After four decades behind the camera, Ted Leeming reflects on the slow unlearning that has reshaped his practice - from landscape photography to place-based observation, civic engagement, and listening to the land itself. This is a story of projects, purpose, and the freedom that comes from no longer trying to please. You can listen to Ted in Episode 26 of the 'Any Questions' Podcast.

‘I bought a new one in the Sale. Just one is alright isn’t It?’
Fridge & Freezer recycling centre in Perth. I try to include a level of intrigue in my images to help draw in the viewer

Four decades on, aside from colour management (or getting any tech to do as I wish for that matter!), I still love almost everything about photography. And yet I am a very different photographer today than I was even ten years ago, and that journey of discovery has not come without discomfort.

Letting go of familiar rewards - recognition, approval, and the occasional reassurance of kind contemporaries – is tough and felt risky for a very long time. Stepping away from running workshops and a practice focused on fine art prints removed both my structure and, in part, my validation. I found it difficult to relinquish the past for a very long time. What remained was an uncomfortable but necessary question which repeatedly and uneasily bubbled to the surface - why am I really doing this?

We are all on our own, personal photographic journeys, and I began to realise that what increasingly interested me was not the refinement of technique, the proliferation of styles, or the accumulation of equipment (all of which I have at some point craved), but photography’s capacity to start conversations. I became increasingly aware of the power of the visual image to influence, and that its influence could directly and indirectly be for both good and bad. That realisation led to a shift in my mental process from making images to exploring subjects of relevance to my purpose as a photographer - and with that, I had inadvertently redefined my practice.

‘Everything comes from somewhere.’
I have been wanting to do an aerial project ever since I saw the work of Yann Arthus-Bertrand in 2001.

Re-evaluating my practice and defining my purpose is probably the single most valuable decision I have made since turning professional. The process unfolded gradually over five or six years, but that slowness was invaluable. My practice is now centred around issues relating to climate, nature, and place - and the human relationships embedded within them. I increasingly see myself as a place-based observer, asking questions through the lens as my chosen medium for conversing. In this context, images also express my wider interests in geography, place, anthropology and environment. This combining of passions was the true revelation that had been missing. I felt as though I had discovered a whole new world.

This clarity has reshaped how I work. I now operate almost entirely through subject based studies and projects, which might last anything from a few hours, or germinate unrushed over several years. A single image may express a sentiment or it may require an entire body of work. In each case, the project determines how I approach the subject photographically, with many including elements of research, collaboration, and some actively involve responding to the views of others. In my current project exploring land use in Scotland, for example, having written down my own thoughts, I asked participants in a workshop a simple question, ‘What three words describe land use in Scotland today?’ The responses not only reinforced my own thinking, but also formed the backbone of a current exhibition and many subsequent images.

Each year, I try to spend up to a month on some form of immersive investigation of place, travelling either by bike or on foot. With this slower approach, I find myself ‘within’ landscapes for extended periods rather than merely passing through them, which allows time for reflection and attentiveness. Spending extended periods moving slowly helps change the direction of my attention. When you slow down enough, land stops behaving like scenery and begins to assert itself as something more than just visual. They become cultural participants rather than passive backdrops, and photography becomes less about representation and more about relationship. The camera is no longer a tool for capturing images, as I had once seen it, but more an instrument for observing and asking questions.

’The Land That Time Forgot’
I often wonder what a location might look like if not for the hand of humans, and whether such places exist.

Working this way, by necessity, also changes how I photograph. For example, when I need to get 50-70 miles from A to B on my bike each day, waiting for the light or chasing golden hour is rarely an option. Instead, I have to respond to what I encounter as I move.

Many of these threads truly came together during my ‘Rhine’ project, when I ‘commuted’ a bicycle from Scotland to Italy along the mighty river and over the Alps. Slow, low-impact travel, heavily commodified landscapes, sustained attention, all situated within the framework of my revised practice. Where once my lens would never have strayed towards such subjects, I suddenly found endless material and themes to develop.

On previous journeys where I would have become ‘struck’ wherever land is treated primarily as commodity, it suddenly became alive as I started to recognise generational changes to place, and these became the subject. I often find this new subject matter uncomfortable, and I occasionally miss the more innocent visual interrogations of my past, but I feel increasingly compelled to bear witness.

‘Our Favourite Addiction Factory’
Over 50% of the UK’s oil flows through the terminal. Currently under threat of closure, the Grangemouth facility is a sign of ever-changing times. I used diptychs as a presentation method for my shortlisted entry into the Royal Geographical Society’s Earth Photo 2025 competition.

Image 5 ‘The Answer My Friend…?’
Nothing comes for free. We often hear about technological solutions to the big issues. Rarely, however, do I hear the word reduce.

This thinking extended further during a photographic residency at the Fantastic Forest Festival, which Morag and I co-curated. One of my outcomes on this occasion was a picture essay, using words for the first time to sharpen focus and guide interpretation. Artivism, perhaps, and helping others articulate their own projects, are other photographic avenues I have also started exploring, and hope to do more of in future. I increasingly feel real reward in helping make quiet voices heard.

My current project exploring urban and rural land use in Scotland builds on these cumulative experiences. The arrival of an affordable and packable drone to the market (with a Micro Four Thirds sensor) allowed me to finally pursue an aerial dream I had long imagined. During two years of cycling across Scotland, I encountered not only loss, simplification and a commodification of the land, but also glimmers of positive land management futures – the exemplar individuals, interest groups, and communities adopting more balanced approaches to land management. Such determined efforts suggest that positive tipping points are possible in the near future for the good of all users of place.

I am also exploring a range of traditional and non-traditional outcomes for my work. These include talks and discussions, a new website, a Call to Action for incoming MSPs following the up and coming 2026 Scottish parliamentary elections, an open-source guide to land use - and even an exhibition of decomposing Y-fronts! Each exploring the same underlying questions, but seeking to engage a specific audience.

‘Who Needs Grass?’
You no longer need a golf course to have a game!

Looking ahead, I have at least two major ideas waiting to be explored once the current project concludes later this summer, and I can hardly wait. I am even contemplating a practice based PhD! As my apprenticeship continues, I feel I have finally found a way of working that redefines my photographic ideals and allows me to contribute to conversations I value. Perhaps the greatest lesson, however, has been to finally realise I only need to satisfy myself, rather than trying to impress others, as I so often did before.

To see more of Ted’s work described in this article visit his new website at www.exploring.place ,with earlier work and collaborations with Morag Paterson at www.leemingpaterson.com.

