of wealthy, highly paternalistic urban reformers who believed in a direct correspondence between environment and behaviour, and that to modify the quality of one is to modify the other. To this end, they imagined that improving the physical conditions of housing, sanitation, and overcrowding would result in a more hygienic, productive, and well behaved population. Despite this moralistic vision, reformers racked up important achievements such as new social housing, a greatly extended sewer system, and parks and open spaces.

In 1901, Quevado donated the first hectare of land to what would become Viveros ("The nurseries") out of his own property. Over the next twenty years, the park grew through purchases of adjacent hacienda land. The municipal administration recognized Viveros in 1917, and in 1936, the federal government declared it a National Park. It also became home to several government institutions, including the National Forest Research Institute, the Secretariat of the Environment and Natural Resources, and the Secretariat for Public Works and Urban Development.

Evergreen saplings in starter pods at the Viveros tree nursery. When they are ready, crews will transfer them to parks, playgrounds, and street tree pits throughout the city.

Today, Viveros remains the city's principal tree nursery. Large areas are set aside for seedlings and saplings, which can be transplanted into parks, playgrounds, schoolyards, sidewalks, and restoration projects across the metropolis. There are also numerous allées of mature trees grouped by species, including sweetgum, ash, cedar, Chinese elm, jacaranda, acacia, pears, and various pines and eucalyptus. Such a diversity of trees, with their varied heights and structures, make Viveros a rich bird habitat and a major destination for bird watchers in the city.

An allée of white cedar trees with their long soft needles and gnarled trunks, on the north side of Viveros.

In addition to the arboreal sections, areas are devoted to arid and semi-arid plants, with a large collection of cacti and succulents from the surrounding Valley of Mexico. These species are adapted to the saline conditions of Mexico City's soil, as well as to its high altitude and oscillating wet/dry seasons. There are also plants that thrive in the various pedregals- stony landscapes of basalt laid down through successive volcanic eruptions over time. Rounding out the arid and semi-arid section are species common to Oaxaca, Puebla, Chiapas, Vera Cruz, and other states.

The semi-arid section includes blue agave, nopal, barrel cactus, and many other species important to Mexican ecology and culture.

Finally, the entire park is intersected with and encircled by pathways. Even with 2500 to 3000 visitors daily, the park seldom feels crowded as people fan out across the paths, meadows, lawns, playgrounds, and shady seating areas. Runners can use the peripheral path, while others can walk leisurely among the allées between the trees. A large workout station anchors the southeast side, along with playgrounds and basketball courts. At the centre of the park is a bullfighting practice ring where young toreadors train and perfect their craft. There are also areas dedicated to spiritual and religious practice, including a lawn for Tai Chi, an outdoor Buddhist temple and meditation ground, and a shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe mounted to a tree.

The great oval at the centre of Viveros is home to a toreador school, and park visitors can watch students and teachers practice their craft.

The sanctuary for health an iron grill decorated with white lilies, where parkgoers can pray to the Virgin of Guadalupe for health and healing.

At the northeast corner of the park is a large and popular Mercado de Plantas, a gardening centre with numerous vendors selling seeds, seedlings, flowers, pots, statuary, equipment, soil and fertilizer. The centre maintains a large display of botanical species, especially of flowering plants and a herbarium for cooks and healers. Every year at Christmas the center hosts a manger diorama competition, with elaborate scenes recreating the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem.

One of a dozen entries in the annual Christmas competition that features elaborate dioramas depicting the birth of Jesus, blending Biblical and folk stories.

Weekends find the park packed with people from the surrounding neighbourhoods of Florida, Axotla, San Ángel, Del Carmen, Santa Catarina, and Xoco. Adding to their numbers are visitors from more distant areas of the city drawn to the calm green landscape and varied activities on offer at Viveros. In addition to visiting the playgrounds and workout stations or watching the toreadors at practice in the central oval, parkgoers can enjoy weekend events such as art festivals, concerts, and plays.

Weekdays bring a different rhythm to the park. Runners, joggers, and bird watchers stream into Viveros as early as 6am when staff open the gates. By mid-morning, the traffic noise from the six-lane Avenida Universidad crescendos along the western edge of the park. Most of the joggers have cleared out, and the playgrounds fill with pre-school children. As 1pm approaches, workers from surrounding areas begin filing into the park to eat packed lunches, followed in the 3-4pm range by small groups of high school kids who use the park to cut through or to hang out after the last bell. Families stroll into and out of the park from 4-6pm, imbibing ice cream, paletas, and snacks from the many vendors that cluster around the gates. Finally, at 6pm, the gates close and staff usher people out for the night.

Early morning visitors cross paths in the southwest part of Viveros.

Families enjoy a later afternoon stroll along one of the principal east-west paths in Viveros.

Despite its origins in a paternalistic middle class vision of a conflict free urban future, Viveros today is one of the world's great urban parks and a crucial breath of life for Mexico City. Its trees not only take in tons of carbon dioxide and return oxygen, but they also metabolise pollution, reduce surface temperature, slow rainwater infiltration, and shade the world. The trunks, branches, roots, and canopy also provide interlacing habitat for diverse species of mammals, reptiles, birds, insects, and fungi.

