I have always felt that infra-red images would show Dartmoor’s moody Tors to their best advantage and provide the viewer with my interpretation of ‘Wild Dartmoor’ - on both high and low moors.
Way Marker and Higher Tor was taken on an overcast day and have the advantage of just a few rays of sunshine breaking through low cloud, to give great highlights on and around the waymarking stone. I walked over to Higher Tor and found a tree growing straight out of the stone (Tree on Higher Tor) creating an image of tenacity; clinging to the stone. Moving on to Emsworthy Tor I found another tree just on the higher edge of the Tor, at this point, the sunshine again highlighted the Tor itself, along with the wider landscape beyond.
The dappled sky brought life to the Tor below. Moving down into the valley I came across a tree that had fallen across the stream, which represented something at the end of its life; lying at the foot of a lovely plantation (in the prime of life).
Found 50 km southeast of Calgary and 5km east of High River, Alberta, Frank Lake is a productive wetland important to hundreds of bird species. I visited the lake on a rainy and cloudy day and stayed between 9 am and noon. An overcast sky makes the diffused light, so I did not have to worry about the shadow the harsh sunlight makes in the middle of the day. Instead, I tried to capture simple composition focusing on my target and its reflection in the water.
With the main access road and the observation blind, both located on the east bank of the lake, I could imagine how the sunset light, coming from behind, could make excellent colours and helps to capture beautiful photos. I can also imagine early morning at sunrise that could make mist or fog at the water's surface. These are ideas to think about and explore when deciding to revisit Frank Lake.
An area in Utah, once covered by a massive salt lake, has been moulded by wind and water over millions of years. I have always been drawn to the landscapes of the Southwest United States, where it is hard to comprehend the forces which sculped this area. With my Nikon D850 and a borrowed drone, I tried to capture a representative collection of structure and contrasts in colour black and white. The draw to return is strong
Childlike curiosity and exploration are key drivers of my photography. These four images are part of my photo montage series, which focuses on an explore, experiment, and play approach to crafting images. I use a hybrid method in creating multiple exposure images by capturing images in the field and then combining them in the digital darkroom. Intentional Camera Movement (ICM) is often used to give the final image an ethereal quality.
Scenes of trees (often aspens) found in my local Colorado woodlands help anchor each image. Seasons are represented but also the natural elements, including water, earth, wind, and fire. The images help communicate messages of the destruction of our natural world, of regeneration and hope, and of dreaminess and tranquillity. By combining images in this way, I have the creative freedom to express myself and unlock my imagination in new ways. This series has been a wonderful project to work on as it helps challenge me creatively. I look forward to expanding it in the seasons to come.
A few years ago, I decided to switch the misty valleys and rich woodland of the Surrey Hills for the dramatic coastline of Northumberland. After years of juggling the commitments of a full time job with a desire to be out taking photographs, the time was right to make the move back to my native north of England. I’d been landlocked in the home counties for too long. Having spent my formative years living by the coast, I had an irresistible calling to be beside the seaside once again.
Having already put some roots down in the North East, it was an easy decision to migrate to the Northumbrian coast. Once the house had been sold, it was time to downsize. This meant letting go of many of the material possessions that had been amassed over 30 years. As well as being a cathartic exercise, it seemed environmentally responsible not to be hauling old furniture, rusty garden tools, musty books and old clothes 350 miles up north.
For the first few months in my new environment, I concentrated my photography on the spectacular castles and vast sandy bays that this stretch of coastline has in abundance. But it didn’t take long to start looking beyond the iconic attractions and shift my attention to the smaller details that lie at our feet.
The intimate landscapes are often overlooked by visitors to the region. These soon became a greater source of inspiration than the wider, grander views. I’d go searching for Interesting rock strata that mimicked the waves breaking on a beach, kelp forests at low tide or tree-like patterns formed by fragments of coal dust.The idea of a project was conceived. Shoreline - Intimate Landscapes of the Northumbrian Coast’ would culminate in the publication of my first book in April this year.
The intimate landscapes are often overlooked by visitors to the region. These soon became a greater source of inspiration than the wider, grander views. I’d go searching for Interesting rock strata that mimicked the waves breaking on a beach, kelp forests at low tide or tree-like patterns formed by fragments of coal dust.
Almost as soon as I had started to embark on my project, the restrictions imposed by COVID lockdown had an impact on my coastal explorations, but out of adversity, opportunities arise. Fortunately, I live close to a Kittiwake breeding colony which meant that during the summer months, I could visit the birds on a regular basis whilst still adhering to travel restrictions. Many enjoyable hours were spent in the company of these elegant, noisy and graceful gulls observing and photographing their behaviours. The Kittiwakes arrive on the coast in April and head out to sea once the young have fully fledged. Their scruffy compact nests are built on low south-east facing sandstone cliffs. The setting lends itself well for capturing images that show the birds in the natural landscape. The cliffs have remarkable wave like patterns along lines of weathered rock strata along which the birds build their nests. By mid-August the birds have returned to the sea. While their nests remain throughout the winter months the cliffs no longer echo to the distinctive cries of ‘kittiwaaak’ ‘kittiwaaak’. I will have to wait until the following spring to hear these sounds again.
It was the extraordinary geological features that initially held my attention. Basaltic rock, shales and sandstone feature heavily along this coastline. The sedimentary rocks are made up of many layers laid down over millennia. Exposed to the elements, these layers are eroded by time and tide to create wonderful textures, shapes and patterns. While it has taken tens of thousands of years to create the strata and thousands of tidal cycles to sculpt them, their appearance can change over much shorter timeframes. Inclement weather and the seasons all play their part in the ongoing shaping of the miniature landscapes.
Boulders and shipwrecks that have been buried for many months or years may be revealed following a winter storm. Over time longshore drift will expose areas previously covered by sand, pebbles and seaweed. These changes to the physical appearance of the rocks mean that there are new discoveries to be made on almost every visit to my favoured locations.
Basaltic rock, shales and sandstone feature heavily along this coastline. The sedimentary rocks are made up of many layers laid down over millennia. Exposed to the elements, these layers are eroded by time and tide to create wonderful textures, shapes and patterns.
However, not all short term changes are for the better. During the summer months, algae will gradually cover some rocks obscuring patterns, whereas strong summer sunlight and salt spray may bleach natural colouration. The tide is a dynamic compositional factor I try to employ in the creation of my images. As each wave washes over the rocks, it will deposit, rearrange and remove its sea-drift and castoffs.
Careful composition can eliminate many distracting elements from the viewfinder, but sometimes it might mean waiting for mother nature to toss a few pebbles or a piece of seaweed into the right position in the frame. Patience is key to coming away with pleasing images. This waiting game seems to slow down time. Most of my shoreline excursions don’t yield great photographs but it is always a fulfilling experience. Searching along the tideline with the sights, sounds and smells overwhelming the senses are reward enough for these endeavours.
It is not only the geology that provides endless scope for discovery, Northumberland has some fairly remote stretches of sandy beach and tidal flats. It is a joy to explore undisturbed areas where the tide and wind have combined to sculpt exquisite sand patterns or tiny mesas around fragments of shells.
By the end of the winter of 2021, it was time to bring the project together in the form of a book. The design of the book and the curation of the images proved to be an unexpected pleasure. An inspiring and satisfying labour of love rather than a desk bound chore.
I had set out on a personal journey to celebrate some of the beauty that can be found when we take a closer and deeper look at a familiar subject. On days when the light conditions were favourable, and by applying a little imagination, the discoveries were boundless. Rock strata that look like waves on a choppy sea, human figures, faces or a distant mountain range.
I had set out on a personal journey to celebrate some of the beauty that can be found when we take a closer and deeper look at a familiar subject. On days when the light conditions were favourable, and by applying a little imagination, the discoveries were boundless. Rock strata that look like waves on a choppy sea, human figures, faces or a distant mountain range.
The titles of the images deliberately entice the viewer to unravel a mystery or find something I’ve not seen myself. The best intimate landscapes are those that exert a charm which extends beyond their limited field of view and invites us to let our creativity flow freely.
My endeavours to capture the secret world that lies beneath our feet continues and my fascination with landscapes in miniature remains undimmed. However, from time to time, I look up and gaze out to the sea to observe the colours of the water, the shape of the waves and the reflections of the clouds. As well as a captivating shoreline, the north sea has many moods. Who knows, this could well be a theme for my next book.
Shoreline - Intimate Landscapes of the Northumbrian Coast
What is the best camera for landscape photography? What lenses should I buy?
How can I make my photographs look like [insert photographer’s name here]?
What’s the best time of year to photograph [insert subject here]?
Which roads and areas should I go to when I visit [insert location here]?
What list of locations should I photograph when I visit [insert place here]?
These questions dominate magazines, chat forums, discord channels and are the focus of many YouTube channels, popular websites, and blogs.
Yet, these are generally not the most meaningful questions to ask if one is to seriously improve their photography and grow as an artist. It’s completely understandable that these are the questions that get asked the most often since there’s a constant stream of new photographers emerging into this craft daily, and it is, after all, part of the journey of the modern landscape photographer; however, consider the subject of this essay, landscape and nature photographer Brent Clark, an excellent longitudinal case study as to what other questions might be more relevant if one is to improve as a photographer and make personally-meaningful work. .
My previous article (Bidean nam Bian – A Walking Guide) described the ideas behind the first in a new series of detailed walking guides to some of Scotland's most iconic peaks. The following article charts the practical challenges of melding images, text, illustrations and maps into a concise and practical walking guidebook.