As landscape photographers, we often serve as visual storytellers, and this often commences with our initial journey into landscape photography. In my case, while my journey shares many similarities with most, it also presents a few distinct factors. Prior to the age of 18, I do not believe I had ever used a camera for serious photography. Growing up in a household with a single parent who unfortunately struggled with alcohol, drugs, and domestic violence, it was not uncommon for me and my brother to face challenging circumstances. Art forms were not particularly appealing to me, and when my brother enlisted in the army, it was inevitable that I would eventually follow suit once I reached the required age.

My military career spanned three operational tours, including live training and live firing in Canada and various exercises across the country. My journey commenced in Northern Ireland in 2003, although I joined in 2001. It took some time to complete basic training and finally embark on my first military tour. Subsequently, I served in Iraq in 2005 and Afghanistan in 2007, which unfortunately only lasted three weeks.

Iraq 2005

On the day of my injury in Afghanistan, our forward operating base came under attack that morning with mortars and RPGs. Tragically, one of the rockets struck the wall I was leaning against, covering me with shrapnel. This resulted in a fractured skull, neurological memory loss, and permanent sight loss. I have lost the peripherals in my left eye, and my right eye is completely blind due to the removal of the optic nerve.

While it took approximately a year to regain a manageable walking process, the initial recovery period was significantly longer. After my injuries, I was unable to walk, but fortunately, the human brain is a remarkable entity capable of rewiring itself. I needed to relearn everything, which was a gradual process. However, I received invaluable support from my family, the National Health Service (NHS), and military charities such as Blesma and Blind Veterans UK.

It was during my rehabilitation period at the Blind Veterans Centre of Sheffield that I met a member of staff named David Hickey. David played a pivotal role in my transformation into a landscape photographer. This pivotal moment occurred at the age of 26, after a brief period of rehabilitation.

Prior to this, I had been strengthening my physical abilities by engaging in regular walks with my father-in-law, my wife and family. Initially, simply maintaining my balance and standing upright proved to be a significant challenge.

Rehabilitation

At the Sheffield Centre for Blind Veterans UK, I regularly visited to continue my rehabilitation. During my time there, I completed various courses, including independent living skills to teach me how to cook, clean and take care of myself. Long cain training helped me navigate life outside in busy environments. I also learned to read, write, and use a computer.

One morning during a touch typing course with David Hickey, I could sense the frustration in my voice. People with brain injuries can sometimes be short-tempered and, as a result, we can be negative, angry, and sometimes snap. David, being quite professional, sensed that I was not my usual self and instead showed me some of his landscape photography.

Viewing the images on what I believed was his website, David showed me some of his award-winning photographs from around the world. He also mentioned that the charity was considering holding a photography-themed holiday week at the Sheffield Centre. Seeing the images and listening to Dave talk about the idea of staying at the Sheffield Centre for a photography holiday sounded very appealing. All I needed to do was get myself my first camera, which was a Fuji film bridge camera.

David, Simon & Chris

During the photography-themed holiday, this camera served me perfectly well, completing courses in still life scenarios, architecture in and around Sheffield, and other forms of photography.

Consequently, the charity now organises only a few-week get-togethers via video calls.

Loch Cill Chriosd

Following David’s retirement and relocation to the Isle of Skye, he resumed his landscape photography journey and embarked on the creation of a comprehensive guide book to the Isle of Skye. Simultaneously, he continued to provide workshops for others. Supported by the Blind Veterans UK, I had the opportunity to visit David on the Isle of Skye.

Coincidentally, I had recently realised that landscape photography was the perfect pursuit for me, and visiting David and continuing my own landscape photography represented a complete circle.

During our visit to the Isle of Skye, we visited a particular location that has left an indelible impression on my memory. Arriving by the water’s edge, I was enveloped by an unparalleled sense of silence and tranquillity. The morning light cast intricate shadows on the distant hill, creating a breathtaking spectacle. At the same time, otters swam gracefully in front of us, oblivious to the surrounding tranquillity. Observing the water reeds in the foreground, I captured their reflections and classic landscapes, capturing the essence of the magical, peaceful morning. This experience was undoubtedly a significant milestone in my journey into landscape photography.

David Noton

In fact, it was just before my trip to the Isle of Skye that I confirmed my desire to become a landscape photographer. Suddenly, I had a sense of purpose, which was particularly helpful given the challenges I had been facing with my mental health due to the loss of my career and sight. This newfound purpose inspired me to research, learn, and continue to be inspired by other landscape photographers. I dedicated myself to exploring the Peak District and my local surroundings, which became my personal playground.

Prior to this, while searching for inspiration, I encountered several landscape photographers. One in particular, David Noton, stood out to me just after my trip to the Isle of Skye. I realised that I needed a more powerful camera, and David Noton’s work resonated with me.

David Noton authored several remarkable books, primarily designed for visual exploration. While smartphones have made scanning and reading more convenient, it was considerably more challenging for me due to my visual limitations.

In addition to the books, David Noton released a DVD titled “Chasing the Light.” Despite memory loss, neurological memory loss, and the constant need to rewatch content to retain information, this DVD provided a sense of excitement as it finally offered something that could ignite my enthusiasm.

Furthermore, I observed David Noton’s substantial presence on YouTube and his personal website, the F11 Club. This club allowed individuals to join and witness David Noton’s global adventures. These experiences continued to inspire and educate me in the field of landscape photography.

David Noton

A few years later, I initiated contact with David Noton to introduce myself. After meeting him at a photography exhibition, he invited me to be a guest for one of his F11 members. During this day, I spent a day in the Peak District National Park, capturing landscapes for both sunset and sunrise. Subsequently, David Noton featured my photographs in his F11 club.

Although I initially harboured a slight sense of arrogance, believing I possessed extensive knowledge in landscape photography, David Noton’s guidance helped address a recurring issue. I had a tendency to inadvertently shoot into the sun or feature the sun excessively in my photographs.

This is an area that I have not extensively explored on my own, and the combination of sidelight to enhance details in the foreground while casting light on the shadows has significantly elevated my landscape photography. While I primarily consider myself self-taught, I must acknowledge the influence of my brief experiences with David Hickey on the Isle of Skye and my two days with David Noton. These experiences provided a few minor solutions and further propelled my landscape photography to new heights. The knowledge that emanated from David Noton was invaluable, and I am deeply grateful for it.

My New Life

Following my time with David Noton, my landscape photography took a significant leap forward. Prior to this, I had been overly focused on mastering my camera and acquiring technical knowledge, which had made me somewhat of a camera enthusiast. While I was able to articulate these concepts, I often failed to put them into practice.