A culture is no better than its woods.~W.H.Auden

During an excursion through the Taunus mountains, I passed through one of the many beech woods that cover the mountains. It was a cold winter's day, shrouded in a low layer of clouds that gave the landscape a deep purple colour, and the thin layer of snow that had fallen the night before was barely visible.

In this somber and melancholy landscape, the silent beeches rose black as the skeletons of a cathedral in ruins. My boots splashed through the thick mixture of snow and mud on the road, and I heard the echoes of a few creaking noises that softly broke the silence around me. I looked towards the tops of the trees and saw that they were swaying restlessly, getting closer and then moving away.

I was apprehensive, remembering some scientific article that explained that trees are capable of communicating with each other and reacting collectively to threats and aggressions from their surroundings. At that moment, I thought that the beeches, like a herd alarmed by a threat, were shifting nervously, warning each other of the presence of a danger, which was none other than myself, a human being – the species responsible for centuries of mass destruction of the woods – who was entering their territory. Small and alone as I was, I was anguished at being seen as a danger by the trees.

My relationship with the Earth has changed substantially over the years – due, among other things, to my love for landscape photography –and since that excursion, my relationship with trees has changed even more.

Science has contributed knowledge about the sensitivity and intelligence of the different living beings on Earth. While in the 1970s, I was sceptical about the assumption that talking to plants helped them grow more healthily. Today, I talk to them while watering them, just in case.

So, when I go on an excursion to take photos, in order not to cause any fear among the trees – real or imaginary, who knows – as I thought I had done on that winter excursion when I enter a wood, I usually murmur a greeting, whistle in reply to birdsong and, from time to time, rest the palms of my hands on the rough bark of an oak or elm, on the smooth bark of a beech or poplar, or on the fascinating bark of a birch tree.

In short, rites of peace, rites of concord between species. Perhaps Claude Lévi-Strauss was right when he wrote, “It is therefore better, instead of contrasting magic and science, to compare them as two parallel modes of acquiring knowledge.”

Once the trees have been warned that I come in peace, I walk quietly and with a certain reverence among these still, silent beings, and I try to capture their beauty, harmony and dignity with the camera as they appear before me. I cannot avoid a tendency to romanticise them, as suggested by Novalis when claiming that the world had to be romanticised, “giving the ordinary a superior meaning, the vulgar a mysterious aspect, the known the dignity of the unknown, the finite an infinite appearance.”

I like to go on these photographic excursions where the trees live, especially in autumn and winter, when the fog and snow take over; I enjoy the silence and the light, whether I am taking photos or not. And like the trees, I have the patience necessary to enjoy their company. But, despite everything, I can't help returning from each excursion with a certain elegiac feeling.

Snow and Fog

On days when the landscape is covered in mist and snow, I prefer to walk around the edges of the woods rather than go into them.

These border spaces constitute, in these circumstances, a dual, ambiguous, inert world. On the one hand, the veiled shadow of the forest huddled together like a fearful herd; on the other, the tide of imprecision that runs through the landscape, greatly simplified, now revealing and now hiding the shadows of solitary trees. We will never know if they were dissenters and heterodox trees expelled from the forest or hermits and anchorites that sought another life in those translucent spaces.

Silence

Walking aimlessly through these woods, sometimes, very occasionally, one has magical, almost metaphysical encounters with arcane totems: the still-upright trunk of a dead tree in a corner of a clearing, suspended in the middle of a gesture whose meaning we do not know; a broken, twisted tree, embalmed with mosses and lichens, already oblivious to the life that continues around it; a tree in a shady corner lying on a mound of fallen leaves, as if waiting with infinite patience for the mourners at its funeral.
In those encounters, silence becomes a feeling that invades and overwhelms us.

Light

During the winter, the trees and woods plunge into a shadowy, distant, silent state. Not even the snowfalls – scarcer and scarcer each year – manage to give the forest a less gloomy appearance.

Sometimes, however, there are moments of revelation. The forest becomes the mirage of a fantastic Gothic cathedral. Beech, oak, birch and spruce trees become sharply outlined columns that ascend vertiginously to support with their branches – for a few moments vaulted ribs and arches – a dome of weightless, diffuse light.

In these brief moments, the light reverberates between the trees, and the passage of time is suspended in the midst of a serene silence. And in the most remote corners of the forest, there are glimpses of chapels that house sylvan idols, whose meaning we do not know.

Patience

From time to time, on excursions, I come across specimens of huge trees. Although their shapes are very different, depending on the type of tree, whether beech, oak, chestnut, pine or spruce, their bearing is truly impressive. When I look at those very tall trees, which are venerable, old and enormous and have branches that give them the appearance of fantastic beings, I think of Hermann Hesse's words about patience, the passage of time and silence: all development, all the beauty of the world needs time, and is based on patience and silence.

