The star of this story is a rock – schist – a hard, sometimes beautiful, rock that has greatly influenced the lives of the people who live on it and who exploit it to create fascinating buildings.

It has always been my belief that the landscape is not just something beautiful and fascinating to look at; it is also a major shaper of human activity at multiple levels, and is in its turn moulded by the decisions and actions of people. In fact, the landscape we see today in much of the world, certainly in most of Europe, is the outcome of the interwoven stories of nature and the human exploitation of the environment. In this sense, our appreciation of a landscape is enhanced by some awareness of how it got to look this way. Landscape photography and environmental awareness are natural companions.

This article and the accompanying portfolio try to examine some of these connections for just one place – a small village, a hamlet we’d call it in Britain, in Central Portugal called Cerdeira that was completely abandoned before restoration efforts began about 30 years ago.

Visitors to the village today find beautiful renovated stone houses (used as tourist accommodation) and other restored buildings (including a thriving centre for the arts, especially ceramics). Cheek-by-jowl with the restored buildings is the remains of houses in all stages of disintegration and reconstruction. It is a striking juxtaposition, allowing visitors to gaze out from a stylish and comfortable house onto ruins that would delight the heart of the 18th-century creators of follies in English country estates. On Landscape is not the place for an extended dissertation on geology or social history, but understanding how the village comes to look like this provides a context that throws light on how people interact with the landscape. But first, a few words about the images themselves.

The images

The photographs here can be thought of as my tribute to the schist. The character of the rock defines the region and I made three brief visits (2 to 5 days each) in 2018 – January, May and December. I had chance to see the buildings and ruins of Cerdeira in many moods, from the almost absurdly golden light just before a winter sunset to a summer thunderstorm. What kept attracting me was the rock itself. There is an irregular, almost mosaic, character to the walls of the buildings. The highly diverse beauty of the stonework contrasts with the more regular geometry of the tile roofs, though even up there, slabs of schist are left on top of the tiles, as the traditional methods of roofing are flimsy and the blocks provide extra stability.

I would describe the resulting images as highly detailed semi-abstracts. Like millions before me, I feel that the essence of each photograph goes back to Ansel Adams’s concept of “visualisation”. As he put it, this involves seeing a photograph “in your mind’s eye”, knowing the finished image you wish to create, and then taking the steps needed to make the photograph that corresponds to this internal image. In an interview late in his life, he was very clear: “The picture has to be there, clearly and decisively.”

The “external” experience of seeing a landscape is accompanied by an “internal event”, and what is recorded is both what I saw and how I felt. Among modern authors, I have been greatly influenced in my thinking about photography by the writing and images of Guy Tal. His interpretation of “expressive photography” feels exactly right to me. I am not trying to portray a scene but rather to record the impact the scene had on me. Like any landscape photographer, I aspire to capture something of the genius loci, the spirit of a place, but there is no universal reality - we each recall a scene in subtly different ways. So these are images of what I remember - photographs of memories.

In practical terms, I also follow Guy Tal’s advice, as expressed in his book The Landscape Photographer’s Guide to Photoshop, i.e. I do not try to create the image that corresponds to my visualisation in the field, but rather I take a photograph that will enable me to reproduce that inner vision once I work on it on my laptop. I use Photoshop, but in fact, I find that my visualisations can be found using just a few of its features. Most of the editing goes no further than the tools available in Camera Raw, along with selected dodging and burning. Of course, processing was also a feature of Adams’s methods, so the approach goes back almost a century, even if today we use software when Adams relied on chemicals and length of exposure. The key element for me in the field is the composition; that is the essence of my visualisation. I should also note that these photographs, like all I make, are handheld. I have never been able to work comfortably with a tripod. In the past, this meant accepting that much of landscape photography was beyond my grasp. However, with modern sensors and stabilized lenses, the extra stability of a tripod is no longer needed for a much wider range of images.

The idea that an artist is someone who looks at the same world but sees it differently is a cliché of such long-standing that I have never been able to identify an initial author, and there is at least tentative evidence from cognitive science to support the contention.

I am not sure I can claim to be an artist, but a couple of anecdotes from Cerdeira stay in my mind. I showed some of my images to one of the team who run the village. Looking at the first photograph of this portfolio, she said, “I know where that is: I walk past there 20 or 30 times a day. But I never looked at it like that.” The next day one of her colleagues asked me where I had taken the image of the crumbling wall, and was surprised to learn that I made the photograph standing just outside the café in which we were chatting. It is perhaps revealing of the transitional nature of the village that both those scenes were no longer visible a few months later as the slow process of rebuilding and upgrading goes on.