However, that morning in the Peak District National Park with David Noton, certain truths became reinforced for me, even though I had already been aware of them. From that moment on, I prioritised observing the light, meticulously working on the composition, and gaining a deep understanding of my surroundings. This newfound approach led me to adopt a research-based approach to landscape photography, specifically focusing on sunrise.

Carhead Rocks

I would slow down, thoroughly familiarise myself with the area, and only proceed with the composition when I had identified the optimal location. This approach allowed me to remain calm and composed, even if the weather conditions changed at the last minute, ensuring that I would not return home without capturing a photograph.

In contrast, before my time with David Noton, I would panic and hastily attempt to photograph anything, hoping to add something to edit later. However, everything I learned with David Noton taught me to slow down, relax, and work with the composition. I also developed a deep appreciation for the landscape and embraced a more realistic approach to photography.

Over the years, I continued this practice and was invited to assist others in the local area by offering photography workshops. I also had the privilege of working with Blind Veterans UK during their photography holidays. Among the most cherished memories was spending time on those hills, capturing the first shadows of sunrise and experiencing the invigorating chill on my face.

The Future of My Landscape Photography

The Peak District National Park, with its majestic Tors and Hills, holds a special place in my heart. I am fortunate to have such an accessible landscape that allows me to explore, recover, learn, and thrive.

Millstone Edge

The ever-changing landscape offers an endless supply of landscape photography opportunities. The seasonal changes constantly present new landscapes to capture, and the uniqueness of each day in the Peak District National Park ensures a diverse range of subjects.

Despite over a decade of exploration and learning to work this landscape, I continue to discover new places to explore and photograph, enriching my own photographic repertoire.

In this regard, there has undoubtedly been a transformation in my landscape photography, which I believe occurred not long after the pandemic or, more specifically, during the lockdown periods. The traffic congestion in the Peak District, particularly in the well-known honeypot locations, is clearly evident.

This development does not necessarily pose a negative impact on local tourism, and I believe that the local community does not perceive it as such. However, it does present a slight challenge, especially during peak hours, such as sunrise, which can make the experience slightly less relaxing at times. Consequently, I have found myself venturing further into the woodland areas of the Peak District National Park.

Tree Tops

These areas offer me a sense of tranquility , and the pace of life tends to be considerably slower in the woods.
I certainly cannot boast being a woodland photographer in fact in the national park there are some incredible photographers producing outstanding work and although I'm happily going along my own Journey completing my own compositions it is sometimes easy to be inspired by their incredible work.

I must admit that I did not initially anticipate spending such an extended period in the company of trees, but I have come to recognise the numerous positive benefits they offer. Spending time in the presence of trees and green spaces is beneficial for everyone, as it promotes a slower pace of life. Delving deeper into the connection with trees specifically helps to maintain a low heart rate and induce a state of relaxation. Essentially, it involves maintaining a regular walking routine and simply enjoying the local natural woodland areas.

I would like to suggest that my time spent with landscapes and photographing trees is roughly equal. However, I must emphasise that the peak seasons for me are spring and autumn, and I also find myself drawn to the empty winter scenarios where the trees seem to come alive. In all other instances, the Peak District National Park provides ample opportunities for my landscape photography.

The Highs and Lows

Surprisingly, throughout my eight years of service in the British army, I had never experienced depression or anxiety. In fact, before the age of 27, I don’t believe I had ever experienced such a condition,
despite our somewhat challenging upbringing.

Local Woods

The low points likely began approximately a year after my recovery process. Unfortunately, the military brainwash instils the belief that the regiment, particularly, is a family-based unit where individuals are always looked after. However, this reality is not always the case when you are injured and not local to the camp.

Regrettably, you may be left behind. Fortunately, my brother was still serving in the same regiment as me, allowing me to maintain regular contact with him and one of the individuals who had been injured alongside me. However, apart from these connections, it is easy to feel isolated and left behind.

Fortunately, I had a wonderful wife and our first son. Nevertheless, I could easily see the low points beginning to manifest in my mind. Moments of paranoia gradually transformed into overt depression, although I was unaware of it at the time. Even simple activities like going for a walk on a sunny day could be met with excuses to stay indoors. Sitting alone in a quiet room, without the television on, and allowing your thoughts to take over can be a detrimental experience.

Overall, anything related to depression, those low feelings, is something I cannot pretend to have experienced to the extent that I have. For obvious reasons, when you have lost your army career, you no longer live with those who you had been with for eight years every day. You also lose the ability to walk as you used to and, as a result, your vision deteriorates. You have lost your independence and simple things like the ability to drive, which makes you reliant on others. In such circumstances, it is easy for negative thoughts and feelings to take hold.

Winter Fog

Fortunately, photography began to alleviate some of these challenges. The enthusiasm to learn new things, meet new people, travel, and have something to look forward to, and always create, is incredibly powerful. Whether landscape photography is considered art or simply a digital creation is a matter of debate, but I firmly believe it is a form of art.

Having a purpose has been a significant change. While I acknowledge that these challenging days may still exist, it is important to remember that we all have bad days. Sometimes, it can be as simple as bad weather that prevents us from venturing out. When the sky is grey and everything feels miserable, photography can still provide moments of inspiration and motivation.

Although landscape photography may not always evoke a sense of high motivation or creativity, it offers a multitude of opportunities. There is always something to look up, research, or connect with. This gift of photography can be incredibly helpful and empowering.

Despite the challenging moments, there have also been instances of potential PTSD. It is crucial to emphasise that I am fortunate to have relatively few complaints. I do not experience vivid recollections of the Middle East, but there are occasional moments when I am asleep and have intense, strange vocal screams. I am unaware of these events when I awaken, but my wife gently rouses me and calms me down, allowing me to fall back asleep.

Shopping and supermarkets can also be particularly difficult due to the overwhelming noise and constant activity. My mind wanders, and I find it challenging to concentrate. The sound of trolleys moving, people talking loudly, and artificial lighting can cause me significant distress. There have been unfortunate occasions when I have struggled to cope and have expressed my need to wait outside to my wife. She has always understood and accommodated my request, allowing me to relax outdoors. However, it is important to note that these incidents are relatively rare and occur only a few times.

The most challenging moment with such situations is an unexpected bang, such as a loud noise or a door slamming. These events do not immediately transport me back to the Middle East or trigger vivid memories. However, they can startle me in an unhealthy way. My speech may become slightly impaired, and I may struggle to remember what is happening for a few seconds.