Elegy

Sometimes I walk through landscapes traversed by a breath of despair, in which time and space swirl in phantasmagorical whirlwinds that are barely perceptible and must be the timeless gazes of the lost souls of the trees that inhabited those landscapes, agitated and in pain because of what those landscapes were, and are no longer.

Translated from Spanish by Catherine Ann Ryan

I first visited Mewslade Bay on the southwest corner of the Gower 28 years ago in 1995 whilst on a family holiday. I noted its great potential for me to photograph and planned to return as soon as possible with just my camera. I’d recently taken the big step of moving from 35mm slides to large format 5x4 black and white film photography and was keen to explore this new location.

I’ve been a keen photographer since the age of 16 when my parents bought me a Vöitlander Vito B to take on a school trip. It was with me throughout school and university. In 1973, I joined ILFORD in the production and engineering department. During my 13 years with ILFORD, my photography interest grew using first an OM1 and then an OM4 camera. My job had no direct involvement with photography but it was a real perk to be able to use the company’s products and darkrooms - for free! It was some 8 years after leaving ILFORD that I finally took the plunge into large format, and that was my preferred way of working for about the next 18 years when digital capture finally took over. Certain aspects of digital grabbed my attention much earlier in that I soon took to scanning my negatives, processing in Photoshop and printing with ink.

During the 10 years or so after my first visit to Mewslade, I returned with my 5x4 about 7 or 8 times, each for one day visits. The sandy bay is barely 500 yards wide at low tide, and the beach is inaccessible on either side of high tide. It is, therefore, important to plan a visit using tide tables otherwise, there’s potential disappointment. It’s best to be there during spring tides (large tidal coefficient) which is when the tide goes out the farthest and allows brief access to some small areas at the west of the bay that are otherwise inaccessible. Beware not to be stranded as the tide comes in!

During my early visits, I was preoccupied with photographing the vistas, views and scenes afforded by the beach with protruding rocks, the cliffs and the sea, which offered much variety and material to create compositions. The bay faces almost due south, so it is sunlit (when it shines!) throughout the day. As my photography progressed, I became increasingly drawn to what we now call “intimate landscapes”.

I submitted a set of images to Roger Maile’s Creative Monochrome / PhotoArt International (remember that?), which included two images from Mewslade and much to my delight, they were published in issue 30 in Oct/Nov 2002. I’ll refer back to a coincidence relating to this a little later!

Digital capture finally caught up with me in 2010, and on my occasional visits to Mewslade gave me the option of colour or monochrome. I now enjoy producing images in both colour and monochrome and find that my work ends up about 50:50.

I’ve been a member of the RPS for several years. Around the start of 2020, I began to think of applying for an RPS distinction and with a local photography friend, we arranged to attend a 1:1 review day where we could discuss our ideas and candidates for consideration. I’d thought carefully about whether to try for an LRPS but eventually realised that I’d prefer to focus on my particular area of photographic interest, landscape, which starts at the ARPS level. Shortly before the review day, COVID arrived, and the review was cancelled, putting paid to any ambition I’d had. My intention was to take to the review a set of monochrome landscape prints which I’d produced over a long period of time, all of which were vistas and panoramas, and all were taken from easily accessible locations, none requiring any strenuous hiking or overnight camping. I wanted to illustrate what is “there for all to see”.

Almost two years later, I arranged for an RPS 1:1 advisory session with Tony Worobiec, a member of the RPS Landscape Panel. This took place over Zoom in early May 2022 and was very helpful and instructive.

At this point, I decided to make one further trip to Mewslade to see if I could find a few more images to fill a couple of areas that I wanted to improve. I’m so pleased that I made that trip, as it resulted in my finding a few more candidate images.

I then embarked on some further refinements to improve the balance and cohesion of my panel, which also entailed making a couple of substitutes from my last trip as well as some rearrangements. And this became my submission. I printed my 15 monochrome images and mounted them on 500x400mm board, prepared my final Statement of Intent and a layout print of how the prints are to be displayed on assessment day. Whilst most of the 15 images were taken digitally in the last few years, one image was taken on 5x4 film about 25 years ago.

I personally delivered the whole package to the RPS in Bristol, preferring not to entrust my precious work to anyone else. This was done on 20th July 2022, just two days before I had knee replacement surgery. I had been working to a deadline! The assessment was scheduled for 14th September.

In addition to the delivery of the prints, it is a requirement to also provide the 15 images as digital files for the assessment panel to review personally in advance of the actual “in hand” assessment.

I’ve tried hard to put into words how cohesion and balance work and have found it almost impossible. It seems to be something that arises out of the repeating cycles of assembling and adjusting rather than a specific definable objective. I did find it very helpful to regularly stand well back from each candidate panel arrangement to the point where the individual images took a back seat to the overall impression that the arrangement made.

I attended the assessment day on Zoom. It was somewhat nerve-wracking to observe my work being discussed by the five highly regarded assessors. Joe Cornish chaired the assessment with Tony Worobiec, Tim Rudman, Paul Mitchell and Alex Nail. They had reviewed the digital images beforehand. A particularly positive comment was how the prints now seen in hand and examined carefully were far more satisfying than the first impressions made by viewing the digital versions on screen. And members expressed how good it was to see a panel of intimate landscapes printed in monochrome.