The rock and its impact

In traditional, pre-industrial societies locally available resources are critical; the nature of the bedrock determines what building material is available. Schist is hard, created when softer sedimentary rocks were squeezed and baked, deep in the earth hundreds of millions of years ago when continents collided. Hard and impermeable, schist splits easily along the grain of the rock, but it cannot readily be cut into regular blocks. So, buildings traditionally were assembled from irregular-shaped pieces. With the ingredients needed for mortar hard to come by locally, the walls were largely made of solid uncemented stone, pieced together like a three-dimensional jigsaw or mosaic and mortar limited to filling in holes. Schist also varies greatly in colour, both from quarry to quarry and over time as it weathers. Freshly cut, it is often blue or purple, but can also be yellow or orange, and it weathers to a great variety of shades and textures. In the humid climate of Portugal, the stone also acquires a patina of lichens, further enriching the palette of colours. The result, to my eyes, is one of the most diverse and beautiful building materials to be found anywhere, and the specialist builders who now reconstruct the old houses have an eye for this beauty that leads me to think of them as artists rather than artisans. But the rock has an impact that goes far beyond house-building.

Obdurate schist resists erosion and makes hills and mountains with poor soil and steep slopes. In Portugal people have lived in these regions for thousands of years – they were already long-established when the Romans arrived over 2,000 years ago. But these hills have always been tough, marginal places to live in compared with the more fertile lowlands. When opportunity arose to move to towns and cities, or even abroad, people did so, especially after World War Two. Gradually the schist hills began to empty and by the 1970s Cerdeira was a ghost village, its houses abandoned and crumbling, its farm terraces, created with so much effort on the rugged slopes, returning to nature. Rural depopulation of this kind is a widespread phenomenon; across whole swathes of Southern and Eastern Europe farms, villages, even small towns are emptying.

Visiting these abandoned villages, or ones where a handful of residents still linger, is a poignant experience. These are places where people have struggled to make a living for hundreds, even thousands, of years, often in unforgiving conditions. Now they are neglected and decaying. Centuries of effort left to fall into ruins - especially saddening in places where the traditional buildings are often so beautiful. Walking through Cerdeira on the single, carefully graded, schist footpath that connects the rebuilt houses reveals scene after scene that speaks of decay. A doorway that once was the way into someone’s home, now just leads to a tangle of brambles and weeds. A wall, with a niche in the stonework that once might have held an oil lamp or a candle, is falling apart on an almost daily basis. A door ajar, facing one of the reconstructed houses, only opens to reveal heaps of rubble and a roofless, collapsing interior. In many deserted villages it feels impossible to imagine anything other than gradual decay and disappearance. But the schist has one final, and optimistic, role to play.

After so long making life difficult, in the era of ecotourism and sustainable development, the rock has given the communities that live on it a new identity – the Schist Villages. Some two dozen communities have come together to work collectively to establish themselves as a destination for “green tourism” with an emphasis on traditional design, access to nature, and high-quality local produce. In Cerdeira, after decades totally abandoned, it is not fanciful to speak of resurrection. Guided by the creative instincts of ceramicist Kerstin Thomas, the village has become a lively focus for the arts as well as a tourist centre. The photographs here try to give some hint of this transformation.

Autumn. An explosion of colour and a season that many wait patiently for, so that they can try to capture it in all its splendour. For the last few years, I have done the same, but my vision and desires have changed a lot recently. I am drawn more and more towards working in black and white, driven in part by using film and printing in the darkroom, but also through enjoying the challenge of being a landscape photographer, who surrounded by colour, choose to piece together the landscape photography puzzle through a limited pallet of tones.

Autumn seemed as good a time as any to try and see whether I could capture the essence of Autumn in the Woodland without the presence of colour. Working almost exclusively in two areas that I have easy access to, I shot consistently over the months of October and November with the aspiration of creating a final gallery of images that captured Autumn in Monochrome.

The project became a good lesson and exercise in using limitations and constraints to produce a final series of images that felt cohesive, and with a unity of vision.

The series was predominantly shot at two locations; Rushmere country park and Aldenham woods, which are near to home and work respectively. Rushmere country park is my home from home, and somewhere I could happily walk around every day, and still feel like there are new images to be made. Aldenham Woods provided me with a place to go on the rare occasions I had time to shoot before work. Shooting locally not only allowed me to get out regularly, and be flexible depending on what the weather was doing, but I could also revisit compositions with ease if I needed to. I did manage a trip to Bolehill Quarry in the Peak District, which allowed me to add a few images that contained a different type of geography, but that was still within the brief of the project.

Black and white work has been a staple part of my photography ever since I picked it up five years ago, and I wanted to complete a project that was solely black and white. I’ve been using medium format film cameras and using Ilford black and white films, for a few years now, but I decided to shoot this project in digital. Predominantly, this came down to wanting to work quite quickly and I hadn’t yet decided on subject matter and style of shooting. Therefore, I decided to shoot the series on a Digital Monochromatic camera, which ended up being the Leica M Monochrome. Using a monochromatic camera helped create a limitation by forcing me to consider my compositions differently to how I would if shooting in colour. The camera doesn’t capture any colour data at all, only luminance values. You can also use colour filters (yellow, orange etc..) to boost the contrast. I have become very familiar with using filters in this way since starting to shoot black and white film again a few years ago.