Bidean is a mountain which gives up its secrets one facet at a time. No single viewpoint, or single walk, can tell the whole story. It is a massif so crumpled and folded in on itself as to defy any attempt at a singular defining aspect. Perhaps the view of the Three Sisters from The Study comes close, although this only encompasses three of the nine hills and shows nothing of the higher peaks of the range. To journey into this mountain realm is to lose oneself in a rocky maze of ridges and corries of immense character. This is not a mountain of wide open skies and grand vistas but an almost subterranean world, enclosed and intriguing, where shattered cliffs surround haunting, silent corries, and fast flowing burns tumble through deep ravines. Once the corrie walls have been scaled, mile after mile of lofty ridges link up the summits; natural viewing belvederes high above the mountain sanctuaries of Coire Gabhail, Coire nam Beith, Coire Eilde and Coire nan Lochan.
The Routes
The concept of the book was to provide a detailed, comprehensive study of the massif, which includes the two Munros of Bidean nam Bian and Stob Coire Sgreamhach, along with all the subsidiary tops and the outer peaks.
Bidean nam Bian has a plethora of superb routes to the summit. Some are well known, but many are not, and traverse some of the most spectacular mountain terrains anywhere in the Scottish highlands. It was these lesser known routes which I wanted to highlight, in particular routes to the summits of the outer peaks such as Aonach Dubh, Beinn Fhada and Gearr Aonach (the three sisters).
The book would be split into separate chapters for each summit. Of course, we needed to include all the well trodden walking paths to the summit of Bidean, but it was just as important for us to include routes on the outer peaks and the tops as well. This often gave shorter walks of great variety and also less frequented though equally dramatic routes on lesser known hills. As with much of Glen Coe, these walks are inevitably on steep and challenging ground, but they are also emphatically walking routes with only occasional mild scrambling, such as Dinner Time Buttress and the Zig Zags of Gearr Aonach.
Bidean nam Bian has a plethora of superb routes to the summit. Some are well known, but many are not, and traverse some of the most spectacular mountain terrains anywhere in the Scottish highlands. It was these lesser known routes which I wanted to highlight, in particular routes to the summits of the outer peaks such as Aonach Dubh, Beinn Fhada and Gearr Aonach (the three sisters). These mountains are right in the very heart of Glen Coe but are curiously unfrequented as most walkers generally head directly for the summit of Bidean. These outer peaks are both challenging and enjoy superb viewpoints in their own right. Any ascent can easily be extended to include the summit ridge of Bidean.
There are many fantastic routes through some wonderfully rugged ground in the heart of the massif. They explore hidden corries, tiptoe under and around some of the mighty rock buttresses of Bidean on tiny climbers tracks, and there are also routes on the quiet side of Bidean above Glen Etive where wildlife and wildflowers abound. These routes have a real flavour of gentle mountaineering about them, often weaving over steep and rugged ground by the easiest lines.
The mountain has nine separate summits, and each summit has its own chapter. As I was already very familiar with the mountain, so many of the routes were already well known, but some, and this was the fun part, were not at all. These routes were found by studying maps, scouring old guidebooks for clues and for some, just being curious and intriguing.
Taking An t-Sron as an example, the ridges were a natural place to start and one, the east ridge, turned out to be an absolute gem. There was a vague reference to it in the Irvine Butterfield guide 'The High Mountains of Britain and Ireland' but no reference of how to get onto the ridge from Coire nam Beith or any indication of the ridge above. Clearly, this needed investigating, and after an initial steep scrabble, it proved to be a fabulous route full of interest and with simply superb views. I have been up and down this ridge half a dozen times now, and it has become a firm favourite. Another route on An t-Sron, from Fionn Gleann is entirely of my own making and demonstrates my fondness for fossicking around on steep ground. It introduces the walker to the beautiful Fionn Gleann, another place which really deserves to be better known. Hidden in full view from the road through Glen Coe, this glen is an absolute gem. Full of wildflowers in the spring and early summer and with a beautiful river, this is the quiet side of Bidean.
Another route on An t-Sron, from Fionn Gleann is entirely of my own making and demonstrates my fondness for fossicking around on steep ground. It introduces the walker to the beautiful Fionn Gleann, another place which really deserves to be better known. Hidden in full view from the road through Glen Coe, this glen is an absolute gem.
The route heads through the lower glen then climbs directly to the ridge between An t-Sron and Stob Coire nam Beith. It is emphatically a walking route, but it is dramatic and adventurous and finishes with an easy scramble up a wide gully between rock towers.
These are just two examples, but they give a flavour of the book's less widely known routes. Finding the routes was very easy but narrowing them down was a different matter altogether.
My enthusiastic reference gathering had yielded over forty routes. The page count had reached five hundred and the book was in serious danger of needing to be split into two volumes, which would have been rather excessive for a single mountain, even one as complex as Bidean. I needed to do some pruning. The popular and well trodden routes to the summit had to stay in, in fact, any route with a path needed to stay in. I chose to discard the routes with a marked sense of exposure, this being a walking guide, so out went the Rhyolite romp and Ossian's rake due to the exposure, another steep and potentially problematic one on the north east face of Aonach Dubh, a beautiful but steep rocky scramble on the sunny side of Stob Coire nam Beith and several more. I finally settled on 31 excellent walks, which kept the page count reasonable yet still fulfilled the brief. Throughout the initial stage, I made copious notes on the ascents, particularly if it was on pathless terrain, but found that even then, I often needed to repeat a route just to make sure.The routes which were selected for the guide are a perfect mix of popular walks on good footpaths and my pick of the best pathless routes to the summits.
There are so many things I have learnt during the production of this guidebook. I had the unique privilege to work on the entire project, cover to cover, producing the text, photographs, illustrations and maps. Of course, I was working to a brief but, within those constraints, had free range to pick the routes, the aesthetics of the illustrations and maps and the accompanying photographs. The book became one of the most enjoyable projects I have worked on.
The process
One of the major challenges was linking the text description of the routes to the maps and illustrations. This was achieved by creating a standard template for each route, consisting of a brief introduction, then the route with a map, illustration and text description. Sequential numbering of each stage of the route was marked in the description and also on the map and illustration. I wanted the reader to be able to interact with the guidebook in as natural a way as possible. Some would choose the visual aspects of the guide to route find by using the map and illustration alone, some would use the text descriptions, and others would use a combination of the three depending on terrain, experience and conditions.
Many times I would go back to a route just to make sure I had the description absolutely perfect. It was often so very subtle a change which made the difference as I was learning all the time to match my interpretation of salient features on the ground to what others might see standing on the same piece of ground..
Looking back now, I can see how inefficient my working methods were. Many times I would go back to a route just to make sure I had the description absolutely perfect. It was often so very subtle a change which made the difference as I was learning all the time to match my interpretation of salient features on the ground to what others might see standing on the same piece of ground. Apart from these challenges, the book seemed to progress in a very organic way as routes were walked, illustrations and photographs made and maps completed, and it was always hugely enjoyable. I'm sure I could have been much more efficient if I had planned each walk meticulously before any field trips, such as matching a route walk with making an illustration, for example, but time pressures and goals achieved have no place on the hill, at least not for me. If there is to be joy in the book, then the process must be a joy. Just the sheer pleasure of walking through these beguiling mountains, spending time sketching views and watching the cloud shadows, or bathing tired feet in the crystal mountain burns at the end of a long day brought such simple happiness. Certainly, for the second book, I will try to plan ahead a little more, but we shall see.
All the routes were walked as ascents and descents at first, but it soon became apparent that some routes were steep and potentially problematic in descent. I, therefore, decided on the idea of steep up, easy down for the routes on pathless terrain, I don't want to frighten off my potential readership after all. The route planning stage proved to be supremely enjoyable, and I found so many interesting corners of the Bidean massif that I might never have found without the excuse of producing this guidebook. It proved time and again that even on a busy summer's weekend, and in an area as popular as Glen Coe, most of the hill is quiet away from the main paths. The hidden corners and secluded corries of this complex mountain massif live long in the memory.
After all the routes had been written up, illustrated and mapped, they were all meticulously tested with the help of some extremely kind volunteers. During this stage of continuous route finding and checking, I tallied up a total of almost 47,000 metres of ascent, and every day on the hill was a particular joy.
The Photographs
Although the guidebook was designed to be practical and pocket sized for use on the hill, it also needed to be inspirational, and the photographs were vital to the overall aesthetic. I had initially planned to use film as much as possible to keep with the classic 1950’s feel, but as the project went on, I found a digital workflow much more straightforward, as it cut out the time loss of having to wait for the film to be processed and scanned. The photographs also needed to be representational, to show features and topography and help clarify the written route descriptions. My interpretation of the landscape needed to take a back seat on this project which proved to be a blessing rather than a curse. Free from the burden of heavy cameras and tripods, I found a photographic simplicity which was a revelation and a relief to my ageing knees with so much steep ground to cover.
The Artwork
It was decided early on that the book should be a visual as well as an informative work. Photography is a wonderful media but can, on occasion, show a little too much information, particularly over complex ground. The illustrations were a way of showing what needs to be there but without the extraneous detail visible in a photograph.
For each route, I planned to produce an illustration to clarify the most challenging ground of each walk within the constraints of a single viewpoint. This concept of a single viewpoint was important to me as I wished to draw all the illustrations from life out on the hill. In this way, I could see exactly what was there as opposed to struggling to see details on a photograph far removed from the subject. On a purely personal level, it is what I enjoy most, sitting out on the hill with a sketchbook. Observation and interpretation are the key, but more than anything, just being alone and creatively engaged in a mountain environment that is such a pleasure.