The coincidence referred to earlier is that in the issue of Creative Monochrome where there were 2 Mewslade and 7 other of my monochrome landscape images, there were also two articles written by my ARPS assessors Tony Worobiec and Tim Rudman! I know neither of them.

I’m occasionally asked what it means to have been awarded an ARPS. I suspect that I feel, like most who receive an award, that it is an acknowledgement from and recognition by fellow photographers for having achieved a significantly high level of competence and vision. Something to be very proud of.

Mewslade Bay: “Statement of Intent”

Over the course of 25 years, I’ve been taking photographs at Mewslade Bay on The Gower peninsula and at every visit, I find fresh interpretations and compositions.

For two hours, on either side of high tide, this small 500 metre wide bay is completely submerged. When the tide recedes, its varied and fascinating underwater landscape is revealed around the base of the steep cliffs. Remarkable rock sculptures and textured rocks are decorated with numerous patches of mussels and barnacles sitting above the few small rock pools and streams across the sand. The only significant landscape variable at this inspiring location is the light; the rocks and beach hardly change.

My panel is intended to show the fascinating variety of inspiring, intimate landscapes created by the sea along this short stretch of coast. Presenting Mewslade’s landscape in monochrome brings focus to the shapes, patterns and textures available for the creation of images.

RPS Special Interest Group

The Landscape Special Interest Group is dedicated to encouraging landscape photography and advancing the skills of its practitioners. Since its launch in 2016, the group has welcomed photographers of all levels, from beginners to experts, and offers a range of events, publications, and online platforms for members to share their work and collaborate with others. Find out more on their website.

I’ve always loved the sound of crows cawing. It has been suggested that they may even have their own language. Every Summer, when I was a small boy, rooks would nest in a tree in a neighbour’s garden. I would lie in bed listening to them talk and try to imagine what they were saying. Why make a noise at all? The sound of crows cawing remains incredibly comforting to me

Writing about work is such a strange thing to do, for me at least. Especially a few years after a series has been finished, made into a book and exhibited, etc. But at the same time, there is perhaps a clarity and focus afforded by the passage of time. At the beginning, the reasons for creation are always very intense and difficult. The ideas ebb and flow; there's confusion and self-doubt amongst other scatter-brained moments of bewilderment. But show me anyone who doesn't go through that process. I think it's inevitable; it's just some people hide it better than others. So, coming back to this work has been a rather enlightening experience for me.

There were numerous original reasons for making it, all interwoven with my life at the time, and while these reasons are still incredibly personal, I have found a little peace since then. A few people played a part in the creation of this work, albeit indirectly and not always in a positive way, however, their inclusion, while not immediately obvious in the photographs, is nonetheless there and, in a small sense, is a goodbye to them. We also had a global pandemic while I was making the work, plus the inevitable Brexit fallout.

Maybe I should talk a little about the work itself? I'm often asked what the white line is in some of the photographs. Life divided. We'll touch on this later on. It's actually a fold in a print of the work, which was subsequently rescanned for those of you who are interested. The handwritten notes that I included were usually attached to deflated balloons, which, thanks to a prevailing wind, seemed to make their way to where I made most of the work.

To begin with, I didn't connect the notes with the work I was making, I just started to collect them whenever I saw them (occasionally going to great lengths to remove them from high branches or generally difficult places. I still have scars but at the very least I picked up some litter). After a while, it became clear that the words in these notes were narrating the story as it was being made, so with some subtractions for sensitive words or names, I incorporated them into the series. They were mostly messages to passed loved ones, which fit almost too snugly with my own reasons for making the work in the first place.

So on we went, and it slowly became something tangible. Then, thanks to a few very kind people, it became a book, which I think is the perfect vehicle for the work. Making a book (and I've been lucky enough to do a few now) is such a strange process as it affords a full stop to making the work and the opportunity for other people to bring their own ideas and thoughts to bear upon it. I purposely didn't include any introductory text (there is some at the very back) because I didn't want to lead anyone or fill their heads with any preconceptions. I felt that was the very least I could do. And if I'm honest, this is probably my biggest 'Marmite' series to date. I realised a long time ago that I'm a Marmite photographer (you should see some of my direct messages), but then I've never quite fit anywhere in the photographic pantheon, or at least I've never felt like I've fit in anywhere. And I'd like to keep it that way. .

The 'birds' work started before the pandemic, then continued during (albeit in a limited fashion). While the world was starved of human contact, I honestly didn't find that aspect of it difficult. But solitude is always just a tiny stumble to loneliness. Anyway, it's all there in the work if you want to take a look. Of course, there were moments of pleasure and hope. I think the murmurations I was lucky enough to see really helped. I would go to a specific place at a specific time, and while it didn't always happen, even the starlings coming home to roost in groups was a pleasure to see. It became such a grounding experience amongst the chaos and uncertainty of life during a global pandemic. But life is always chaotic and uncertain. I think the biggest aspect of the 'birds' work is realising that fact and accepting it.