In my opinion, the countryside offers a profound sense of reward. The tranquil settings of the countryside and the majestic ancient woodlands provide a profound sense of peace and tranquility, as well as beneficial physical exercise. The encouragement provided by landscape photography to venture out of one’s comfort zone and recharge research and rejuvenation is incredibly beneficial. I wholeheartedly believe that I will always be grateful for the transformative power of landscape photography.

Baslow edge

The Process

An obvious question arises: how does an individual with sight loss, memory loss, and the need to start anew become a landscape photographer or, more specifically, a user of a camera? The answer lies in time and practice. I am not one to rush into things, and as a result, I endeavour to take my time with everything. Otherwise, I make mistakes that require repetition or missed moments.

Landscape photography is no exception. Initially, when I acquired my second camera, a Canon 5D Mark III, which was ideal for landscape photography, I sat on the sofa in the front room, placed the camera on a tripod, and repeatedly went through the menu, searching for shortcuts. This process was arduous, compounded by my site loss.

Fortunately, there are numerous helpful videos on YouTube that guide users through the menu and provide strategies for retaining information before taking the camera out on the ground. By combining these resources, I was able to solidify the process in my mind. At this point, I could use my camera in low light conditions without the need to frequently look through the menu. I gained control over the camera effectively, without relying on the digital display or the eyepiece.

However, technological advancements, such as focus peaking, have brought about a change. Fuji Film announced the introduction of focus peaking in the camera menu. This feature allows users to adjust the focus level of the camera. In a country where the picturesque British countryside is predominantly lush and green, having focus peaking set to red enabled me to focus the camera effortlessly. This discovery has been incredibly beneficial, and I continue to use this feature daily for my landscape photography.

I am deeply grateful to the inventor of this remarkable creation. In general, my approach to landscape photography involves regularly revisiting fundamental principles. I typically embark on walks, conduct research on potential locations, and prepare for optimal lighting conditions. Surprisingly, I find the morning to be more conducive to photography compared to the sunset. The morning light is generally softer, and there are fewer people around, making it ideal for composing my tripod. Once I have selected a location and conducted my research, I step back to ensure that I am accurately capturing the scene in front of me. Most of the time, I return to the basics of sidelight and employ a medical composition.
Without landscape photography, my life would undoubtedly be lacking a profoundly rewarding experience. While I acknowledge that I would eventually reach my destination, I am particularly grateful for the transformative power of landscape photography. This pursuit continues to be one of the most fulfilling forms of rehabilitation for me.

I find it amusing to imagine the potential value of capturing the exhilarating sensation of taking an extraordinary photograph. If one could encapsulate this feeling and sell it as a bottle of enthusiasm, its worth would be immeasurable.

I never set out to create a photographic project, and certainly not a book. If someone had told me in late 2020 that I’d soon be spending most of my days walking the countryside with a camera, making abstract images of wind-blown grasses and slow-rolling waves, I wouldn’t have believed them.

At the time, I was trying to navigate a sudden redundancy that had brought my thirty-six-year career in film production to an abrupt end. It meant not only financial uncertainty but also a deep sense of personal and professional loss. On top of that, the strangeness of lockdown cast its own uncertainty across daily life. For a while, I felt adrift. Yet in the midst of that turbulence, photography re-entered my life, and it quickly became my anchor.

Photography had always been a quiet passion, lingering in the margins of my busy working life. Within days of losing my job, I upgraded my camera, and within weeks, I had left London. Suddenly, I had time, and the countryside was on my doorstep. During lockdown, when travel was prohibited, the same fields, lanes and woodlands became my sanctuary.

Photographing every day in the same area challenged me to interpret the same places in different ways.

I began to see differently. The landscape was unusually quiet, and within that stillness I became captivated by motion - not just ripples of water or grasses bending in the wind, but subtler gestures such as the sweep of a branch or the rise and fall of hills. I began experimenting with long exposures and moving the camera mid-shot, and became fascinated by how I could capture something of the ephemeral. At the time, I had no idea what I was doing in any formal sense.

I hadn’t heard of intentional camera movement and was simply following instinct, excited by the potential in these blurred, gestural images. It was only much later, when someone commented “ICM?” on a photo I’d posted online, that I discovered it was actually a thing - a technique - after looking it up. That discovery gave a name to what I had already been exploring intuitively and encouraged me to push further into abstraction. I also began experimenting with multiple exposures, intrigued by how layering could expand the possibilities even more.

When lockdown finally lifted, and I was able to travel to the coast, it felt like breathing out after holding my breath for months. After so long walking the same paths near home, the sudden expanse of sea and sky was overwhelming in its freedom. The horizon seemed to stretch forever, and with it came a sense of release I’d been craving. I spent hours on the beach, entranced by the shifting tide and the motion of the sea. Long exposures smoothed the waves into flowing veils, and intentional camera movements transformed shoreline and sky into abstract bands of colour.

Each frame felt like a discovery, a dialogue between myself, the sea, and chance. The excitement lay in seeing these images emerge, not as records of a place, but as expressions of how it felt to stand there - liberated, quietly elated, and beginning to glimpse where this exploration into motion might lead.

In many ways, it led me back to my beginnings. Looking back now, I realise my early training as a dancer left a lasting imprint on me; movement has become woven into the way I see the world and continues to shape how I engage with the landscape - and how I photograph it.

My photography became less about documenting what I saw and more about reflecting how I felt in nature. In time, I came to see that shift as both liberating and deeply restorative. The stillness of the countryside during lockdown was palpable, and within that wider quiet, I began to discover a stillness of my own. Looking through the viewfinder, I would lose myself, often entering a state of flow where everything else seemed to fall away. Photography offered a sense of calm not only when my own life had been upended, but also amid the wider upheaval of the world around me.

As the months passed, a thread began to emerge. Though the landscapes and subjects varied, the images shared a common quality: a lyrical stillness born from motion. I began to gather them into small collections – Landscape in Motion, Coastal Flow, Grasses - each exploring different facets of movement. Over time, new groupings emerged: Flora, where I’m drawn to the way the structure of flowers suggests a kind of dance, and Woodland, which centres on the flow and interplay of branches and trees. What intrigued me most was the paradox that the images with the most movement often conveyed the deepest sense of quiet, transforming the commonplace into something poetic.

It would be another three years before I considered the possibility of a book. Like many photographic projects, it evolved organically rather than from a predetermined vision. When the collection reached a certain weight, I knew it could be more than a series of images on a website or in an exhibition. It could become something tangible, a cohesive narrative. I was thrilled when Kozu Books saw the potential of the work and offered me a publishing deal, guiding it into book form.