I only used 3 lenses throughout the project – a Voigtlander 35mm 1.4, Voigtlander 50mm 1.2 and a Zeiss 100mm F2 Makro. The Zeiss was connected via an adaptor and the majority of the close-up images were taken with this superb lens. I like using fast lenses, shooting with a shallow depth of field where possible, and all 3 lenses were ideal for this project.

Where possible, shooting in conditions that were slightly flat in light, was preferred. This gave me more flexibility in post processing because I wasn’t dealing with high contrast files.

I eventually settled on an aesthetic for the final images, which was a result of both post processing and choices made in the field. A yellow filter was used the majority of the time, because of the effect it would have on helping pick out the bright yellows of the changing leaves, as well as give the overall image a boost in contrast.

Every session spent on the project was approached with an open mind, starting off with just walking and seeing what the weather was doing, and trying to feel what compositions I was being drawn to. Inevitably there were a number of shots that focussed on the wider landscape, but I also wanted to capture a broad range of images. This resulted in a number of close up and detailed shots, as well as using triptychs, being included in the final project.

There were a few compositions which I’ve shot in the past that I ended up re-visiting. This did result in one of my favourite images of the project, of the one brightly coloured tree on the other side of the lake, illuminated against the dark of the pine trees behind.

The woodland and forest floor offer a whole world of opportunities for those wishing to explore it. Working with a Macro lens, I would often be found pointing my camera at the ground, trying to capture the details of the leaves which had already fallen, or the textures of the pine needles and lichen.

On a particularly flat morning when I just couldn’t seem to make sense of the wider landscape, I was drawn towards the bark of a tree. Exploring the different patterns and possible compositions consumed me for the next hour or so. My favourite of these was of some bark that resembled a tribal tattoo on top of the stripped wood.

Triptychs run throughout the final set of images and it’s a technique I find myself using frequently, in particular when dealing with smaller details or slightly abstract viewpoints. The triptych allows me to examine a subject from different viewpoints or to show separate, but related elements that complement each other. Displaying images in such a way also asks the viewer to consider the relationship between each ‘panel’.

From the outset of the project, I applied limitations and constraints on myself; Shooting in Black and White, limited lens choice, two locations etc... Many of the limitations were applied right from the beginning, but some were also set when I started to select the images that would make up the final gallery. Over the course of a couple of months, I built up a catalogue of c.200 images that I thought had potential and I printed all individually on 6x4 paper. Seeing all the images laid out really helped with the shot selection process, and I found it much easier working with mini-prints away from the computer screen. Relationships between images and themes started to emerge as I moved the prints around on the desk. I would often think of a theme and work through the images to see if it ‘worked’. More often than not it didn’t, but a new idea would form by completing this process a number of times.

The final limitation presented itself during this stage of image review, when I decided that the images would only be of the woodland interior. Any images that included the sky were excluded, with the only sky that’s visible being in the reflections of puddles or bodies of water.

Working in a project mindset, complete with self-imposed constraints, really helped me focus in a way which I’d been lacking over recent months, and I am now on the lookout for what my next project will be. I have a sneaking suspicion it may be in black and white...

We all get excited when an opportunity arises for a trip to somewhere special for photography. The chance to photograph something new and fresh excites the mind. Let’s face it however unless you are able to afford the costs and time for these trips, they are not a regular opportunity. Most often we settle for what is within a short distance of our home. How do you stay “fresh” and enthusiastic, at the same time making imagery that is of a high personal standard that others will appreciate and find meaningful as well?

Most of us have a specific location that we choose to visit and photograph over and over. For some that location may be a destination such as a national park or a city. Others like myself may be fortunate enough to have such a location near to us. Having local access to a location allows us to photograph in a variety of seasons, light and weather conditions. But how do you take advantage of this, getting more than the standard “iconic” shots and personalising your portfolio of work? This is what I call “Capturing The Essence” of a location, taking images that represent the feeling of the place through detail and action shots.

I am fortunate to live within ten minutes of Niagara Falls, in western New York State. This is truly one of the natural wonders of the world. It is also one of the most visited and photographed natural parks, being located on the border between the United States and Canada, an hour and a half from Toronto, Canada and a half hour from Buffalo, NY. This makes it a year round tourist attraction and sometimes difficult to photograph without jostling with tourists. With all of my gear, I am frequently stopped and asked to take family photos with various phones and cameras, making it a wonder I get any photography of my own accomplished. Niagara Falls changes with the seasons as well as a time of day and weather conditions.

When I mention Niagara Falls I am sure that a picture instantly springs to mind. We have all seen the standard iconic images of Niagara Falls a thousand times. If not, just Google the park and you will see a screen full of nearly identical images. I have a number of these in my portfolio as well because they sell, but I strive as well to capture images of the park that are original and representative of how the park makes me feel in the moment. If these shots are meaningful to me then they hopefully will have a similar effect of others. When you have the luck of being able to see a location in many different conditions you begin to see things like autumn leaves on the ground in Zion, rock formations, animals, etc. that are specific to that location and have just as much emotional value as the iconic shots. Grand sweeping vistas are wonderful but sometimes the more intimate images convey as much emotion as the wide angle shots. Having a body of work that is singular and representative of your vision will set you apart from others, demonstrating your compositional and story-telling skills.