Someone much more poetic than I could ever be said, 'Loneliness is a great place to visit; just don't take any friends'. As photographers, we largely work alone, and I suspect while we're all looking for something different, there's more that unites us as a community than divides us. By and large, people are great, and I think, in simplistic terms, making photographs is simply a fantastic way to live life. To be privileged enough to show them to a wider audience in the form of a book is, for me at least, a pretty mind-bending experience. It's something I never thought for a second I would ever get to do. But there we go. There are a few copies left if you're interested. There should be a link knocking about somewhere.

Thanks for reading, and if you have any questions, please keep them to yourselves. Ta.

These photographs were made in the boreal forest of Atikaki (land of the caribou), ancestral lands of the Anishinaabeg First Nation. A remote wilderness region of the Canadian Shield, Atikaki stretches west from the border of Ontario and Manitoba to Lake Winnipeg and is accessible only by bush plane and canoe.

It is important, when speaking of ancestral lands, that we not speak in the past tense. Simply because these lands were colonised and taken does not mean they belong to those who took them. The descendants of the original people, the Anishinaabeg, remain connected to the land both culturally and, most especially, spiritually.

My journeys into the backcountry of Atikaki began with the intention of deepening my connection with myself, my wife and life partner, and with the natural world. As the years passed, I felt a need to share some of these experiences with others.

What I wanted to share was not that we should care for these places because of all they have to offer us – beauty, solitude, open sky and water, forest, and wildlife. Those reasons speak only to my wants and needs. But the true reason to care for these wild places is because they are life. And there is no other reason to care for life beyond the truth of its being. In care, more than mere observers of the world, we become co-creative participants. I don’t come to the boreal forest to be in nature but because I am nature.

In Anishinaabeg tradition, the world is perceived as animate. There is no such thing as “dumb” matter. All things in existence are ensouled. A shaman’s drum is not a mere object with which to perform. It lives, animated with consciousness of its own. The drum isn’t simply played; it is the enactment of a relationship so profound that it becomes impossible to tell if the shaman is playing the drum or if the drum is playing the shaman. And so, once I began to make photographs, it slowly dawned on me to embrace the possibility that my relationship with my camera might be like the shaman’s relationship with their drum.

In this way, photography becomes, for me like a portal into deep connection. I am not simply using the camera as an object to do my bidding but enter into a relationship with them which requires that I listen, not just to what I perceive but what the camera perceives. The camera’s eye and my own – two different ways of perceiving that inform each other and offer insight into the nature of the world that I alone could not know.

Some of the photographs shown here include images of petroglyphs that indicate a sacred relationship between the land and those that moved with it. The waterways of the boreal forest served then as now, as arteries that allow for a profoundly intimate relationship with the land. And while I have no direct lineage connection to the Anishinaabeg or any other First Nations people, in the years that my wife and I have paddled our canoe, portaged our packs, or made our camp to rest for the night, we were always stirred by the spirit of those people who had been here before us. It was that spirit which ever drew us to show care and respect for where we found ourselves.

Time is a chimaera, and in our journeys along these waterways, it was often difficult to tell not only where we were but when. And indeed, we were aware that some of the campsites we occupied and many of the portages we walked were used by the Anishinaabeg and others for centuries before us.

The world speaks if only I care to listen. Therefore, it is with great appreciation and an open heart that I offer my gratitude to the Original People, the spirit of the land, and all those who cherish it.

Grandfather Speaks

In the beginning.
Before the coming of those that walk, swim, fly, or crawl there was Grandfather.
Before the stationary ones, the trees and plants that grow and even before the soil that nourishes them,
Four and a half billion years ago, at the beginning of time, there was Grandfather.

Grandfather is about creation.
In Grandfather we can see that creation did not happen sometime in the distant past
but is only this; the ever-unfolding now.
They teach us what it is to be: ever-changing and always the same – life is patience.
Neither drama nor performance, Grandfather teaches that creativity is
the practice of being present.

Grandfather is about memory.
They are the collected wisdom of eons passing.
Every striation, every crevice, every layer revealed, tells stories of when the earth was new
and always new again.
Grandfather abides.

Grandfather is about relationship.
All are welcome at their side.
Lichen come to draw the nutrient that creates soil for plants and trees.
Humans come with ochre to mark the doorways that lead to other realms.
Large and small, all that live are drawn to Grandfather’s solidity, assurance, and wisdom.

52N 0W, Hertfordshire, Diana Buzoianu

The project “By Degrees” was conceived in 2021 when being a bit of a map nerd, I found myself one day pondering the places where lines of latitude and longitude intersect. I had never knowingly been to such a place, so was intrigued to find out where was the closest to my home. Having located it – some 43 miles to the south – I then wondered where its next closest neighbours were. Perhaps inevitably, this led me to plotting all the intersections on a map of the UK and then considering the feasibility of photographing them all. I quickly realised that it would involve a huge amount of travelling and that it would be a daft idea to attempt it alone. But why not involve others? I took my idea to the RPS Landscape Group committee as a proposal, and so By Degrees was born!