Turning a collection of photographs into a book was exciting and rewarding, but it took time to find the right flow. The collections I had created became the foundation for the structure of the book, yet the sequencing went through many iterations, each change subtly shifting the mood and relationships between images. I enjoyed seeing how pairings across the pages could alter the nuance of the work and reveal new connections, though reaching that balance wasn’t always simple. Some of my favourite images didn’t make it into the final edit but letting them go became part of shaping something cohesive. After many rounds of adjustments, the book finally settled into a rhythm that felt authentic to the work and true to the way it had begun.

On reflection, the seeds of Stillness. In Motion were sown during those early lockdown walks. There was no grand idea at the outset; I was simply responding intuitively to what was in front of me, enjoying the serendipity of a practice where chance plays such an essential role. With ICM and multiple exposures, there is only so much you can control. That unpredictability was, and still is, a source of joy.

One reason I am drawn to abstraction is that it leaves space for emotion. By stepping away from literal representation, I can create images that suggest rather than describe, inviting viewers to bring their own responses, shaped by memory and experience.

Over time, I’ve come to see Stillness. In Motion. not as a project, but as a journey of discovery. It was born out of change, guided by intuition, and shaped by the landscape itself. There was never a plan, and that, I think, was essential. Each photograph was simply the result of being present in a moment, of paying attention, of letting chance play its part. The book gave form to that journey, but the practice remains open-ended - a way of seeing that continues to unfold.

Purchase Information

Stillness. In Motion is available from Sally's website or from Kozu Books, from £40.

Gallery

‘Vignette’
/viːˈnjɛt,vɪˈnjɛt/
Noun
1. a short graceful literary essay or sketch
2. a photograph, drawing, etc,
with edges that are shaded off ~Collins dictionary

The mountains of Torridon have a way of holding you at a distance. Sheer sandstone walls rise from the glen with an authority that resists easy capture. Its mountains are spoken of in reverent tones – Liathach, Beinn Alligin, Beinn Eighe – names that carry the same weight as their ridges and peaks. I was first made aware of these mountains three years ago, when my photographic journey began. Long before setting foot, I spent hours poring over maps and photographs, sketching out routes and viewpoints within this fabled range.

This early fascination made returning inevitable, but as a student, travel required planning and compromise. Scotland’s free bus travel scheme for under 22s offered me both an opportunity and a challenge.

The network stretches far, from comfortable city coaches to old school buses rattling along the Highland roads. But Torridon lies on one of the most restrictive routes: just two buses in and out on Tuesdays and Saturdays, providing a strict time window. For me, reaching it requires three separate connections and around eight hours of travel from the central belt of Scotland. The journey north became a kind of pilgrimage in itself – a reminder that Torridon insists on patience and commitment, before even reaching the trailhead.

The idea of merely revisiting felt incomplete. I wanted to give the journey more purpose, something that would make the effort of reaching this remote range feel intentional. On that long ride I had time to refine my aim. I set myself a challenge: to create a single photograph for each of Torridon’s eight peaks within the Torridonian Forest locality.

Not simply a record shot or a summit view, but a photo that represented each mountain’s presence and character. This demanded a slower pace. Rather than chasing every viewpoint, I had to move with the rhythms of the weather, attentive to its shifts and silences.

Backpacking gave me this freedom. With four days of food and shelter strapped to my back, I could linger when the conditions aligned, camp where the light lasted, or move on when the moment had passed. The weight of the pack was its own discipline, ensuring every stride was well measured, every stop deliberate, and every frame considered

Each mountain revealed itself differently – sometimes simply through waiting for the sun to be low enough for the right light, more often only after hours of mist or rain broke to let the light shape the landscape. What emerged was not just a record of a route, but a sequence of vignettes: eight mountains, eight photographs, each a fragment of Torridon’s story.

The word vignette feels fitting, suggesting both a short, graceful narrative and a technique for framing a scene. Together, they aim to form a portrait of Torridon – not complete, but true to the fleeting, elusive nature of this mountainous area.

Beinn Dearg – 914m

Beginning with Beinn Dearg felt fitting. It is an understated mountain – just 73 centimetres shy of Munro status, yet without the reverence or footfall of Torridon’s more famous peaks.

Sitting in the very heart of the range, it became both the epicentre for photographing this landscape and the original focal point of the trip.

I spent three hours wandering among a minefield of erratics, searching for compositions, hoping to be calm and prepared when the light finally arrived. In reality, it was the opposite. As the sun neared the horizon, the scene shifted into something fleeting and unpredictable: deep blue clouds layered high above, while white, lower clouds swirled around the summits. Panic set in. I raced between my previously scouted locations, watching how the changing light transformed each frame. Nothing sufficed.

At last, I arrived at a spot just as the foreground was descending into shadow. Ideally, I would have placed this rock further to the left of frame so that it pointed inward, but compromise was impossible.

Instead, I leaned into what the moment offered. Shadow and sun worked together, pulling the eye from the corners of the frame towards that solitary stone, now separated from Beinn Dearg by a rising line of shadow. In that brief instant, the layering I had been searching for finally presented itself.

Baosbheinn – 875m

The evening’s photography was far from finished. Having secured a frame of Beinn Dearg that felt strong enough, I turned my attention to Baosbheinn. With its long undulating spine, evoking the shape of a sleeping dragon, a faint wisp of cloud drifted from its summit like smoke.

I had climbed much of its ridge the previous day and carried with me a more personal sense of its place within the range. Baosbheinn is often treated as a lookout – a platform from which to admire the Torridon giants – rather than as a subject in its own right.

When composing the photograph, I let the light take the lead. The boulder field at my feet was chaotic, but within the disorder a group of rocks caught the sun and cast elongated shadows across the ground.

Their rhythm echoed the ridgeline beyond. I was drawn to the possibility of creating a visual echo – foreground stones arranged

like a miniature replica of Baosbheinn’s peaks, pulling the eye from right to left. In that moment, the mountain ceased to be just a viewpoint for Torridon’s giants; instead, it revealed a quiet authority of its own, connected by the rocks that lie beneath it.

Liathach – 1023m

I decided to save the privilege of traversing Liathach’s ridge for another trip, meaning I was only left to admire it from a distance, wishfully imagining the feeling of standing atop its peak. My glimpses of this mountain were handed in small portions.

However, when it did reveal itself, it was with great splendour. The light had drained from the surrounding mountains, leaving only a sharp, crimson glow clinging to the summit of Mullach an Rathain - one of the Munros of the Liathach ridge. Just as I thought the evening could offer nothing more, low cloud crept up behind the peak and began curling around the corner.