Niagara Falls is so much more than a huge waterfall. The Niagara River is a very large river connecting two of the Great Lakes. The upper river is wide and flat as it flows from Lake Erie, and the lower river is narrow, powerfully rapid, and passes through a gorge before emptying into Lake Ontario. The water at the Falls is a beautiful blue-green, due to minerals picked up off the rocks below. There are wondrous rapids that dance with the power of so much water moving through the narrow lead up to the falls. Below the majestic waterfalls, begins an entirely different world. The deep and narrow nature of the river below the falls makes for rapids and whirlpools that race through the first half of the deep Niagara gorge, before slowing as the river once again widens.

In the spring and summer, everything is surrounded by lush green plant life and the sun glints off of the moving waters. Autumn brings variable skies and changing colours as the oaks and maples lose their leaves for the coming winter. Niagara Falls in the winter is like a crystal fairyland as snow and ice coat everything around falls. The rising mist from the waterfalls coats everything, both natural and man made. The longer the freezing cold lasts, the thicker the ice builds up. Additionally, because the river doesn’t freeze, we are blessed with migrating ducks, geese, Tundra Swans and a variety of gulls that winter here. This makes the area a hot spot for birders, year round.

With such a variety of changing conditions, I never lack compositional opportunities. Additionally, seeing a spot that might offer possibilities under different conditions is easily noted for future visits. Travelling to other national parks around the country means accepting the conditions found during that window of travel. Lady luck combined with advance prep work will get you great images, but you get what you get.

I try to make at least two trips during the year to other areas so I know how it is to come away with just average images. I am both a landscape and wildlife photographer, so my chances of finding interesting subjects are better. I always take notes and iPhone images to keep track of interesting spots for future trips. In the end, though, nothing beats having the source in your “backyard”. Keep an open mind and finding fresh images that keep you from losing sight of the changing beauty and impact of your local spot will always be there for you.

This project began several years ago when I first noticed the notation ‘Mud & Sand’ on an OS map of the Bristol Channel. I couldn’t work out why these beaches should be so muddy and I was curious to find out what they looked like.

To be honest, my first impressions were not very positive. As a stock photographer, I am aware that I often look to idealise the landscape in my work, and most people think of idyllic beaches as having golden sand and bright blue sea. The mudflats and brown sea that typify the beaches of Somerset and Newport, in particular, do not fit this vision.

It was only when I was listening to someone express their strong opinion about how ugly they found the Somerset coast that something changed. We Osmonds can be contrary folk; prone to exploring different angles when a strong opinion is presented to us (my younger son, in particular, is a master at this). I was suddenly determined to explore this subject and prove them wrong.

The reason these mudflats exist is that the Bristol Channel, whose waters are rich in sediment from the several major river systems that flow into it, deposits the mud in the vast inter-tidal zones created by its famously large tidal range. But that is not all. The mudflats are at the centre of a constant battle between the erosive forces of tide and weather, and the stabilizing forces of halophytic plants trying to establish salt marshes. The huge array of patterns created by these opposing forces, in addition to the wet surfaces that reflect whatever drama is playing out in the sky, are what make the landscape here utterly intriguing.

It was perhaps because of the wet, reflective surfaces that I acquired a taste for those vile winter days with showers blowing in from the sea. On such days, the light is constantly changing and in conditions like that, photos just appear instantly out of nowhere and are gone the next second. This is where I find photography as a medium really comes into its own, because it can capture brief moments like that and the satisfaction in doing so, as well as that feeling of having endured tough conditions, really appeals to me. I also found quite early on that the pictures I was getting in those conditions were very monochromatic, so it was a natural decision to continue the project in black and white.

The biggest challenge with this project has been simply getting access to the subjects I’ve wanted to photograph. You have to take great care as the signposts on the beaches here all attest to. You cannot simply walk to the sea at low tide otherwise you’ll get stuck. I’ve had to think creatively and use stable ground in whatever form it comes, be that as man-made concrete flood defences or patches of salt marsh, whose root network stabilizes the mud enough to walk on. There has been an awful lot of studying maps, studying tide tables, visiting and revisiting locations in order to get all of the elements aligned for the pictures I wanted. As a result, I have come to know certain key locations such as Sand Bay and the River Parrett Estuary extremely well.

Once I had a collection of images that sat together coherently, I started to think about publishing a book of the project. I’d had a book published a couple of years previously by Frances Lincoln, but that was more a celebration of Somerset as a region. This was a very different body of work focusing on an unusual subject and its aesthetic qualities when photographed in a particular way. Not many publishers really dealt with this sort of photography but I’d been collecting some of the magnificent titles released by Triplekite Publishing, particularly David Baker’s Sea Fever, and I thought I’d approach them.

You get so many rejections as a photographer that it’s always a bit of a surprise when someone says yes. I had to redouble my efforts that winter and get out at every opportunity to make sure I had enough depth of coverage in time for publication. Although Triplekite is sadly no longer publishing, there are still copies of Mud|Sand available online both in the UK and America, as well as signed copies direct from myself (jamesosmond.co.uk/art). Book publication usually signifies the end of a project but I’m never able to lay anything completely to rest and I do continue to revisit the Somerset coast working in both colour and monochrome.