Getting the project off the ground involved firstly working out where all the intersections are and plotting them on a map so that people could easily identify their nearest ones. I figured that people were more likely to get involved if they could relate abstract coordinates to a place that they knew. The mapping wasn't too difficult as you can just type, say, "53N 2W" into Google Maps, and it will show you the exact location.

The lines of latitude and longitude intersecting over the UK and Ireland

It turned out that there are 34 places where lines of latitude and longitude intersect over land in the UK, and I was really pleased to find that people volunteered for every intersection. The project brief gave participants the choice of photographing either the view from their chosen intersection or a view with the intersection in the frame.

From the outset, we planned a special edition of the landscape group's printed magazine and so anticipated that there would need to be a process for selecting which images should be published in cases where several photographers photographed at the same locations. To achieve this, we established a selection panel comprising RPS members Simon Hill, Hon.FRPS and Joe Cornish, Hon.FRPS, Vanda Ralevska (regular judge for Landscape Photographer of the Year) and Nigel Clifford FRGS, president of the Royal Geographical Society.

Inevitably, of course, I was keen to take part myself and so I photographed the two intersections closest to my home and also two others that I pass regularly when visiting my family in central Scotland. What I very quickly learned through my own participation was just how difficult it can be to make a decent image when the location is just a seemingly random spot on a map! Challenges that participants had to address included not only uninspiring locations but also getting access to private land and getting to some pretty remote places.

One of my personal favourite images was Ann Miles’ stunning panorama of a field of crops (chard?), showing that with a bit of inventiveness, even a seemingly endless flat landscape can be made engaging.

53N 0W, Lincolnshire, Ann Miles

I also have to acknowledge the efforts that some participants went to in order to get their images. Jean Robson needed a 7km cycle up a dirt road, then a climb up and over a col covered in deep heather and finally a plod across a bog in order to get to the intersection at 57oN 4oW to take this image of the Monadhliath hills.

57N 4W, Dumfries & Galloway, Jean Robson

As the deadline for image submissions approached, it began to look likely that nobody was going to photograph at a couple of intersections in the Highlands (57oN 3oW in Aberdeenshire and 57oN 5oW in Assynt in the Highlands). Unsurprisingly, these were the two most remote locations, requiring several miles of tramping across heather moorland on a compass bearing. Rather than leave these intersections unphotographed, another landscape group committee colleague and I set off to photograph them ourselves. Whilst heather moorlands drying up because of summer droughts is most definitely not something to be celebrated, it did mean that this final challenge was slightly less arduous than it could have been. And so it was, in September 2022, that the project was completed.

All images submitted were subsequently uploaded to an online gallery which can be viewed here: https://rps.org/groups/landscape/projects/by-degrees/gallery.

As far as I am aware, such a project has never been undertaken before, and we believe that it is, therefore, unique. Feedback from participants was really enthusiastic, with people often saying how much they had enjoyed the challenge of photographing “odd” locations!

A Selection of Submissions

The following is a curated selection of images from the project. All captions are from the photographers.

53N 0, Lincolnshire, Ann Miles

My exact location was 53degrees 0 minutes 51.16 seconds North/ 0 degrees 0 minutes 1.57 seconds West. I am facing West so panorama covers from S to N. Meridian which was approximately 1 km south of my location. The intersection is in the direction of the far left of my scene.

55N 4W, Dumfries & Galloway, Jean Robson

Taken from about 100 meters from the intersection, because the farmer advised against entering the field with a bull in it. Taken looking in a SSE direction across the intersection.

51N 2W, Wiltshire, Richard Draper

The puddle arrow points to the middle of the field where the intersection of 51N 2W lies. I was about 80 metres from the point at 50°59'58" N 2°00'02" W and at 155 metres altitude. I was facing east on 30th January 2022 as the winter sun was close to setting. This is a lovely part of Cranborne Chase at the southern end of Wiltshire close to the intersection with Hampshire and Dorset. The nearest village is Bowerchalke, where the river Chalke rises and flows into the nearby River Ebble.

52N 0W, Hertfordshire, Diana Buzoianu

This point is in the middle of a field of solar farm and it shows a wonderful juxtaposition between nature and the creative minds of humans to harness clean energy.

52N 0, Hertfordshire, Diana Buzoianu

I couldn’t pick a better time for photographing this coordinates ..the storm Eunice was just approaching. I had my vision of capturing the image of this golden oak tree from above from my drone but the storm made it definitely impossible to fly. As I was looking for other ways of capturing the point, a beautiful rainbow was just beginning to shine through the heavy grey clouds of rain. Just for a few seconds a stunning view of the tree enveloped by the rainbow appeared. That was definitely more than I could ask for.. This oak tree is right on the coordinates 52N.3W and stands tall in the middle of a field in the village of Michaelchurch Escley in Herefordshire.