On a practical note, the illustrations needed to be extremely accurate and not subject to too much artistic interpretation. In my thirty years as an artist, my drawing style has evolved to an extent that I knowingly exaggerate form so naturally that the discipline required for these illustrations was challenging at first. I ended up using a viewing frame, squared up using a sheet of acetate to plot out key features so as not to introduce any topographical distortions.
On a practical note, the illustrations needed to be extremely accurate and not subject to too much artistic interpretation. In my thirty years as an artist, my drawing style has evolved to an extent that I knowingly exaggerate form so naturally that the discipline required for these illustrations was challenging at first.
The illustrations were first drawn out in pencil, sat out on the hill, and then rendered in ink back in my studio. I found this the ideal compromise for both accuracy but still with some life to the drawing from the initial work being made outdoors.
A heavy weight cartridge paper with an acrylic ground to seal the surface was used. This ground layer has a good 'tooth' or texture which gives the ink work character as the pen has a tendency to skip over the surface. The final stage of the process is a thin, translucent layer of paint to give some tone to the illustration. I wanted the illustrations to have the appearance of a silver gelatine photographic print, and to that end, I experimented with various ideas for the paint layer. Tests with ink and wash, diluted ink in isopropyl alcohol, watercolour and acrylic paints were made but none had quite the right feel. Finally, I found a way of getting the feel of a photographic print by using powdered graphite bound in a thin glaze of zinc white oil paint. The graphite gave a beautiful silvery sheen, and the zinc white was translucent so the ink drawing could still be seen clearly underneath.
The maps are similarly hand drawn and proved to be a real labour of love. My wish was that the routes would be able to be followed by using the maps and illustrations alone, with only a brief glance at the text for clarification if necessary. All well and good, but this meant that the mapping needed to be extremely accurate. Six weeks after starting the maps I emerged from my studio looking pale and hollow eyed...but with accurate maps.
In conclusion
Bidean nam Bian, or 'the pinnacle of the mountains' when translated from Gaelic, rewards a leisurely and prolonged exploration. To walk amongst it's mountain sanctuaries, crystal rivers and challenging crags can provide a lifetime of memorable experiences. It exerts a magnetic pull on mountaineers, hillwalkers and tourists alike, a mountain of challenges and rugged beauty, and a place of secular pilgrimage for those who love the high places.
Kickstarter Campaign
Walking in Glencoe Guide - Bidean nam Bian
In order to get the book started, we looked at raising enough money to print a pilot project which we could distribute in various outlets and assess the demand for the a longer print run. This first Kickstarter campaign will support the digital printing of 500 books and, if successful, will help us decide whether to extend the print run on a full litho printing press. There are a few different rewards available but the main reward will be an early copy of what we think will become a classic series of walking books.
Ever since seeing Frans' work in the Wildlife Photographer of the Year archive and learning about his background in environmental economics, I have wanted to learn more about how his work has developed and how his approach is informed by his original career choice. I was delighted to have the opportunity recently when a reader chose one of Frans' images as an Endframe (Water Lilies - Botswana) and I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation. Seeing how a predominantly wildlife photographer approaches the landscape was also interesting i.e. how the idea of the separation of subject and context that is so important in wildlife photography is applied to just the landscape.
Tim Parkin: Your original direction in life was as an environmental scientist in the 1970s, and you worked in Nature Capital/Ecosystem Services (working with nature to provide what humans need and enhance the quality of life). How did you transition from this to photography, and was this background a major influence in your future work?
Frans Lanting: I have a background in environmental economics, and in the 1970s, I studied to become an environmental economist. And my interest was to reconcile the sciences of ecology and economics, which was a novelty at the time. Quantifying the value of nature still is... I won't say a novelty anymore, but it's still not mainstream. I was keen to contribute to that discipline. And then, life took a different direction, and I decided to become a photographer. I've always been interested in nature, but the idea that you could actually make a living from photography focused on the natural world, that was pretty preposterous. But in the United States, the profession was more evolved than it was in Europe. And I'd come to California to do research in this environmental economics profession, and that is where I became familiar with the work of the West Coast Photographers.
Of course, that included people that we were very familiar with in Europe - Ansel Adams and Edward Weston, etc., but there were quite a few others who were more activist-oriented. Edward Weston was never an activist. He was a fine art photographer. Ansel was a fine art photographer, but he was very much an activist. He played a big role in the Sierra Club and was quite involved in influencing governments, and through clever use of his work, he made quite a difference. And so did Philip Hyde, who is not nearly as familiar to Europeans as Ansel and Edward were. But Philip actually went even further with his commitment to conservation. And there were a number of others. That combination of artistry and activism really appealed to me because in Europe, that simply didn't exist. Nature photography as a whole was really underdeveloped.
And in the UK, there was Eric Hosking, who was a bird photographer and a wildlife photographer. To him, landscape was something on his periphery. And there were a number of landscape photographers, but oddly enough, I cannot recall a single photographer who was an equivalent to Ansel and Philip Hyde. And the same thing in the Netherlands or in Germany.
It's a bit of a disconnect because, especially in the Netherlands, in the '60s and in the '70s, there was definitely a new current towards environmental activism that grew out of traditional nature conservation and nature appreciation, but photographers never made that connection explicitly.
So, in the US, I found a different connection, and scientists play a role in it. And I thought, well, this really appeals to me, and let's give it a try. Oddly enough, it worked, and I moved into wildlife photography. I feel very passionate about animals and what I can do with them, how I can relate to them and vice versa. I started telling stories with my camera, which was another niche that was not very well developed. Natural history is pretty static in those days.
And there was a need and a hunger for stories about the natural world that drew connections with human society, and that became my niche. And it still is, in a way. My fundamental philosophy hasn't changed, but the way I go about doing things, that has changed, of course, both in terms of how I capture images and what I do with them, the kinds of stories I tell and how I approach projects and so on and so on.
And there was a need and a hunger for stories about the natural world that drew connections with human society, and that became my niche. And it still is, in a way. My fundamental philosophy hasn't changed, but the way I go about doing things, that has changed, of course, both in terms of how I capture images and what I do with them, the kinds of stories I tell and how I approach projects and so on and so on.
I didn't really start practising photography until I was in my mid-20s, and it was on my own. Yes, there were very few role models. There were a couple in the Netherlands, and I sought them out, and I learned some things about the craft of photography. But I pretty much did things on my own, and through making mistakes and trial and error, I evolved a style that made up for my lack of technical understanding. I also borrowed inspiration from photographers outside the field of nature photography.
An infinite scene stretches out before me; an open view of the horizon, where the glistening Pacific Ocean meets a clear, blue summer sky, only interrupted by the large, dark shapes of a few jagged sea stacks and the backlit spray of waves crashing against them. I'm comfortably lying back on my towel, slightly propped up on my elbows, digging my toes into the fine, black, sparkling sand while enjoying a cold beer with my wife.
A few surfers are riding in on the small waves before jumping off and paddling out again. People are walking up and down the beach, holding their flip flops in their hands, smiles on their faces. But it doesn’t feel crowded–there is plenty of space for all of us on this long, uninterrupted stretch of coastline. Looking out at the open, endless ocean, as all other sound is drowned out by the low vibration of crashing waves, we can all find a sense of solitude. Even though I’m thousands of miles from home, I’m reminded of my childhood, spending entire days at the beach with my friends. I’m certain that on a day like today, we couldn’t have picked a better place to be.
Once the sun sinks a little closer to the horizon, my wife and I decide to go for a walk. I take one last big sip to finish our drink. Although it’s no longer cold, I still savour every bit of it, swishing it around in my mouth a little to absorb as much flavour as possible before letting it pour down my throat. We leisurely make our way down towards the shore and walk along the beach, splashing our feet in the cool water. Looking for some relief from the sun, we head for a large area of shade behind a massive sea stack. A long puddle of seawater, left over from the high tide, is slowly draining out towards the ocean, leaving behind smooth and intricate patterns. From a certain angle, I notice the clear blue sky is reflecting on the surface of the shallow water, adding a beautiful cool tone to the small, subtle scene.
When I was a small boy living in Canada in the 1950s, we would often visit my Aunt and two cousins who lived in a remote log cabin in the Laurentian Mountains. I remember they used to pick us up in some sort of Jeep-like contraption, and we would drive for miles up old rutted logging roads until we reached the cabin. It was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods.
One Autumn afternoon, my two cousins took me to see a raft that they had made at the side of a lake. As they were older than me, they wouldn't let me sail on it, so I stayed at the side of the lake all alone whilst they paddled off across the water.
Getting bored, I decided to head back to the cabin without telling them and promptly got lost. I had somehow missed the path, and it was getting foggy and dark. I shouted for help, but no one came. I was getting very scared. I remember reaching a clearing, and dripping branches were reaching down – like claws wanting to grab me.
Most photographers have experimented with intentional camera movement or multiple exposures at some point. Usually just setting a long exposure of a few seconds and waving the camera at some exciting subject matter. The results can be engaging and are an easy way to transition from studied, static exposures to a form of creative expression. So it would seem anyway. However, without investing a great deal of time in developing the craft to produce work with a personal signature, the work often falls into one of a few set visual memes.
However, the list of photographers who have taken these techniques and created a truly personal style is small indeed. At the top of that list is undoubtedly Valda Bailey. Her work follows the pattern of many true artists where a personal investigation into an idea or process is allowed to develop and blossom into something unpredicted. In Valda’s case, the spark of the technique was from Chris Friel, whose expressive long exposure work itself stood head and shoulders above other practitioners. Valda was inspired by these expressions and ended up creating her own images that took the technique and style to a whole new level.