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I’m not sure if Hamlet would have really ever had this dilemma. He was also unlikely to ever change his ‘point of view’ on Claudius, his uncle/ stepfather. He may, however, have liked to see what the castle at Kronborg (Elsinore) looked like from above, but that was not really possible at the time. Kronborg sits at the water’s edge and towers above everything else around it.

This analogy is a bit of a stretch perhaps, but the point is fair. Until recently, you could not frame a landscape image from altitude unless you had a convenient hill, mountain or building to climb. (helicopters and planes notwithstanding). Then along comes the drone and a sudden burst of creativity is fueled. Competitions, books and social media are now filled with images captured from above while the ‘photographer’ stays rooted to terra firma. It is an exciting development in an art form that has always morphed and ‘improved’. But should we jump in and ‘take off’?

To Drone

A new Perspective

Without a doubt, the main reason to own a drone is to unleash the opportunities that it provides for creativity. Views, scenes, angles, speed etc. They are all fresh and easily accessible without too much effort (or danger).

Imagine for a moment that you cannot separate the two sea-stacks in your chosen view. You want to present them without the overlap, but there are always limitations as to where you can stand. You try left, right, backwards, forwards, perhaps it is a cliff edge, the sea itself, an ugly building etc.. A little more height, however, and the sea-stacks separate nicely, and perhaps now they do not ‘cut’ the horizon either.

While it becomes more difficult daily to find unique ‘terrestrial’ compositions, the novel opportunities for drone photography are much greater. Think how many abstract views of river deltas you have seen recently, or images of a lighthouse from out to sea. Projects such as ‘The Wall’ (Read Simon Butterworth's article about his project) show their potential, either on their own or combined with more conventional photography. Indeed, the ILPOTY TOP 101 photos for the last few years have had 10-20 images each year taken from an aerial perspective.

Then, of course, there are also those incredible video sequences. Who does not enjoy watching as the videographer sets the scene. Around those mountain tops, up the waterfalls, over the iceberg, backwards through the forest. The timing of the emergence of drone video has been perfect for the relatively recent boom in vlogging.

Expense?

To be sure, drones that are ‘landscape photographer worthy’ are not cheap. But neither are they really that expensive. Leading examples of drones capable of solid 4K video and very reasonable (20+Mp) still images, can cost less than a new telephoto lens, and only slightly more than the latest smartphone. Compare that to buying a new camera system complete with a set of lenses.

Easy to fly

Control is actually relatively simple and easily learned. Like all new skills, mastery is developed over time. But the manufacturers make starting out very straight forward. They throw in automated controls that make certain tasks seem elementary. Image stabilization, collision avoidance, flight levelling, follow me, autopilot and waypoint navigation are just a few of the more common standards. Yet there are also more hands-on skills that can be assimilated and used for a more personalized cinematic experience.

Weight

By definition, almost, these incredible technical devices are really light. The units themselves have to be to fly efficiently and maximise battery duration. There is a trade-off for size, stability and payload (what camera they can carry), but typically the drones themselves do not represent a great burden.

Not to Drone

Expense

I have myself seen a favourite lens roll down a rock and plunge into a river in flood, never to be seen again. Yet accidents are infrequent and generally do not result in the loss of a whole camera system. Drones, on the other hand, are a little less forgiving. Repeated damage and/ or complete loss seem to be inherent risks that the photographer must take into consideration, especially when operating over water. There are ways to mitigate risk, but those big sweeping vistas from mountain tops and other dramatic landscapes bring with them a vulnerability that the operator must accept, or keep things to a much lower level.

Weight

Drones are light, but that is not the full story. Batteries do not last that long and their recharge is not a simple matter ‘in the field’. Generally, a stack of pre-charged additional batteries will be required for extended flying. In addition, there is a controller. This typically weighs about the same as the drone itself, and it needs a battery too! Finally, when out and about, the drone is not likely to be a landscape photographer’s only piece of equipment. There will be the main camera for stills, with appropriate lenses, tripod, filters etc, etc. Then a vlogger may also have a separate camera (and tripod) for video capture. Suddenly that is a lot of equipment. For any real distance away from your vehicle, you will need to be making choices of what is essential and what to leave behind.

Nuisance

Perhaps the biggest negative of drones for many people is the nuisance factor. That whirring noise from those high speed blades travels a long way, especially in the calmer conditions that are needed to fly. Understandably, people visit wild places of outstanding beauty to immerse themselves. To see the sights and to be at one with nature. Most ‘pilots’ are very conscientious and will not fly while others are around. But there are always a few who flaunt the rules and ignore the impact on others.

No fly zones

This is more problematic than it may at first seem. On a recent backpacking trip to hike the Timberline Trail on Mt Hood in Oregon, a friend brought his drone. He had done extensive research and checked all official online ‘no-fly’ sites. What he did not know, was that there was a tiny clause in the small print of the local backcountry permit. That’s a lot of extra weight he carried for four days for no reason. Again, there are those who would flaunt the rules, but if you want to play by the book, it can be difficult.