52N 4W Carmarthenshire, Neil Purcell

52N 4W, is on a site adjacent to the B4337, at Dinas Quarry, Pen y Ddinas, near Llansawel in Carmarthenshire.

The hill of Pen Dinas was an area of unimproved pasture, known locally as 'the Warren’. Once upon time, there were the remains of a summer-house 'within some sort of ancient encampment' (Notebook on Carmarthenshire 1804-10). It is probable that the 'ancient encampment' was a later prehistoric type hillfort, which are otherwise scarce in the locality.

The remains of the summer house, or possibly a prospect tower, were said to have been part of the nearby Edwinsford estate.

The site, now owned by Tarmac, is abandoned, having closed down in the late 1980’s. When operational, it mostly produced granite grit for road construction, as well as a surprising amount of quartz crystal.

The exact intersection is inaccessible, buried beneath deep brambles and bracken. Facing WNW, I opted for this shot on the topmost part of the site, which is approximately 300 metres north of the intersection, and which speaks a little of the history and nature of the place and the people who once worked there.

52N 5W, Pembrokeshire, Michael Cooper

This intersection point is located in Dyffryn, Goodwick, Pembrokeshire. The actual intersection point is at the back of this abandoned ruinous old building, to the rear of this wall is dense impenetrable scrub on private land. I am standing approximately 5-6 m NE of the actual intersection point facing roughly SW

53N 1W, Nottinghamshire, Kevin Gibbin

Looking approximately north-north-west with Cocker Beck on my right, the intersection is on the left of the image just in front of the hedgerow.

53N 4W, Gwynedd, Saul Richmond Huck

The intersection of 53N 4W is alongside one of the Diffwys lakes in the Moelwyns in Snowdonia. Having climbed as far as the exact location it seemed a shame not to climb a bit further to elevate myself above and look back over the intersection to show it in its storm-beaten surroundings. The image was taken at 53°00'10.0"N 3°59'50.0"W. The intersection is at the left-hand side of the picture 360m away and is located underneath the left-most limb of the left-hand lake. The vista is looking southwest over the Croesor Valley towards Porthmadog with the slopes of Cnicht on the right.

54N 2W, Yorkshire, John Foster

Burning heather on Barden Moor at 54N. 2W. My exact location was 54.00341 N, 1.99263 W. I was facing SSW and I was around 300 yards from the intersection. I think the intersection is approximately where the tractor is, to the extreme left of the shot. The heather burners didn’t want me to come any closer.

55N 7W Co. Derry, Robin Taylor-Hunt

The intersection point sits within a pasture field, overlooking an area of farmland that lies in between Lough Foyle to the north-west and the striking skyline of Binevinagh to the north-east. However, on the morning I was there the visibility and light was not too exciting, and so I ended up going for a close-up of the intersection point itself - this dried out old dock plant within the grass field.

58N 7W, Isle of Harris, Alex Nail

58N 7W on Harris is one of the most scenic latitude and longitude intersections in the whole country. I camped at the spot overnight with my wife and our dog at the end of May hoping for a sunset but instead finding overcast conditions and an icy northerly wind. I was up at 4.30am the following morning to find clear skies and I made my way to the northern side of Loch Braigh Bheagarais to align the loch with the distant view of the Harris hills and Luskentyre. This photo was taken at 58°00’05”N 7”00’09”W. The true intersection lies just 300m from this point, on the far left edge of the image, but ultimately this majestic view was too much to pass up!

57N 3W Aberdeenshire, John Stewart

The intersection is a 5 mile walk from Ballater. I chose a very warm day with thunderstorms predicted. It is situated near a grouse moor so had to choose a Sunday when the grouse get a day off being shot. I am about 200 yards from the point looking south east towards Mount Keen which is the most Easterly Munro (over 300 feet). Luckily the ground was very dry as this area is usually a bog. The intersection is more-or-less central in the frame in the lower ground behind the foreground rocks.

57N 3W Aberdeenshire, Colin Balfour

Taken from the intersection point looking south-southeast towards Mount Keen (939m) which is the most easterly Munro.

57N 3W Aberdeenshire, Mark Reeves

Taken at the intersection following the driest July for over 100 years, this image depicts a totally dry upland peat bog. The image looks towards the munro Mount Keen (939m) some 3km to the SSE. The heather and grasses were rendered white by the use of an infrared camera whilst the peat, visible in the bog gullies in the foreground and middle distance, appears black.

One of the most personally rewarding aspects of moving to California eight years ago has been my discovery of, and growing fascination (some would say obsession) with, the incredible desert landscape of Joshua Tree National Park.

I have always been passionate about the outdoors, hiking, and exploring the hills and mountains of the UK and Europe.

I was born in the UK and spent 25+ years working in aerospace engineering (15 years while living in France and Germany). I'm now a recovering engineer and divide my time between marketing and photography.

I started taking photos at the age of 14 with my trusty Soviet-era Zenit 10 SLR camera, teaching myself the fundamentals of photography via countless rolls of poorly exposed black and white 35mm film. In my late teens, I progressed to slide film and loved Kodachrome for its rich saturated colours.