Valda’s first book, “Fragile”, showed a set of photographs that were wholeheartedly connected with the landscape. From trees and forests to textures of lichen and flowers the images deconstructed our recognisable views of the outdoors into planes and textures. The images remind me somewhat of John and Ann Blockley or Joan Eardley.
We May as Well Dance - Valda Bailey
It’s been some time since Fragile was published and there has been a marked progression in Valda’s work in this new book. The images are still mostly inspired by the landscape but they are often more abstract, almost to the point of occluding their origins. We see the influence of her friend Paul Kenny occasionally sometimes in set piece, abstracted floral arrangements. Sometimes the photographs echo the creative work of Vaughn Oliver (look in your record collection if you have an 4AD albums such as the Cocteau Twins - do we still have album art?) or Nigel Grierson.
“But is it landscape?”, “But is it photography?”, “But is it Landscape Photography?”
This is something you’ll have to answer for yourself, but in my mind, most of the work is created in the landscape, and it uses a camera as the tool with which to create. That qualifies it enough for me to pay an interest in it, and the resulting work can’t help but be inspiring, given its range and depth. The range of work may well be its one weakness, though. The collection gives me a bit of a feeling of ‘greatest hits’, which, while excellent for enjoying individual images, breaks up a sense of progression or movement as you browse the sections. I’d love to see the individual albums these hits came from and have a sense of the development and discovery that informed them. That’s me being overtly picky, though, but every review needs some negative stuff in, doesn’t it? And now I’ve given the ego a little kick I can return to say to offer some positive assertions that the book is excellent; printed well, editorial insertions sparse and timely, Kozu have created a wonderful addition to their catalog and if you’re interested in the extent to which a camera can be used and abused in the creation of art from the landscape, the book will be an interesting addition to your library.
If you'd like to buy a copy, it's available directly from the publisher at Kozu Books.
Believe - Linda Bembridge
Between Valda and her workshop co-leader, Doug Chinnery, they have inspired a great range of photographers. Even if you’re not interested in using some of her techniques, the approach to photography as a creative art should not be underestimated. However, many people have been inspired by the use of those techniques such as our other book author, Linda Bembridge.
Her book/project is no as landscape oriented as Valda’s. Most images are constructed from photographs of windows and wall textures. Both Valda’s and Linda’s books document a period where Covid has created constraints on their lives and Linda’s images are more often constructed at home by layering parts of a single source image. The work has a sense of visual play about it and in some ways it’s what I would have liked to see from Valda’s book - a sense of a deep exploration of a vein of creativity. The results of Linda’s discoveries don’t inspire me as much as Valda’s do - but as examples of what can be achieved at home from a single source image, they’re quite fascinating.
The finest quality of this stone, these plants and animals, this desert landscape is the indifference manifest to our presence, our absence, our coming, our staying or our going. Whether we live or die is a matter of absolutely no concern whatsoever to the desert. Let men in their madness blast every city on earth into black rubble and envelope the entire planet in a cloud of lethal gas—the canyons and hills, the springs and rocks will still be here, the sunlight will filter through, water will form and warmth shall be upon the land and after sufficient time, no matter how long, somewhere, living things will emerge and join and stand once again, this time perhaps to take a different and better course.~ Edward Abbey
This article was inspired by an email exchange with Tim Parkin in which Tim asked about the influence of certain nature writers on my work. For reasons I explain in the article, Edward Abbey seemed like the obvious one for me to start with. Some readers may know that Abbey’s legacy has been the topic of much controversy over the years. My goal here is not to defend Abbey’s politics, personality, or methods. He has done much of that, himself, in his own writings. I urge interested readers to research and decide for themselves. My goal here is to describe Abbey’s influence on my own life and work.
The opening page of Edward Abbey’s book, Abbey’s Road, features a hand-drawn caricature of a wooden sign inscribed, “Take the other.” This should not surprise anyone familiar with Abbey’s penchant for solitary desert explorations and his often cantankerous and sarcastic style. In his best-known book, Desert Solitaire, Abbey explained, “I generally prefer to go into places where no one else wants to go. I find that in contemplating the natural world my pleasure is greater if there are not too many others contemplating it with me, at the same time.”
This highly-anticipated group exhibition of black & white photography is on at the Joe Cornish Gallery. This is the culmination of a one year of mentoring programme by photographer Paul Sanders.
Photography is a very personal journey, a combination of technical skill and unique expression of a moment experienced. This took us a long time to understand, which is why Paul started to support other photographers through a mentoring process over the course of a year.
By asking pertinent questions about why people photograph and encouraging personal exploration of their influences gradually, our confidence and awareness of the individual expression in experience of a subject grows.
Patrick Kaye
Patrick Kaye
There is no one size fits all approach, each individual needs supporting and directing in a myriad of ways so as to draw the best out of them while using constructive feedback to build on their unique perspective.
For Paul, it is important not to try to turn out clones but to allow each photographer to openly express visually their individual awareness of beauty. Beauty is everything from the mundane to the most exquisite landscape, learning that beauty has no rules, boundaries, or formula is one of the most important lessons a photographer can learn.
The process of working so closely with a handful of photographers has been inspiring. Drawing on Paul's depth of knowledge and experiences has enabled us to look harder at the way we work, our own awareness and the barriers we put in our own way too.
There are photographic formulas that help one learn the process or overcome the technical hurdles, however, there comes a time when you have to cross those boundaries and work with your soul, allowing the spiritual and emotional connection with your world and your story to come through. We, as photographers, are telling our story and our connection with the world we inhabit today.
Patrick Kaye
Our photographs are the legacy we leave for future generations, so they can see and feel our way of life, our social and economic fabric and the deep connection we as individuals experience.
What draws us to specific genres, locations or subject matter as we explore the relationship between people and spatial settings, and does our affinity to a particular environment begin with nature or nurture? Perhaps these attachments we develop come from culture or identity, or maybe they are rooted in feelings or perceptions. Do the images we connect with invite curiosity or trigger a memory, an emotional response or a sense of belonging?
Whether you are brought up in a natural or built environment, this will have a profound influence on how you photograph, and through photography, a sense of wonder will enhance that connection. Working with light, pattern, details, and textures gives us the opportunity to make images that appear either simply beautiful, while others arouse a deep curiosity within and give us the opportunity to express a depth of mood, emotion and a true connection with the subject.
Photographers Exhibiting
Susi Petherick
‘As part of my mentorship with Paul Sanders, I wanted to create a body of work to act as a love letter to my friends of some forty five years, celebrating my affection for them and their Croft in northwest Scotland. All of the small elements of their life, captured in black and white, express my feelings about our long, rich friendship and this place I call my second home.’
Patrick Kaye
‘I have been photographing for over six decades, but the pandemic caused me to spend time on local subjects. My project of photographing allotments was inspired by the rich material I encountered on my daily walks. Each patch invited speculation about the owners and what the land meant to them. In one small area of suburbia, a relationship of chaos and order existed between Man and Nature. With Paul’s great support and valuable encouragement, I have come to acknowledge the richness of “the ordinary” and to appreciate how rewarding that can be.’
Kate Somervell
Kate Somervell
As a Gallery Photographer, I was discussing my plans for the year with Curator Jo Rose, who offered a group exhibition to those involved in Paul’s mentoring course.
‘This has been a truly inspirational year. Paul has encouraged me to slow down, be present and more deeply connected to the landscape, as well as to experiment with different genres and techniques. Far from seeking images, an open mind, increased awareness and slower approach has allowed me to discover images. This new, more mindful approach has resulted in greater depth and a stronger emotional connection to my work in respect of my chosen landscape’
Paul Sanders
‘The images I am exhibiting are a personal narrative, each one represents an awareness of my place in the world, seeing the equivalence in flowers. My images are miles away from the photographer I thought I ’should be’ and come from a much deeper place than anything I have made before.’
A preview of the exhibition
Exhibition Details
The exhibition runs from 3 September - 26 November
Address:
Joe Cornish Gallery
Zetland Street
Northallerton
DL6 1NA
There’s been a lot of grumbling recently about the Instagram algorithm, but it’s worth spending some time looking through Explore - that’s how I found one of Mark Davis’s images which led me to both his profile there, and the idea that there might be a story to go with the images.
It’s easy to delude ourselves here in the UK that it’s only the last few years that have been difficult, but talking to Mark reminds me that the 21st century as a whole has been a time of challenges and of changed lives. It makes me very happy that Mark has found a passion for photography, and that this has helped him come to better know the nature of his new homeland.
Amongst Giants
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what that led you to study and do?
I am from the United States and grew up in the Northeastern part of the state of Arkansas. I believe this region of the United States shaped my love for the outdoors and nature. Arkansas is largely a rural area of the country and has its nickname, The Natural State, which is spot on. The state has a diverse landscape with an abundance of farmland, woods and forests, lakes, rivers, swamplands, and mountains to explore and get lost in. That is just what I did while living there. As a child, I did not realise how special Arkansas’ diversity was, but in hindsight, the diversity gave me opportunities I can appreciate as an adult. Arkansas’ rural culture and its landscape helped to shape me as a person and as a photographer.
Arkansas is largely a rural area of the country and has its nickname, The Natural State, which is spot on. The state has a diverse landscape with an abundance of farmland, woods and forests, lakes, rivers, swamplands, and mountains to explore and get lost in. That is just what I did while living there.
I have always been attracted to outdoor activities, and as a child, it was not uncommon to find me playing in a woodland area near my home.