I worked quickly, using the converging lines of the surrounding mountains to draw the eye to Liathach, anchoring the composition with a foreground of neatly arranged rocks. Liathach’s grandeur was undeniable, even from afar. It was a mountain that revealed itself on its own terms as I was not to see its peaks for the rest of the trip, shrouded out by thick cloud.

Beinn an Eoin – 855m

The following morning, the weather that was originally forecast caught up with me. My short stint of good fortune seemed to have ended as I trudged up the steep 440m ascent to Beinn Dearg’s first summit, rain showers sweeping across in relentless succession.

As I reached the first summit, another seemingly targeted squall passed over me and onwards to Beinn an Eoin. A sudden patch of light broke through, illuminating one of the many lochans scattered across the glen, chasing the downpour into the distance. With the sun behind me, I watched with growing intensity as this dynamic scene unfolded. This was the moment I had been waiting for.

Starved for time and with little in the way of foreground interest, I sprinted to a pair of rocks that provided the necessary balance in this scene. Anticipation and exhilaration rose in equal measure as the first arc of colour edged into view. Slowly, the rainbow unfurled from left to right, light fighting against shadow for a foothold on the landscape until the scene resolved in full, fleeting brilliance.

Beinn an Eoin was the stage for this transformation – proof that patience and persistence, even through adversity, can sometimes coax magic form the most reluctant skies.

Meall a’Ghiuthais – 887m

At a loss for words after Beinn an Eoin, I wandered further along the ridge in search of capturing another mountain. I thought nothing I encountered would surpass what I had just witnessed.

Meall a’ Ghiuthais was always going to be one of the ‘make or break’ mountains for the success of this project. A solitary, stubby mountain which doesn’t immediately attract the eye.

This was a fortuitous encounter. Light and shadow once more wrestled above me, the cloud beginning to gain the upper hand as it swirled across the range, closing in on the surrounding mountains. In the distance, the sole-standing mountain was Meall a’ Ghiuthais – seemingly confined despite the vastness around it. I framed this photograph with striated rocks in the foreground, their lines pulling the eye into the centre and lending depth to its otherwise quiet presence.

At first, I dismissed the image. It felt forced, included only for the sake of the project and I questioned whether I would even have paused to take it on a regular trip. But the more I returned to it, the more it grew on me. I believe the reason I was doubting it, is part of the reason this image is just as special. A view and photograph that may be overlooked, but one that wouldn’t have been captured otherwise.

Beinn Alligin – 986m

The cloud settled in for good as I made the final push towards the summit of Beinn Dearg. Rain came in swathes across the ridge, turning Torridon’s usually reliable sandstone slick and uncertain. As I scrambled down, I was halted by a formidable boulder – standing defiantly amongst the otherwise obedient line of rocks beneath it.

Space to work was scarce. The ridge narrowed to barely five metres, leaving little margin for error. Each footstep had to be precise as I edged into position, seeking to line up the chain of smaller rocks, circling around the dominant boulder.

Flow has always been central to how I approach composition: how the eye moves through an image, where it rests, what interrupts its journey. While this can be refined in post processing, the core components need to be present with the composition.

As I fought to keep the lens clear with fierce, oncoming rain, I managed to capture just two photos without blemishes of rain. Beinn Alligin offered me no abundance of images. Yet that scarcity gave it weight. It demanded patience, reminding me that these summits are not easily captured, and these types of moments are the memories that will linger longest. The cloud dropped and gripped tightly on the mountains for the majority of the next day.

Beinn Eighe – 976m

This is the image that ended the stranglehold of cloud and rain. The end of the previous day, and much of the morning and afternoon, had been spent shrouded in low cloud, myself and the mountains both smothered.

Before arriving at this penultimate location, I had a formed a clear vision of what I wanted to capture. Most photographers (rightly so) tend to shoot the vast array of erratics that dominate this landscape, with the loch below acting as the natural progression to the mountain. But while scouring maps and conferring with satellite imagery, I noticed a river running from the loch’s mouth. This detail persisted in my mind. I walked its length, pausing to scout for rapids that would provide the right weight and energy to balance out the imposing cliffs.

I had timed my arrival perfectly. A reluctant shaft of light broke through, falling across the face of the mountain. It was a faint streak, but just enough to outline the ridges, emphasising its dominance. I knew which location I had to get to. This time there was no flustered running about in a panic, just a case of calmly hopping over the river back to this composition and making sure everything was in focus.

This was the most coherent scene on offer: rapids flowing in from the bottom right; complemented by evenly spaced boulders broken up by clumps of grass; all elements gently progressing towards the dominating Triple Buttress, holding the attention. After a day of silence and concealment, Beinn Eighe offered a single moment of clarity – the perseverance paying off.

Beinn a’ Chearcaill – 725m

Once the fleeting light on Beinn Eighe had faded, I boiled up a quick pot noodle by the river. It was then, almost absentmindedly, that I noticed a single, narrow strand of light sweeping across the landscape. Just ten metres downstream from the last vantage point – but facing in the opposite direction – Beinn a' Chearcaill was waiting.

I had already made one attempt at photographing this mountain during the frenzy of rainbows the previous day. In my haste, I forced two boulders into the foreground, creating an image with no purpose and no real connection.

It was the only time this mountain had presented itself and I was blinded by the rainbow, not putting any thought into the process. It was simply instinct. Ever since, I’d been quietly disappointed, rehearsing how I might explain the unimaginative result.

This sliver of light felt like a reprieve, a chance to correct my previous falter. By the fourth afternoon, fatigue had set in, yet this was the most alert I had been. Every other mountain was accounted for, but this one remained unresolved.

I worked quickly, centring the composition around a commanding boulder being held in an enclave of the river. All movement in the frame seemed to converge – lines of rock, water, and shadow – pulling the eye inexorably toward the light illuminating Beinn a Chearcaill.

A Dialogue with the Mountains

This photographic challenge shaped the trip, forcing me into a slower, more deliberate rhythm than my usual approach. At first, I found myself in a familiar cycle – racing from one composition to another, as if with tunnel vision. But along the way, that urgency gave way to patience and acceptance of the conditions. Shooting with an end goal in mind meant looking at scenes I might otherwise have ignored, noticing the quieter authority of the smaller peaks, often revealed with passing light.

These may not be the single “best” images I made in Torridon – due to the partial constraints of the challenge – but they feel like the truest representation of these mountains. Eight mountains in four days, each asserting its own character through light, weather, and form. Some demanded effort and persistence, others gave themselves generously, but all carried equal weight in shaping the story.