In 1996, we moved to Toulouse (France), staying for five years before moving to Munich (Germany) for 18 months, then back to the UK for four years, before living in Hamburg (Germany) for eight years.

As my career progressed (and consumed more and more hours), and during the early years of having a family, I had minimal opportunities for 'creative photography.' My photography was mainly family snapshots to document my daughters growing up and our family holidays together.

My photographic hiatus ended when we moved to Hamburg. I became good friends with another photographer, who gave me the encouragement I needed to make more time for my photography. Hamburg is a visually interesting city, and I took many photo walks around the city, taking urban and abstract images. I was hooked on photography again!

As I’m on the wrong side of 50, when I started my engineering career, I spent about 10 years drafting engineering drawings on film using pencil or ink. These 2D drawings represented 3D objects, and that gave me good spatial awareness, a sense of perspective, the use of leading lines, patterns, etc.

Many of those things carry over into my photography - especially in terms of how I interpret a scene in terms of lines, shapes, and textures.

I’m also very organised and methodical (to the point of obsession) and, being technically minded, enjoy the technical specifics of using camera equipment.

From 2010 to 2014, several events shaped my photographic journey and where we now live.

In 2010, we had our first trip to Joshua Tree National Park. My wife and I were staying in Palm Springs, and on a whim, we signed up for a 4WD trip to Joshua Tree. It was only a half-day, but I remember being fascinated by the desert landscape and vowed that someday I'd go back.

A turning point for my photography was attending my first (and to this date - only) photo workshop in 2011 - a landscape and seascape photography workshop in Dorset (UK). This workshop was a game changer for me for three reasons:

• I used a tripod for the first time
• It was drummed into me always to trust the histogram
• I started using filters

Later in 2011, I transitioned from engineering to publishing and then marketing (that’s a story in itself). Once in my new marketing role, I took, on average, 30 long-haul trips per year (~400,000 miles annually) to the US, the Middle East, Australia, and Asia. During each work trip, I tried to fit in a half-day or day to explore and take photos.

After my frequent visits to the US West Coast for work - company visits, exhibitions, conferences, etc., I decided to take a job in the US, and we moved to SoCal (Lake Forest, OC) in August 2014.

Visiting Joshua Tree (appropriately) in 2014 reignited my passion for time spent out in nature and highlighted that I needed to improve my work/life balance significantly. It also triggered my transition from urban and abstract photography to landscape photography.

I started visiting Joshua Tree more frequently as I fell in love with the place - the desert - the landscape - the climate - the trees, and flora. I started spending more and more time in Joshua Tree - and now typically spend two weekends per month there.

I have always been passionate about the outdoors, hiking, and exploring the hills and mountains of the UK and Europe. So when I moved to the US, my approach was no different. When I first started visiting Joshua Tree, I did a lot of hiking and made it a point to always walk on different trails, to get the lay of the land and build my knowledge of the park.

This approach has got me to some great locations that the majority of visitors will never see, as many don’t stray far from the road. For me, it unlocked the potential for Joshua Tree images.

Joshua Tree is an International Dark Sky Park - measuring 2 on the Bortle Scale - so is an excellent location for dark sky photography, such as star trails and photographing the milky way. I had never taken a dark sky photo before visiting Joshua Tree.

Joshua Tree is one of those places that doesn’t have an abundance of ‘classic photography locations’ - so it doesn’t see the typical over-saturation of me-too images of the same places. The fact that you have to work harder to find good images is a big part of the attraction for me.

I started Jon Norris Photography in 2018 as I wanted to share my love and passion for Joshua Tree while helping others learn and improve their landscape photography. I run one-to-one and small group workshops and provide online mentoring.

In 2021 I became a business member/sponsor of the Joshua Tree National Park Association - JTNPA (the official non-profit partner of Joshua Tree National Park). JTNPA supports natural and cultural resource preservation and educational activities. In January 2022, I became a volunteer for the JTNPA desert institute and help lead educational field classes on photography, wildlife, and geology. The volunteers attend each of the classes to support the instructor and ensure the welfare of the class attendees while out in the Joshua Tree desert.

I’m delighted to say that from Spring 2023, I’m also going to be an instructor for the Desert Institute, teaching two weekend photography workshops - a Fundamentals of Landscape Photography course and then an Advanced Landscape Photography course.

Joshua Tree National Park has profoundly impacted both my photography and me personally. It's my happy place, and I love getting off the grid and spending time exploring and experiencing this special place.

Exhibition details

I'm delighted to be showing my first exhibition, 'Seven Years in the Desert,' at the 29 Palms Art Gallery from Aug 31 to Sep 30, 2023. I hope that you'll join me for the artist reception that's being held on Sat, Sep 2, from 4-6 pm. Gallery hours are Fri-Sun, 11 am - 3 pm. You'll find the gallery at 74055 Cottonwood Drive (at National Park Drive), Twentynine Palms, CA 92277.