Fast forwarding to my early 20s, I decided I needed to get out of my hometown and see the world. One sure fire way to do so was to enter the military, where I picked up a few skills and some schooling. However, things changed quickly after I enlisted.
When I started as a professional landscape photographer almost 10 years ago, I had little doubt about my positive impact on the earth. After all, as a landscape photographer, you are close to nature, you are often in nature, and with your photos and your stories, you are an ambassador for nature. You show other people how beautiful, important and vulnerable nature is, thereby creating awareness and desired behaviour. The fact that in order to take these photos, some negative effects would occur from time to time (e.g. flying), I was happy to accept. After all, the balance was clearly positive.
Now, a little older and perhaps a little wiser, I have a more nuanced opinion. Are we reaching the right people as landscape photographers? In a cynical mood, you could say that the audience of landscape photographers consists largely of other landscape photographers. And they are not so much called upon by your photos to protect the earth, but rather to fly to the same wonderful places to take photos of them too. Of course, this is certainly not the whole story, but it is certainly an effect that we have to face up to.
National park De Hoge Veluwe, the Netherlands, after a large wildfire in 2014. The amount of wildfires has grown considerably in recent years.
I still think and hope that, on balance, I can have a positive influence with my photos.
After the hottest and driest summer ever in Europe, with countless forest fires, crop failures and withered landscapes, I do think that we landscape photographers should take a more critical look at our own impact and do more to actually keep the balance positive.
But after the hottest and driest summer ever in Europe, with countless forest fires, crop failures and withered landscapes, I do think that we landscape photographers should take a more critical look at our own impact and do more to actually keep the balance positive.
In this article, I will therefore give some tips on how to reduce your negative impact on the environment. In addition, I will look at some ways of increasing your positive impact. As there is already enough general literature on how you as a human being can reduce your carbon footprint, in this piece, I will focus on the special aspects related to landscape photography.
This article is not meant to be an indictment, and I certainly do not want to deny anyone their passion or make their work impossible. I am not in that position at all, as I am far from perfect and still have some green steps to make. This article is, therefore, also a report of my own struggles and first steps on this path. Above all, I hope that we will deal with this topic more consciously and perhaps talk about it more often. In my opinion, there is quite a lot of attention on how to behave as a photographer in the field (for example, through the Nature First principles), but important themes such as the impact of air travel, regularly buying new equipment, and the impact of (international) workshops are rarely discussed.
Burnt pine cones, national park De Hoge Veluwe, the Netherlands.
Tip 1: Fly less!
The first tip is both obvious and uncomfortable at the same time: fly less! The CO2 emissions of air travel are significant, and therefore flying is a major contributor to global warming.
You may question if I am the right person to give this advice, as I fly several times a year to Iceland and other destinations for my own photo projects and my workshops. I still feel that this is occasionally justified for my work, so I do not go as far as photographers who have decided not to fly at all.
But I have been working on how to limit flying for some time. For example, a few years ago - partly as a result of my frustration with the rise of mass tourism in Iceland (see my earlier article on this) - I decided to reduce my group trips to Iceland from 3 to 4 times a year to once a year. I have not replaced those trips with other trips either, although that is quite a drain financially.
You may question if I am the right person to give this advice, as I fly several times a year to Iceland and other destinations for my own photo projects and my workshops. I still feel that this is occasionally justified for my work, so I do not go as far as photographers who have decided not to fly at all.
You can also significantly reduce CO2 emissions by simply not going as far. Ask yourself if you really need to go to Patagonia or New Zealand. I decided a long time ago to stay in Europe for my photography and to limit intercontinental flights to once every 5 years at the most. That makes a big difference. The CO2 emission for a flight to Iceland from Amsterdam, for example, is five to six times lower than a flight to Patagonia. There are all kinds of online tools to calculate and compare emissions. Sometimes it feels like a loss that I can't go to destinations outside Europe, but you can't have everything, and this restriction makes me feel a little more comfortable with flying within Europe every now and then. Besides, it feels good to promote Europe with my photography and maybe encourage other European photographers to stay in Europe as well.
Of course, it is even better to stay closer to home and not fly at all. Many photographers have discovered their own backyard photographically during the many covid-19 lockdowns, and this has resulted in many interesting projects. It would be a pity if we all stopped doing that now that the borders are open again. In addition, it is perhaps good to know that you can make a name for yourself with interesting photos of your local patch at least as well as with photos of 'epic' places around the world. The latter has already been taken many times. To endorse this, I would like to mention that about half of the photos with which I have won a prize in prestigious photo competitions such as Wildlife photographer of the year and European Wildlife photographer of the year were taken in my own country, the Netherlands, or in neighbouring Belgium, which is easily accessible without flying.
Very dry ground, national park Maasduinen, the Netherlands
Storm in Noordwijk on the Dutch Northsea coast. In the last few years, the rains have become much more extreme in the Netherlands and many other countries in Europe.
Finally, I have decided that I will only accept a lecture at a photo festival once a year if I have to fly there. This has already resulted in several cancellations.
I think that the bottom line is that every landscape photographer needs to assess for himself how often he flies and how this can be reduced. Not flying at all seems to me to be unrealistic, but flying significantly less is definitely achievable.
Carpooling is an obvious way to go if you are shooting together or going to a photo festival.
By the way, you can compensate the CO2 emissions of your flights by planting trees. This often costs only a small amount of money. This ‘solution’ is contentious though and it should never be a licence to continue flying carefree. Read the article CARBON OFFSETS DO NOT WORK by Vicki Brown for a number of strong arguments against this practise.
Tip 2: Limit the use of the car
Let's stay with transport for a moment: limit your car kilometres, because they are also responsible for considerable CO2 emissions. This is also a tricky one. Public transport does not usually take you to all the desired places and certainly not at the times that are considered interesting for landscape photography. But again, think about it and see what you can do to reduce the CO2 emissions of your transport.
Carpooling is an obvious way to go if you are shooting together or going to a photo festival. And if you limit your speed, this can lead to 10 - 15% fewer emissions!
Electric driving is an important step towards reducing our impact and, although the environmental sums may not add up to positive results now, the future is definitely in that direction and needs the public demand to progress. However, for most of us, it is still financially unfeasible but one to keep an eye on.
High water, the Netherlands. The main rivers in the Netherlands have flooded regularly in recent years.
High water (II), the Netherlands. There is beauty in the flooded landscape, but it is scary at the same time.
Tip 3: Limit the negative impact of your organised trips and workshops
Many (semi) professional landscape photographers earn a substantial part of their income by organising photo trips and workshops. It is worth looking at how you can minimise the negative impact on the environment. Of course, the advice to fly less and to look for destinations closer to home that might be interesting for a photo trip also applies here. You could say that as an organiser you are also in a way responsible for the flights of your participants.
You can also try to ensure that the trip is as sustainable as possible locally.
This can be done, for instance, by cooperating with local hotels and organisations that work in a sustainable way, by ensuring there is less (beef) meat on the menu and by photographing from fixed base camps instead of travelling around and making a lot of car kilometres.
This can be done, for instance, by cooperating with local hotels and organisations that work in a sustainable way, by ensuring there is less (beef) meat on the menu and by photographing from fixed base camps instead of travelling around and making a lot of car kilometres. A hotel in Spain that I visit almost every year for a photo trip used large amounts of plastic to pack lunch and provided plastic bottles of water to every participant every day. In consultation with the manager, we were able to achieve that plastic was used for packaging and that each participant was provided with a reusable bottle to use for water throughout the week. A simple measure that could prevent the use of a lot of plastic.
Furthermore, a simple way to reduce the car kilometres associated with photo trips and workshops is to hold the preliminary meeting online. It is, of course, more fun to meet everyone live, but online is also fine, and you avoid that everyone has to travel for it.
Finally, I think that as a photographer/travel organiser you should always ask yourself whether it is such a good idea to do a certain workshop or trip and whether the impact on nature is not too great. For example, I stopped giving dragonfly and damselfly workshops some years ago because I felt that the impact of a group of people (even when limited to 4 or 5 people) in a fairly small place by the water was too great. And there are fantastic travel destinations that I will never go to with a group because I am afraid that too much damage will be done. This is all the more true as it is usually not just one trip, many photographers and organisations are likely to be inspired by what others offer!
Storm selfie, an image taken at the famous black beach near Vik, Iceland, a couple of years ago
Tip 4: Limit yourself in buying new equipment
We photographers love our gear, don’t we? But perhaps we sometimes go a bit overboard with this. Maybe not everyone realises that the production and transportation of all this equipment has a significant negative environmental impact.
I think many landscape photographers have a certain Fear of Missing Out if they do not use the latest camera or the latest lens. Try to curb this FOMO! Of course, it is nice to have good, state of the art equipment, but you really don't have to buy every new version of a lens or camera that is offered (although manufacturers would like you to believe otherwise).
We photographers love our gear, don’t we? But perhaps we sometimes go a bit overboard with this. Maybe not everyone realises that the production and transportation of all this equipment has a significant negative environmental impact.
Often, improvements are only marginal compared to earlier models. I am still the proud owner of a Canon 100 mm macro lens that I bought second hand in 2005 (!) and is still tack sharp and able to produce high quality images. I admit I have been looking to the successor with image stabilisation more than once but never thought it was really necessary to upgrade. Of course, the financial and environmental benefits go hand in hand here.
It is probably needless to say that good pictures are usually due to the eye, creativity and skills of the photographer and not to the use of state-of-the-art equipment.