Presented chronologically, the images not only reflect the range’s often volatile microclimate, but also the shift in my own process – from hurried reaction to a more intentional dialogue with the landscape.

The Frith Fields lie in the south Cotswolds, and have, through care and steadfastness, been returned to native meadow. My project began with a simple idea: to photograph the fields through the seasons, and to let repeated encounters with this place reveal new ways of seeing it, and maybe to create a book.

Beneath this plan, there was also a looser purpose: to understand how one lives and works with place. Emma and Matt’s stewardship of the fields was a vital part of this. Their years of patient restoration, their belief in “doing the right thing” by the land, and their generosity in sharing knowledge gave me a strong foundation.

Alongside making the photographs, I kept a written journal, usually penned back in the studio using the images from each day to reflect on the thoughts, feelings and sensations I’d experienced. Each entry was both an anchor and a prompt, which helped me to understand and acknowledge how much the fields resisted being contained by the frame, and how my methods would have to adapt.

Inspiration

The inspiration for the work came from multiple sources. Research revealed that the UK has lost 7.5 million acres of wildflower meadow and flower-rich grassland since the 1930s¹. 1400 insect species rely on meadows for their survival, and these plants and insects help to maintain a healthy ecosystem. Meeting Emma and Matt, who had devoted years to restoring the meadows, gave me both context and motivation. Their stewardship spoke of patience and persistence, and Emma’s references to Ikigai - the balance of purpose and practice - and to Katherine Swift’s The Morville Hours situated my own efforts within a wider tradition of living with land.

Alongside this, exhibitions, reading and conversations informed my thinking.

The voices of others were important, Matt’s insights and knowledge of the wildlife in the fields, his sighting of a stoat dragging a baby rabbit, bigger than itself, across the bottom field or finding a newly born fawn nestled among the long grass—all these grounded my practice within a living network of care and observation. Later, my friend Shelley’s reflection that my work carried something of the “pastoral sublime” reframed what I was doing. Was my attention to this landscape simply about beauty? Or did it echo wider crises—climate, political, social—that haunt our times? Inspiration, I came to see, is never solitary. It is a conversation between place, people, and understanding.

Highs and Lows

There were auspicious moments when photography and place aligned, if briefly. Early morning mists rising from the valley offered fleeting drama; frosted seedheads glowed under low sun; the appearance of blackthorn blossom against a grey hedge brought a clarity where form, light, and season cohered into an image.

The low points came in quieter, more insistent ways. The fields sit on the side of a steep valley; in winter, the sun rarely lifts high enough to illuminate the fields. In summer, the opposite harsh midday light flattened the abundance in the fields into visual confusion, making it nearly impossible to render with any subtlety. There was the impossibility of capturing grass snakes, or of making butterflies feel as alive in an image as they were in flight. And at times the meadows felt constraining: three fields, always the same boundaries, the sense of repetition that made me long for the unstructured wandering which is my usual way of working.

Shifting Process: From Image to Material

The recognition of the limits of what I was able to do with the camera marked a turning point. So rather than photographing what I saw, I began to work with what I could touch. Collecting and pressing plants became a new form of image-making. At first, this was a nostalgic act, and one that echoed early photographic processes. Like a negative, pressing flattens, fixes, and preserves—pigments fade, colours shift, chlorophyll recedes. What remains is both presence and absence: the form intact, but the life altered
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Making pigments followed, I became fascinated with the idea of making inks from the very matter of the fields—plants, soil, stones. I did a short workshop with Lucy at London Pigment, who generates pigments from materials in the landscape that reflect the city, and her relationship with colour and place.

Inspired by Fabian Miller, I began placing plants and seeds from the fields directly onto photographic paper and exposing them to sunlight, creating lumen prints. These negative images were formed not only by the shadows of the plants but also by their chemical reaction with the paper, which formed soft auras around the images of the plants. I later scanned these negatives and converted them into positives. The originals remain unfixed, tucked away in a dark drawer in my studio, like the flowers and grasses they depict, they are ephemeral, fragile —still sensitive to light, and always vulnerable to change.

These processes remain photographic in spirit, but without the lens — an engagement with light-sensitive materials, with chemistry, with the physical traces of place. Each pressed flower, pigment and lumen print felt like an attempt to bridge the gap between presence and representation.

Insights

In the end, the Frith Fields became less about making successful photographs and more about learning what photography cannot do. The camera faltered where the fields were most alive. But in that I discovered other ways of working - pressings, pigment, lumen printing — that deepened the project rather than diminished it.

Looking back, the Frith Fields taught me that photography is as much about failure as success.

I made the work by following my nose, letting process lead the way, and found myself with a collection of disparate pieces: photographs, pressed flowers, landscapes, still-lives, and ink. At first, drawing these fragments together into a coherent whole felt impossible. Then I spoke again with Iain at Another Place Press — so generous with his time, ideas, and skill. We talked about the possibility of a small publication in the Field Notes series, and I sent him a mass of files. What came back was nothing short of transformative: a design that wove together the photographs and lumen prints, interlacing them so they began to speak with one voice. Somehow it captured that elusive sense of the fields’ vitality. From this starting point, I can now imagine a larger publication, one that draws on all the elements of the process. Thanks to Iain’s intervention and design expertise, I can see the work differently — as something whole, and alive.

Final thoughts

‘The Frith Fields’ began as a simple plan to document three fields, but it became a reflection on the limits and possibilities of photography itself. In turning to camera-less processes — lumen prints, pressed plants, pigments — I found ways to work that felt more intimate and connected to the life of the fields. These processes became the breakthrough of the project, transforming limitation into possibility, absence into presence. They reminded me that photography is not only about what the lens captures, but also about how light, chemistry, and material can speak together.

In the end, the Frith Fields were less a subject, more a collaborator; they resisted simplification and offered, in return, a richer way of seeing.

The Frith Fields by Amanda Harman, Another Place press

Since the invention of photography, scientists have used documentary photographs to explain their methods, to show results, and as sources of data. More recently, some scientists are focusing on links between science and art. For example, natural scientists in the “SciArt” community (e.g.www.sciartinitiative.org) are creating art using photographs of scientific processes and phenomena, with the goal of making science more interesting for the wider public.

As a science-adjacent water expert, I’ve seen firsthand how challenging it is for environmental professionals to connect with non-specialists whose support is important to the success of their work. Water is a very technical domain, and many people lack the basic science foundation needed to understand the issues. I’ve become interested in ways artistic photography can prompt deeper conversations about underlying scientific and technical challenges relating to water and the environment.