So, what is the answer?

Alas, poor Yorick...

It is, of course, a very personal decision and I can understand the answer will be different for different folks. No right or wrong. I fear there is also a little bit of NIMBY in this dilemma.

As a landscape photographer and occasional vlogger, I am excited by the opportunities that a drone could provide. I would love to include some epic, cinematic footage from the places I visit on my adventures. I am also often in a situation where I would love a little more height on my tripod. Further, I truly enjoy some of the footage I see on YouTube etc., so I am a current avid consumer as well.

Yet, I have also been in the situation where a drone operation has not only disturbed my ‘peace’, it also has made still photography very difficult. This is perhaps nothing more than the inconvenience that you expect at a popular viewpoint. Try finding a spot at Driftwood Beach, Jekyll Island for sunrise. But did we also really need a drone buzzing along the curve of the beach, 20’ above the heads of a dozen photographers, just as the sun ventured above the horizon?

The point is, I like what I see, but not when I am there.

So for me, I always come back to the ‘nuisance’ factor. I know that I never like to hear a drone going overhead, especially when I’ve gone to great effort to reach an isolated pristine destination. So should I be a part of the problem, even if I don’t think there is anyone else around? I just don’t like the idea that I could upset even one person. The opportunities are great, but these ‘wishes’ are not critical to my craft. I am on a continual journey of discovery and there are many other opportunities for me as well.While I might consider a drone in the future, it is just not right for me at this time.

Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature. ~Friedrich Nietzsche

Every autumn, in many parts of the Northern Hemisphere, deciduous trees undergo a radical transformation, climaxing in an explosion of colour before shedding their leaves and becoming dormant during winter, preparing to start the cycle all over again in Spring. It is a miracle of nature brought about by seasonal changes in the diurnal light cycle, temperature and prior rainfall that halt production of green chlorophyll and allow yellows, reds, oranges and purples to show through.

We all know this story, which for all its splendour also is so predictable and commonplace that it is easy to miss as we go about our daily lives.

Mired down in work and domestic responsibilities, the autumn colour change can happen without our notice. And if that happens, we lament that we missed it. We examine ourselves and ask why and how we drifted away from nature, why we don’t look up at the stars on a clear night anymore, why we didn’t notice the scent of sage this year.

One morning, in the Autumn of 1994, I took a shortcut across a field in Connecticut, hurrying to get to my destination, when I looked down to ascertain why my shoes were soaked through to the socks. The answer halted me. The ground was covered with richly coloured, dew soaked leaves made even more saturated by the soft, lightbox effect of cirrus clouds high overhead. Luckily, I had my camera with me loaded with Velvia. The beauty caused me to pause long enough to marvel at nature and to record that feeling on film.

That’s what photography is to me, an effort to record a feeling – really, an emotion – that I can share and recall. I often read or hear photographers talk about the importance of having something to say through our work, but I’ve rarely felt that I had something to say. I don’t even really know what that means. It’s the landscape that is speaking to me. On the rare occasion that I do reportage, I have a story to tell, but mostly I am not trying to say anything. Usually, I am trying to listen.

Ever since that day in the field in New England, autumn has been a favourite time for photography because autumn is more than a visually spectacular colour change. Autumn is Mother Nature singing, with all her heart and soul, her song that we can hear if we remember to notice. But how can we not notice such a loud phenomenon?

Whereas the solstices are subtle and slip by unnoticed, the autumnal equinox is a time of great upheaval, a beautiful death throe before the cold stillness of winter. The shedding of leaves is a great entropic event that deposits countless tons of biomass back onto the ground, to be recycled by worms, insects and bacteria into basic nutrients that will, once again, climb the cambium layer of the very tree from which they fell to grow new leaves.

In nature, spring is a time of birth and childhood, of newness and learning, of adolescence and maturation. Summer is the important and necessary time of production, like the prime of our adulthood. Make hay while the sun shines. Autumn is a time of fulfilment and harvest when nature rejoices her accomplishments by showing off all her resplendent colours as she prepares for winter.

That’s me. I am at the autumnal equinox of my life. Strong and virile for the past 64 years I now find myself changing, even failing in certain ways. I’ve always loved the colours of autumn but now I identify with them. I am them. Autumn is a whole new level of maturation. Autumn is a time for appreciation of life, for reflection on accomplishments as well as failures, a time to rejoice in the bounty, and a time for peaceful resignation and preparation before the inevitable.

The challenge is to recognise it and enjoy it to the fullest. Just as we miss the autumn colours if we don’t look up in our busy lives, we can miss the autumn of our lives if we don’t make an effort to fully live it, to be fully in it. It is a time to reflect, but it also is a time to live in the moment, to make the most of each day, to appreciate the beauty around us in nature and in our friends and family. A time to get outside with our cameras and listen. Because unlike nature, we have seen our last spring.