Tip 5: Be careful and diligent when photographing in nature
Be careful when photographing in nature and always let the interest of nature prevail over the interest to take a certain picture. I found it important to mention it, but will not elaborate on this point here. Nature First has already drawn up clear guidelines for this, which have been endorsed by many photographers.
Be reluctant to share locations, especially with fragile and unknown nature reserves. This advice is part of the Nature First principles, but I think it is important enough to mention it separately. In times of social media, you have to assume that sharing locations poses a real risk that many people will follow in your footsteps and want to go there too. So be aware of the risks and assess each time whether mentioning the location is harmful.
Tourists & flowers, Iceland
Tip 6: Do not participate in NFTs
Last year, everyone was talking about NFTs as a great new source of income for photographers. If you don't know what NFTs are, read Tim Parkin's introduction here in issue 247.
Not everyone seems aware of the fact that generating and also transferring NFTs costs tons of energy and has a significant negative impact on the environment. So, as a landscape photographer, you have to ask yourself if you want to make money this way. In any case, I have decided not to try it, although the prospect of getting a lot of money for some digital files also seemed attractive to me.
There is talk of more environmentally friendly alternatives, but it is not clear to me whether they have really caught on yet. In any case, the NFT hype seems to have passed its peak, which may make it easier to stay away from it.
Tip 7: See how you can increase your positive influence as a landscape photographer
As mentioned before, as a landscape photographer, there is a risk that your images will mainly reach fellow photographers. It is questionable whether you will make the world any greener by doing so. It is therefore worthwhile looking into whether you, as a photographer, can reach a different audience, for example, with lectures at other locations than photo clubs and with publications in other media than photo magazines. This will increase your chances of surprising and touching people in a positive way with your landscape photos and maybe make them more aware of the value of nature which, as a result, may lead to different choices and behaviour. Of course, such an influence is very difficult to measure, but that does not mean, in my opinion, that it is not worth trying.
In addition, see if you can use your images or your network for nature conservation purposes. Most of us have at least a few hundred followers and sometimes many thousands of followers on social media. For a number of years now, I have tried to share petitions or critical articles that I think are good with my followers, for instance, on Facebook or in my newsletters. The influence is again difficult to measure, but I do feel that it can make a small contribution.
It is therefore worthwhile looking into whether you, as a photographer, can reach a different audience, for example, with lectures at other locations than photo clubs and with publications in other media than photo magazines.
This is one of my most successful images, published frequently and runner up in the Creative Visions category of Wildlife photographer of the year. It was taken within an hour of my home.
Last year, together with a colleague (Johan van der Wielen), I made a series of photos available free of charge to magazine editors if they would like to draw attention to a petition against the laying of an underground power cable on Schiermonnikoog in the Dutch Wadden Sea region, one of the most unspoiled places in the Netherlands. This article was published on a number of widely read websites. In the end, the plan for the power cable was taken off the table. Of course, I cannot say that this would not have happened without our input, but I like to think that it did help a little.
Finally
There is a lot more to say on this subject. I thought it was especially important to write about it once and open the discussion this way. I am open to other suggestions and opinions!
National park De Hoge Veluwe, the Netherlands, after a large wildfire in 2014. The amount of wildfires has grown considerably in recent years.
Burnt pine cones, national park De Hoge Veluwe, the Netherlands.
Very dry ground, national park Maasduinen, the Netherlands
Storm in Noordwijk on the Dutch Northsea coast. The last years the rains have become much more extreme in the Netherlands and many other countries in Europe.
High water, the Netherlands. The main rivers in the Netherlands have flooded regularly in recent years.
High water (II), the Netherlands. There is beauty in the flooded landscape, but it is scary at the same time.
Storm selfie, an image taken at the famous black beach near Vik, Iceland, a couple of years ago
Tourists & flowers, Iceland
This is one of my most successful images, published frequently and runner up in the Creative Visions category of Wildlife photographer of the year. It was taken within an hour of my home.
In the previous three articles of the ‘Past Masters and Expressive Photography’ series (read previous articles), I have analysed the Impressionist’s artistic beliefs, deep motivations, expressive philosophy and lifetime struggles. In this fourth essay, I’m going to explore a group of lesser-known, but no less relevant landscape painters who practice their art right before the Impressionists. Their work inspired, influenced, and facilitated the impressionist’s bright development.
What motivated a group of landscape painters to relocate to the tiny village of Barbizon in France and relentlessly paint there for most of their lives? Why did they fight to institute an “artistic reserve”, the first protected natural area in the world?
A work of art which reproduces the total content of an era (thus not only its style) and which therefore represents a disturbing novelty does not ordinarily become something familiar until the era has passed, it that is, it is only recognized and appreciated when the period of its creation has become a historical totality. This happens most of the time with the coming of the next generation.~ Hermann Broch
It took the prodigious blossoming of pleinairism and the triumph of impressionism for criticism to look seriously at the antecedents of impressionism and for the French school of art history to seek out the sources deep. It was not until 1925 that the book by Prosper Dorbec, "Landscape art in France. Essays on its evolution from the 18th century to the end of the Second Empire" (the French Second Empire ended in September 1870), seriously retraced the work of the Barbizon painters.
So, what motivated a group of landscape painters to relocate to the tiny village of Barbizon in France and relentlessly paint there for most of their lives? Why did they fight to institute an “artistic reserve”, the first protected natural area in the world? And what kind of impact did it all have on future generations of painters and photographers?
After an enjoyable day exploring many images by my favourite landscape photographers, I returned to this iconic 1960 image by Bradford Washburn. This single image fuelled my teenage enthusiasm for both photography and mountaineering. My passion for both started in the mid 1960s when I was in my mid-teens, and it has lasted to this day. A winter course at Glenmore Lodge, taught by a cadre of Britain’s finest mountaineers, fired my passion for hill walking, skiing and later rock climbing. My interest in photography developed alongside because I wanted to capture something of the magnificent snow and rock scenes that I was beginning to encounter in the mountains.
In order to satisfy my urges to be out in the hills during schooldays, I began to work my way through the mountaineering and photography shelves of my local library. And one day, I stumbled across a Bradford Washburn book of mountain photographs. I was immediately captivated by the sheer quality of the large format, monochrome aerial images and their dramatic contents. "After the Storm" was particularly breathtaking and became my firm favourite - I later discovered that It was also a favourite of Bradford’s. And since that moment when I discovered Bradford, I’ve found that we have had common sources of inspiration in mountaineers/photographers.
For many nature and landscape photographers, one of the greatest appeals of landscape photography is its requirement for spending time outside in nature away from the chaos and stress of daily life. It is well documented through rigorous scientific research that spending time in nature can have significant positive effects on our mood, immune system, blood pressure, and stress levels. The Japanese have long-known about these positive impacts and have recommended “forest bathing” or “Shinrin-yoku” since the 1980s to reduce stress and improve the immune system.
As nature photographers, we also likely have all experienced these positive impacts somewhat inadvertently as part of our travels into nature with the camera; however, to fully embrace these effects, one should engage all their senses in the process, including sight, hearing, smelling, touching, and tasting. This doesn’t mean you should start licking your camera lenses; however, I strongly believe that through fully immersing ourselves in nature as photographers, we can harness these effects not only for our health but also to produce more personally expressive and highly engaging artwork in a way that the subject of this article has.
Luis was an early subscriber to our magazine and I've been an admirer of his photography for quite a while. After seeing a recent project, an homage to Monet using scenes from his local area, and also reading some of his excellent writing in his Perspetiva magazine, I was very keen to feature him in On Landscape.
Can you tell me a little about your education, childhood passions, early exposure to photography etc?
I grew up in a small town in the centre of Portugal. It is still a major railway hub and the home of the national railway museum. My father worked for the railway company, so I guess my first passion was about trains. I remember asking my parents for an electric model train for years in a row. I guess I was already a teenager when I got my first one. That passion still lingers, although nowadays, photography takes all the “free” time I have, and so locomotives remain mainly in the shed.
When I was young, photography was not an activity that my parents pursued. The only camera available in the house was a very basic Kodak 110 film camera that was used very rarely. I have only a dozen photos from my early years. Only when I got into university to complete a Computer Science degree I was really exposed to photography. One of my roommates had an old Cosina SLR and transformed our shared bathroom into a darkroom. I discovered the beauty of making photography, not in aesthetic terms but as a mechanical experience: operate a camera, hear the click and process the film until a photograph appears, by magic, on a wet sheet of paper.
After graduating, during an internship in Austria, I felt the need for a camera to capture the beauty around me and so I bought my first one, a Canon EOS 500N. In the first years, in the late 90s, my favourite subjects were architecture and street photography. I loved the pulse of the big cities and the people that lived in them. People's relationship with the city always provided endless photographic opportunities. In 2005, my first child was born, and I decided I no longer had the time nor the stamina to venture the streets - street photography is very consuming from an emotional point of view - and turned to nature. I was very connected to nature since my younger years so it was like a comeback now with a camera in my hands. Since 2007 I have been solely devoted to landscape and nature photography.
There will be few, if any, subscribers to ‘On Landscape’ who are not aware of ‘The Landscape’ by Paul Wakefield (read our review of the book and our interview with Paul). I ordered it when it was first published in 2014, and now, some eight years later, my copy has that well read look to it. Paul’s work first came to my attention actually when, prior to 2014, I had bought a second hand copy of ‘Scotland: A Place Of Visions’ by Jan Morris and Paul Wakefield. I noticed in that book that Paul had included photographs made in Culbin Forest, which is located mostly in Moray in the North East of Scotland.