In art making, we are most free when we are unconstrained by the tastes and preferences of others, such as gallerists, critics, and potential buyers. In contrast, when art making is our livelihood, or when responding to external drivers is necessary, the tastes and preferences of others can matter immensely.

The challenge is multiplied when art-making takes place in a collaborative setting involving non-artists. It’s one thing for the artist to consider what hypothetical audiences might prefer. It’s another thing entirely to accommodate the preferences of actual collaborators who have their own ideas and agendas.

In the context of art-science projects, trustworthiness is an additional consideration that must be balanced. Science is rooted in reality and depends on trust. Thus, photography that is anchored strongly in reality is a natural fit with efforts to bridge art and science. It helps when the answer to the question, “Is what I’m seeing in this photograph real?” is “Yes”. But photographs that are too literal, too straightforward, may fail as art.

These considerations have been front-and-centre for me during the past three years as I collaborated with water professionals through an art-science integration project funded by Canada’s Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council. The goal of our project was to explore how art­science approaches based on photography could catalyze engagement with local water management activities in southern Ontario, Canada.

In this editorial, I use the example of my collaboration with colleagues at Conservation Halton (CH), one of Ontario’s 36 conservation authorities. Conservation authorities are science-based watershed management organizations with responsibilities for water management, environmental conservation, recreation, and public engagement.

We chose Crawford Lake, one of CH’s properties, as the focal point for a visual story that could set the stage for conversations with community members and key stakeholders about underlying scientific and technical challenges faced by conservation authorities.

Crawford Lake is a tiny meromictic lake nestled in the limestone of the Niagara Escarpment in southern Ontario. Meromictic lakes are unusual because they have two layers of water that do not mix. Conservation Halton has been stewarding Crawford Lake and the surrounding property since 1969. The property is a centrepiece in its environmental education programming, in large part because of the strong connection to Indigenous people who occupied the site historically, and who continue to live in the region and steward its lands and waters.

We envisioned several outputs for the body of work I created during 2024-25, starting with an exhibition at CH’s 50th anniversary Gala on June 12, 2025. From the beginning, we planned to use prints, rather than just a website, because we wanted to support in-person conversations among technical experts, community members, and key stakeholders.

Curating the nearly 250 candidate images I created in 2024-25 to produce a coherent visual story for the exhibition, and then writing the supporting text, was challenging but extremely rewarding. While the photographs are my work, the story we created together is ours.

The process of creating the exhibition highlighted the tensions and compromises underlying art-science collaboration. My strong preference for photography grounded in reality was a good fit for this project, but my fondness for near-abstraction and my penchant for noticing and photographing unusual things that often are missed by other people created an internal conflict we needed to solve together.

In the rest of this editorial, I briefly explore what worked for this project and what didn’t work, using a few examples. I also present a selection of images that were not used in the exhibition, primarily because they did not meet the needs of this art-science integration project; these are among my favourites from the larger body of work.

What Worked for the Exhibition

The exhibition space at the Gala had room for 20-30 photographs, divided among the core themes in the storyline we developed. I chose 57 photographs from the pool of 250 and brought prints to a workshop for 15 CH staff.

Preferences were not monolithic, but it quickly became clear that photographs that were favoured by the environmental professionals at the workshop were intelligible, fit clearly within the themes of the story, and tended to be conventional and literal.

The photograph we chose as the opener for the visual story is a good example. It is easily recognizable as a lake in this part of the world. As a photograph, it fits comfortably within the “lake-trees-clouds-reflections” style that is common in landscape photography. Indeed, CH uses an image that looks like this on a sign that welcomes visitors to the property. Photographs like this are very accessible for a general audience.

One of my favourite near-abstraction photographs from the project made it into the exhibition, but somewhat grudgingly. At our curation workshop, this image of the lake in the early morning after a rain shower was one of two candidates for the “closer” in the visual story.

Most people preferred the other candidate, a more conventional reflection image that was easier to understand. In the end, participants came around to this image because it supported a key closing message from this part of the story more effectively; it helped that the colour palette (blue and green) complemented the Gala colour palette.

The images we used in the exhibition are the best indicator of what worked for this art-science collaboration. The photographs and text from our visual story, Crawford Lake – Where Waters Gather, are available at this link: https://www.robdeloephotography.com/Works/Crawford-Lake.

What Didn’t Work for this Visual Story

Many of the 57 candidate photographs considered at the curation workshop were not favoured simply because people preferred one option over another; this is normal and expected during any curation exercise. However, from the perspective of a researcher interested in understanding how art­s-cience approaches based on photography can catalyze engagement with local water management activities, I watched for other factors that shaped how participants responded to photographs.

I quickly realized that my delight in near-abstraction and unusual things in nature was a liability rather than an asset in this kind of project. Many of my personal favourites were received coolly because it wasn’t obvious enough what the viewer was seeing, or it wasn’t readily apparent how an ambiguous-seeming photograph supported a theme.

A good example is this eastern white cedar that is growing upside down from the side of a limestone cliff, into the water of Crawford Lake. I was excited to share this photograph with my CH collaborators because I considered it a good fit for the part of the story that showcased the ecosystem around Crawford Lake. However, its strangeness did not resonate with my colleagues, and they were concerned that our intended audience would not understand what they were seeing. Communication and understanding are essential to the success of the project; thus, the image did not make the cut.

With what I learned from the workshop in mind, I didn’t bother trying to convince my collaborators that we should use this next photograph of a vernal pool. These small, water-filled depressions in the limestone landscape are an important part of the ecosystem.

This photograph of a vernal pool delights me because it is literal, yet leaves much to the imagination of the viewer. However, it is not as accessible as the more conventional (yet hopefully still intriguing) vernal pool photograph I used in the exhibition (see link).

Final Thoughts,

In art-science collaborations, meeting people where they are – intellectually, culturally, and emotionally – is essential. It’s a tricky balancing act. The artist who is interested in successfully bridging art and science is not free to ignore the tastes, preferences and knowledge of the audience.

Many of my favourite photographs from the body of work I completed for this project in 2024-25 (reproduced on the following pages) were not used in the exhibition. Instead, the images we chose for our visual story tended to a more literal and conventional documentary style that prioritized understanding for a non-specialist audience.

At the same time, a major goal of the project was exploring whether visual stories like the one we created using Crawford Lake could motivate viewers to become interested in the technical and scientific topics that underpin environmental management. As an educator, I’ve learned that curiosity, wonder and mystery can get people to make the extra effort that is needed to engage more deeply with technical and scientific topics. Art can be an excellent way to access those dimensions.

Squaring this circle is a key challenge for people who are interested in using photography to deepen engagement with complex scientific and technical questions.