There is a forest, in the north of Rome, almost undiscovered and perhaps for this very special to me. It is named Macchia Grande and can be reached by driving for an hour and a half in Viterbo countryside.

A forest, an atmosphere, a journey of emotions.

I have been always living and working in a big city, where the noise of people, night and day, chasing chaotic rhythm, is everywhere. I often spend days too full of commitments, phone calls, jobs, meetings, losing myself and what I really love doing. Therefore, it becomes important for me to have a refuge from the daily madness where I can escape, and this forest is really a hidden corner of total tranquillity.

Taking photographs is, first of all, connecting with the most inner part of myself, and trying to capture, in one shot, what I am feeling at that moment.

I have been walked a lot in this wood last cold December. Whenever I could run away from my daily duties, I woke up very early, preparing my thermos of coffee to arrive before the sunrise. When the fog still enveloped all the trees.

Some might think that walking alone in a forest in the first light of the morning can be dangerous and scary. For me, nature is a source of inspiration and serenity; it gives us emotions in a unique way and for this, it is always worth observing it.

The mornings of winter bring with them the magic of places hidden by a misty layer, which slowly thins out, discovering the shapes and colours of intertwined branches, each one ready to tell its story.

A story that brings us back to the childhood fantasy, which seems to talk about fairies, dancing elves, lost princes and princesses who have hidden their kingdoms among these curved trees, to show them only to those who have the imagination to believe it yet.

I could not see almost anything in front of me, I only felt the crunch of the dry branches and the leaves under my shoes which, in the silence, increased the feeling of being in an enchanted place. Oaks with branches of green ivy still intertwined close to the trunks appeared to me, golden leaves shining and filtering the sunlight seemed dancing in the cold.

Thus, the forest wakes up, slow and sly.

Walking along the paths, I come across two horses that slowly ate still frozen grass, without looking at me, as if I hadn't been there. They were beautiful and wild.

The hidden geometries, chaotic and so ordered as a whole attracted me most. So, I got lost in the wood, watching and taking pictures of particular connections that for me are intimate and perfect.

Nobody, in those mornings, had still woken this part of nature ... And I was lucky to have seen its beauty for first. The hours passed, the fog cleared, the temperature rose a little and the colours become sharper and brighter, ready to let a new day begin.

This is not simply a forest for me, but a refuge of thoughts and a door to my imagination.

The photos shown in this small project are the emotions I felt during those winter mornings, minute by minute. They allowed me to rediscover the tranquillity I needed, finding again myself, my memories, and the most precious and intimate part of me.

This time, the water won, reclaiming all that humans had wrought. The contours of tree-lined farm lanes are still visible in the skeletons of submerged trees. When they finally topple or are felled by beavers, they will feed the encroachment of rustling reeds. Silence has descended, broken only by the soft whistling of tufted ducks, the croak of an egret, or the squawking of geese flying up to escape a marauding eagle. Roe deer soundlessly appear at the edge of an island and slip away again like ghosts. Light plays on the water, which ripples with movement caused by underwater life and tidal currents. This is a world of light and reflections, of mist and shadow.

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In 2017 I embarked upon a photography project that would eventually take me almost three years to complete. My aim was to portray a hidden world that most visitors miss but, to me, forms the soul of the wetlands national park known as The Biesbosch.

When I moved to the densely populated Netherlands, after growing up in hilly New England, I found myself at a bit of a loss in Dutch nature. The strip of dunes protecting the land from the sea felt limited and over-crowded. The forests of the Veluwe are carefully tended and its Red Deer culled to keep them from destroying the habitat. It’s all so tame. But in time I grew to appreciate its quiet beauty.

It was this expanse of freshwater tidal wetlands, however, that really captured my imagination. The name ‘Biesbosch’ is derived from the Dutch word ‘bies,’ or bulrushes, a pioneer species that is eventually supplanted by reeds and various types of willows. This delta swamp, about 300 sq. kilometres in size, had been reclaimed for farmland and villages in the early Middle Ages. But civil wars diverted funding from the upkeep of the dykes, and, during a series of severe storms in the 15th century, they broke several times, flooding the area. Eventually, humans left the Biesbosch and it became a sunken world. In later centuries, some of the Biesbosch was once again reclaimed and farmed. Its tides were stemmed by the great barrier dams of the southwestern coast.

But recently the Netherlands adopted a policy to create overflow locations close to the great rivers, allowing sudden increases in water levels to divert and flood the land, thereby preventing more serious flooding. The Biesbosch became one of these designated overflow spots, which meant lowering dykes and moving farms. The Haringvliet Dam has been opened slightly to allow for tidal movement and the return of the great sturgeon. Gradually, the water is taking over again.

Something about this history triggers in my mind an association with what might happen in the future when climate change causes the seas to rise and reclaim large populated regions. I might mourn the loss of some of the beauty that we humans have created through the ages, but I would like to think that birds, animals, and plants would thrive, and that nature would reign again, undisturbed by humans.