That interested me immediately as I live some 40 minutes by car from Culbin Forest and had been wandering the area now and again since I became aware of it in my early twenties. That’s more than forty years ago now. I had also established an interest in photography at that time, but it wasn’t until much later that I had developed an interest in intimate landscape photography and had begun to explore the local forests photographically circa 2014.
The forest was established on a huge dune structure known as Culbin Sands, an area surrounded by mystery and intrigue. The history goes back to the beginning of the 13th century with the actual destruction of the Culbin estate by wind blown sand happening in 1694.
It was the mystery surrounding the area and the size and topography of the forest that really drew me to Culbin. Looking at Paul’s website, I discovered that even more images were to be found of Culbin and when I received my copy of ‘The Landscape’, I realised that it also contained images from Culbin. I wrote to Paul with some questions and observations not long after that.
Culbin forest covers approximately 3,500 ha and forms part of the SSSI ‘Culbin Sands, Culbin Forest and Findhorn Bay’, which in turn covers some 5,000 ha. The forest was established on a huge dune structure known as Culbin Sands, an area surrounded by mystery and intrigue. The history goes back to the beginning of the 13th century with the actual destruction of the Culbin estate by wind blown sand happening in 1694. Did a substantial community comprised of 16 farms really vanish overnight in a sandstorm in the late 17th century? The book 'The Culbin Sands - A Mystery Unravelled' by Sinclair Ross, published in 1992 (a PDF version is available), goes some way in establishing what actually happened at Culbin. The Forestry Commission started to look at the area circa 1921. Marram grasses were replanted in order that some of the sand could be slowly stabilised before tree planting began, and today the resulting huge working forest is also managed so as to provide a key recreational resource for Forres, Nairn and the surrounding areas. The dune system is the largest in Britain, and substantial areas of that system have not been over-planted. Shingle ridges run parallel to the forest for 7km along the coast.
I had no objectives in mind really when I started to explore Culbin Forest with a camera, and thirteen years later, that is still true today. I photographed what grabbed my attention. Purposely some of the photographs were taken in overcast conditions in order to prevent over-exposing lichens and mosses. The area virtually never gets mist, and any sea haars burn off rapidly. Misty tree opportunities are therefore non existent unless one can substitute mist for rain. Snow is also a rare occurrence these days, but rainfall seems to be on the increase. The forestry access roads are well maintained, but one has to wander away from the tracks to be in the real forest and really experience it.
To maybe sit and watch for any wildlife. Smell the forest or listen or contemplate the living forest above and beneath one’s feet. Perhaps even to watch the wood ants climbing over those feet. They are never far away! The dune structure on which the forest was planted is, to a great extent, still apparent and can be over 30 metres in height in places. Culbin is full of surprises. In no way can it be described as being wild. However, even though it may be a huge working forest, it is also a sensitive area. If you plan a visit, please take care of walking off the tracks as rare plants, including national and regional rareties, can be found in Culbin. Likewise, rare lichens and fungi also exist in the fragile and diverse habitats. One species of fungi is not found at any other location in Britain.
The dune structure on which the forest was planted is, to a great extent, still apparent and can be over 30 metres in height in places. Culbin is full of surprises. In no way can it be described as being wild.
One of the subjects I discussed with Paul was access, and we both agreed that walking provided the best opportunities for seeing photographs. I remember him telling me that “Culbin is a time consuming place.” He wasn’t wrong! I used to see Culbin as an ongoing project, a live project and one where I would add and cull images regularly. However, enter Guy Tal. In his book titled 'More Than A Rock' (p 107) he writes about projects and how he prefers the term explorations rather than projects. His point being that a project really requires to be completed for it to perhaps be seen as a success. An exploration, however is just that as he explains in his words, “I find ample and sustained reward in merely being engaged in something that interests and fascinates me: a journey that is more important than any preconceived destination.” I can’t say it better than that! Who could?
I will never come remotely close to exploring all of the forest but I accepted that a long time ago. Now, if the light is quiet preferably, I sometimes still make my way to Culbin and wander the forest and look to see what will grab my attention or revisit favourite locations just to see what has changed. I might even take a photograph or two! ‘Finding a path – Culbin Forest’. It’s an exploration.
Thank you to Mark Reeve, Planning forester for Moray & Aberdeenshire FD, from Forestry Commission Scotland, for providing me with additional information about Culbin Forest. And finally, thank you to Paul Wakefield and Guy Tal for their inspiration and generosity.
References
‘The Landscape’ - Paul Wakefield. Published by Eddie Ephraums 2014., ISBN 10: 095647649X ISBN 13:9780956476494.
‘Scotland: A Place Of Visions’ - Jan Morris, Paul Wakefield. Published by Aurum Press 01/10/1986 ISBN 10: 0948149191 ISBN 13: 9780948149191.
‘More Than a Rock: Essays on Art, Creativity, Photography, Nature, and Life’. - Guy Tal. Published by Rocky Nook 15/02/2021
ISBN 10:1681986833.
‘The Culbin Sands - A Mystery Unravelled' - Sinclair Ross. Published by University of Aberdeen Centre for Scottish Studies 1992.
ISBN 10: 0906265169 and ISBN 13: 9780906265161.
For those readers requiring further information on the work of the Forestry Commission in establishing Culbin Forest I would draw your attention to ‘The Culbin Story’ which is archive video footage from 1955. As the introduction informs us "This archive film was made in 1955 - just as the vast task of establishing a forest at Culbin was coming to an end. It tells the story of the people of Culbin being driven from the land by advancing sand and then the mammoth effort by the Forestry Commission to establish the forest we see today". The films are edited by I Anderson and narrated by J Urquhart.
Unpopular opinion: I don't think your life has to have a purpose, or you a grand ambition; I think it's okay to just wander through life finding interesting things until you die.~ Amber Sparks
Among my least favourite aspects of high school English classes was having to find the deeper meaning in every sentence we read. Heaven forbid the author described something simply as she saw it; the sky was never blue as it is perceived by society. No, it was blue because the author was thinking solemnly about something - her life was not going to plan, and she was depressed. And the way she recalled sitting on the couch, the position she sat in, always had to have some philosophical meaning behind it, rather than just because it was a comfortable place to sit.
Perhaps the same can be said regarding art and, specifically, photography. Now that the craft has had its time to mature over the past two hundred years, we find ourselves wondering what the point of it all is. We begin to ponder whether there is meaning in it or if we are pursuing it for its own sake. Even this series of articles I have been writing, entitled *Finding Meaning*, may be seen as digging a bit too deep, waxing a bit too philosophically, about something which inherently has no meaning, whether that something be art or life.
The quote starting this article made me begin thinking that we, as a species, have long moved past the collective ideologies and toward much deeper thought processes. Yes, philosophers have always pondered the meaning of life since the age of Aristotle and Socrates. Yes, there are still individuals who delve much deeper into these such ponderings. Yet it seems individuals of the modern day have begun wondering, more than ever before, what the meaning of life is. Why is it that we work forty-hour weeks, on the low-end, until we reach old age, only for us to then be "allowed" to enjoy our lives? What sense does it make that we have little choice but to work ourselves to an infirm age performing some action we care little for, to raise a family and put overly expensive food on the table and a lavish roof over our heads and keep up with the Jones’s, though we care even less about the materialistic goods we buy with the money we work so hard for.
Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, the providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favour all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.~ W.H. Murray
A quote from Murray seems entirely appropriate to begin this story, a quote which epitomises that breaking of inertia when starting a new project. He was a mountaineer and writer to whom Glen Coe was the absolute pinnacle of climbing excellence. The memory of these mountains sustained him throughout his incarceration in a German prisoner of war camps during the second world war. His best selling book, 'Mountaineering in Scotland' was written on scraps of toilet paper over the three years of his imprisonment and remains to this day a powerful testimony to the memory of mountains. In a very real way, the recollection of climbing days spent in and around Glen Coe saved his life.
In Mountaineering in Scotland, W.H. Murray wrote about the view of Bidean nam Bian whilst on a winter night walk across the pinnacles of the Aonach Eagach ridge, "From this part of the ridge we were better able to see Bidean, to see it as a whole mountain - shaped by deep corries, thrusting its strong ridges outward to eight sparking peaks, down-curving to lesser tops, emerging from the lowly blackness of Glencoe to a crescendo of light at the summit. That was the Bidean nam Bian of our physical world, by its mere presence there calling our hearts to the world inhabited by beauty." New generations of mountaineers and hill walkers now follow in his footsteps along the high ridges and through the profound hollows of this mountain realm, creating their own individual memories of days lived to the full in this unique landscape.
It is the most fascinating and complex of all the mountains of Glen Coe that our guide book reveals: Bidean nam Bian. This is the story of how and why we produced a walking guide book to this great mountain of Glen Coe, from its conception to its final publication.
So what does it take to write a guidebook? In this case, it took 18 months of serious dedication, 46,800 metres of total ascent, 400+ hours on field trips, and well over 350 kilometres travelled.
Writing a walking guidebook
So what does it take to write a guidebook? In this case, it took 18 months of serious dedication, 46,800 metres of total ascent, 400+ hours on field trips, and well over 350 kilometres travelled. And then there were photographs, many, many photographs (well, this is a photography magazine after all), some on film and some on digital but all with a purpose: to illustrate a walking guide book of the highest mountain in Glen Coe, named Bidean nam Bian. By honing in on one hill, which is, in reality, a mountain massif with nine distinct summits, we could produce a totally comprehensive study giving a new depth of information and detailed route descriptions previously unrecorded in the Scottish mountains.