Most visitors only see the populated face of the Biesbosch: water recreationists, a network of powerlines on huge pylons, herds of imported exotic grazers (Highland cattle, Konik horses, and even Water Buffaloes), and the remaining farms with their fields and livestock. The world of water, reeds, and their denizens is usually hidden from these visitors, and fortunately so. The presence of humans (even my presence) makes ripples in this world. Luckily the ripples are brief and eventually fade away. There are vast expanses of water and reeds, but also a maze of narrow creeks one could get lost in. The water in the hidden creeks is sometimes only 20-30 cm deep and so limpid that you can see everything below the surface.

Because I live very close to the Biesbosch, it has become my favourite photography haunt. I go out in all weather, at all times of day, and in all seasons. Ospreys and crested grebes, roe deer and beavers, morning mists, reflections in the water… there are always inspiring images to capture. Besides, simply being out there soothes my soul. Whether I’m on foot, in a boat, or just driving slowly with the window rolled down and the camera within grabbing distance, all my senses are open, and my mind is on nothing else but my surroundings. Although it’s an experience I prefer to savour alone, occasionally I’ll be with one or two other photographers, but only if they don’t talk too much.

When I started feeling the need to develop my artistic eye and photographic skills further, a photographer I’ve always admired, Theo Bosboom, suggested that focusing on a project would be a good way to achieve this. He offers a course, which basically consists of a year of mentorship, guiding the photographer through the various steps towards producing a consistent series of images. It was exactly what I needed, and I signed up for it, choosing the Biesbosch as my project focus. After getting off to a false start (I fell and broke my right shoulder late 2017), I resumed work on the project in the fall of 2018.

But the early work I’d done had made one thing very clear to me: my original concept – a portrait of the Biesbosch throughout the seasons – was far too encompassing. I had no idea how to choose my images, what to include and what to ignore. And, even more important, I wasn’t sure how this would help me grow as a photographic artist. How to get past the standard landscape and bird portraits and delve into my perception of the soul of the place?

Theo suggested that I refine my project definition by writing out what I consider to be the soul of the Biesbosch. That’s when I sat down and wrote the words I’ve included at the beginning of this article. This text has been my guideline throughout the work. My aim is not to show people what the Biesbosch looks like. Other photographers have done that quite well. Alfred Stieglitz once wrote, “My photographs are ever born of an inner need – an Experience of Spirit … I have a vision of life, and I try to find equivalents for it sometimes in the form of photographs.” My aim is to portray this silent, drowned world of reflections, mist, and shadows that mirror my inner vision of life.

Spending more than a year photographing the same location was a surprisingly enriching experience. There were times, as I collected more and more images, that I wondered if I could possibly acquire new, fresh ones. Had I exhausted all possibilities? Somehow, this always resolved itself. I found myself going deeper and deeper, moving past the images I had built in my head and finding unexpected new ones. I had imposed a restriction upon myself: only black-and-white photos in 2:3 format. This challenged me not to rely on colour and cropping techniques. It meant focusing on the strength of composition, lines, and texture instead of the subject matter.

As I progressed, especially once I started thinking about the final selection of images, I kept a mental list of photos that I felt were missing. However, as most of you know, nature photography is serendipitous. And when you’re floating past a stunning scene in a boat, you only have one or two chances for a good capture. Some of the images I hoped for never materialised (or did, but the image quality didn’t meet my standards).

The final selection of photographs would prove to be as important and time-consuming a task as taking and processing the photos. The guiding principles involved more than simply choosing what I considered to be my best images. It meant creating a narrative; putting together a selection of photos that coaxed the viewer into the story and told it coherently, with enough variation to keep it interesting. It was far more difficult than I had expected.

Maybe because I never considered photography as a career, the primary motto guiding my choice of subjects has always been ‘Follow what you love.’ Since working on this project, I’ve added a second precept: ‘But stay out of your comfort zone.’ In the end, the images I was unsure about when taking the photo often turned out to be the best ones. Staying out of my comfort zone proved to be a valuable learning experience. I think, like many photographers, I tend to go for images that are easily readable and comfortable for the viewer: recognizable subject matter using standard rules of compositions. I started experimenting with abstract, impressionistic images, chaotic compositions, the sort of image people might respond to with “What is it?” My explorations started having an effect on my other photographic work. I started to understand why experienced photographers might go out for an entire day and come back with only one image that they’re happy with. This, more than anything else, has contributed to my original goal: honing my skills as a photographic artist.

When you compare this flat, watery expanse of reeds and willows to more iconic locations for landscape photography, the Biesbosch would seem a very dull place.

Returning again and again, however, enabled me to go below the surface and discover quiet beauty that might be invisible to others.

I’m very grateful to Theo Bosboom for guiding me through this process with patience, well-timed suggestions, and respect for my creative style. And what have I learned from the project? Obviously, I’ve learned to put together a consistent series of photographs that tells a tale. I’ve also learned to view my work critically and not accept images that fall short of my highest standards. But – and maybe this is the most important lesson of all – I have learned to look carefully and delve deep when I want to discover the soul of a location. The Biesbosch is a magical place, but you will only see the magic if you pay attention.

In the words of the poet Mary Oliver:

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it