The original idea for this project came from those two creative catalysts, Charlotte and Tim Parkin. The vision that we came up with was to produce a series of walking guide books to the most iconic mountain areas in the highlands of Scotland, starting with Glen Coe. As the project began to take shape, we settled on designing a classic old school pocket guide with black and white images, hand drawn illustrations and hand drawn maps. To Charlotte and Tim’s great credit, they handed the whole creative process to me, which provided a fabulous opportunity to treat the guidebook as a personal project, whilst Charlotte and Tim helped with feedback and around possible commercial strategies. So often, a photographer or illustrator has a distinct role to play in a large team when commissioned to work on a book, but with this project, there was glorious freedom to cover every aspect of the publication from cover to cover.
As Glen Coe is an area steeped in mountaineering history, we felt that a 1950’s aesthetic would suit the project very well. The publication would be around A5 in size and somewhere around 300 pages long. Although the popular walks on major footpaths needed to be included, I had free reign to include several dramatic and pathless routes of my own to showcase the sheer variety of superb mountain walks to be found on Bidean nam Bian. Many of these routes were on the outlying peaks which make up the Bidean massif such as Aonach Dubh, An-t Sron, Gearr Aonach and Beinn Fhada. These summits are much less frequented than Bidean nam Bian but offer superb mountain walks. We wanted to encourage our readers to explore the mountain hollows and hidden corners, to travel into the mountain rather than only heading straight to its uppermost summit cairn. As Nan Shepherd eloquently puts it in her book ‘The Living Mountain’, 'To aim for the highest point is not the only way to climb a mountain.”
And why Bidean nam Bian?
And why Bidean? (click to visit walking in Glencoe website) Well, throughout the Scottish highlands, there are many film star mountains, and each one is worthy of a guidebook writer’s attention. An Teallach, Liathach, Buachaille Etive Mor, Ben Nevis, Sgorr nan Gillean, Suilven.....its a long list and Bidean nam Bian is undoubtedly one of the very best of these iconic mountains. Add to that the fact that it sits in the very heart of Glen Coe and dominates every view hereabouts, and you have as fascinating and interesting a mountain as it is possible to have in the British Isles.
We wanted to encourage our readers to explore the mountain hollows and hidden corners, to travel into the mountain rather than only heading straight to its uppermost summit cairn.
But it isn’t just me who thinks so; generations of tourists, mountaineers and travellers have rounded the corner, at or below the Study and let out a gasp at the sheer monumentality of the scene, which suddenly, and to fabulous effect, bursts into view. The view, for those wondering, is that of the three sisters of Glen Coe, and it is emphatically a mountain view. Perhaps nowhere else in the United Kingdom is there a more dramatic depiction of landscape tilted to the vertical, which can easily be seen from a major road. Dorothy Wordsworth thrilled at the scene in 1803, “I cannot attempt to describe the mountains. I can only say that I thought those on our right—for the other side was only a continued high ridge or craggy barrier, broken along the top into petty spiral forms—were the grandest I had ever seen. It seldom happens that mountains in a very clear air look exceedingly high, but these, though we could see the whole of them to their very summits, appeared to me more majestic in their own nakedness than our imaginations could have conceived them to be, had they been half hidden by clouds, yet showing some of their highest pinnacles. They were such forms as Milton might be supposed to have had in his mind when he applied to Satan that sublime expression— ‘His stature reached the sky.’”
Other mountains in Glen Coe
Of course, there is far more to Glen Coe than a single view, spectacular though it is, and the three sisters are only part of a large and complex mountain massif which culminates in the summit of Bidean nam Bian. And even this mountain maze is only the southern side of Glen Coe, the northern side rises in an equally fearsome sweep of rugged terrain to the spires and pinnacles of the Aonach Eagach: the notched ridge.
This is the landscape of the sublime, and it still has the power to excite the emotions to this day. Glen Coe is a fabulous manifestation of the classical meaning of the sublime where the strongest of emotions, such as fear, in this case, whilst contemplating the great cliffs of the three sisters, could be inherently pleasurable when viewed or imagined from a place of safety, or a sizeable and reassuringly flat car park in this instance. Although no stranger to the theatrical reveal on reaching the view of the three sisters whilst descending Glen Coe, I still feel a frisson of excitement on every visit.
Then again, it might be the poetic nature of the place which makes this mountain so worthy of attention. Legend has it that the Celtic bard Ossian, Scotland’s answer to Homer, was born in Glen Coe, perhaps under the shadow of the dark cliffs of Aonach Dubh where the arrow slit recess of Ossian’s cave is to be found.
This is the landscape of the sublime, and it still has the power to excite the emotions to this day. Glen Coe is a fabulous manifestation of the classical meaning of the sublime where the strongest of emotions, such as fear, in this case, whilst contemplating the great cliffs of the three sisters, could be inherently pleasurable when viewed or imagined from a place of safety, or a sizeable and reassuringly flat car park in this instance.
Now before I disappear down the rabbit hole of myths, legends and assorted cliches, I know that Ossian was the fantastical creation of the Scottish poet James Macpherson in the 18th century, but his stories were inspired by genuine Scottish ballads from the oral storytelling tradition which was central to the culture of the highlands during the 14th and 15th centuries. It is not difficult to imagine generations of Celtic bards living in and around Glen Coe, spinning tales of epic deeds inspired by the surrounding landscape. Then there are the artistic visionaries who have come here to paint, such as one Horatio McCulloch in the19th century for whom Glen Coe was the very essence of high Victorian romanticism. His paintings of swirling mists and rocky peaks dappled with transient light remain to this day an irresistible template for artists and photographers alike.
The weight of history hangs heavy over Glen Coe, and that’s before any reference to the infamous massacre in 1692, but this is a landscape that transcends the cultural shackles of its past. Once away from the road, the viewpoint, the cairns and memorials, there is a rich and fascinating mountain landscape to explore, and it is this landscape that is the subject of our guidebook.
The aesthetics and style of the walking guide
How to translate all this into the simple form of a pocket guidebook needed a good deal of thought. As with all major projects, I wrote a reasonably detailed brief to clarify the aims and objectives of the publication, which included questions such as, who is it for? (walkers and hill walkers looking for a more in depth guide with varied walks from a casual stroll to an adventurous ascent), what information to include? (maps, drawings and text), what geographical boundaries would we use? (the Bidean massif) Is it for walkers, scramblers, or climbers? (primarily walkers, with some easy scrambles) and many other points to help keep the focus on what we felt was relevant. It was also important to make our book unique, both in its aesthetic and with the information it contained. This would be a comprehensive study of the mountain massif with detailed depictions of the varied routes using both written and visual aids. It was also vital to provide inspiration as to why you might wish to walk a particular route, and the photography was invaluable for this.
This would be a comprehensive study of the mountain massif with detailed depictions of the varied routes using both written and visual aids. It was also vital to provide inspiration as to why you might wish to walk a particular route, and the photography was invaluable for this.
I had initially planned to use film as much as possible to keep with the classic 1950s feel, but as the project went on, I found a digital workflow much more straightforward, as it cut out the time loss of having to wait for the film to be processed and scanned. In this guidebook, the photographs were frequently needed to illustrate the accompanying text. To keep my pack weight down to reasonable levels and to help my ageing knees, I used an elderly Hasselblad film camera and/or an equally elderly Canon digital camera. Processing was kept to the bare minimum, just a conversion to black and white in the case of the digital images so as to let the landscape, not my interpretation of it dominate.
The maps and route illustrations were all drawn by hand over several months, again to keep with the classic old school guidebook theme and were a joy to produce. They give the publication an individuality as well as being vital in clarifying any route finding difficulties, plus they complement the black and white photographs very well. Each illustration was hand drawn whilst out on the hill, then the final rendering was done back at my studio. That way I could keep the dynamic of a sketch from life whilst also being able to produce the accuracy required to keep the topographical details correct.
That all sounds well and good in theory, but how would it work in practice? The next article will give some insight into the methods and challenges encountered during the eighteen months of work to produce our walking guide to Bidean nam Bian in Glen Coe.
Kickstarter Campaign
Walking in Glencoe Guide - Bidean nam Bian
In order to get the book started, we looked at raising enough money to print a pilot project which we could distribute in various outlets and assess the demand for the a longer print run. This first Kickstarter campaign will support the digital printing of 500 books and, if successful, will help us decide whether to extend the print run on a full litho printing press. There are a few different rewards available but the main reward will be an early copy of what we think will become a classic series of walking books.
I felt I had bitten off more than I could chew, thrashing around the mountains of Snowdonia gathering images for my very first book, experiencing emotional highs and devastating lows, yet elated, and it was during that time I first heard the name, Joe Cornish. Mine was a collaboration with the National Trust for Wales, and, if my memory serves me, Joe had been commissioned to photograph National Trust properties for a special project of theirs. That was way back in the early 90’s and I was as green as they come.
So I did some research and tracked down his work, all pre-Google, of course, and I realised then how much I needed to up my game. Years later, and his many books that adorn my bookshelves are a go to whenever I need some inspiration and motivation. So, with all Joe Cornish’s images to hand, trying to narrow it down to just the one for this article was a huge task in itself.
None would argue that Joe is up there among the best landscape photographers in the UK, and perhaps the only one to have a rock named after him! I think we have all probably just ‘dropped by’ one of his more famous locations to see what we could make of it, but of course, the result is never quite the same. Joe has his own style of combining the elements: season, time, light and subject; and his own way then of aligning them to produce an image of outstanding quality. I imagine, however, that pressing the shutter is just the final act following months of location slogging, ephemeris plotting, weather watching, and an ankle-turning pre-dawn yomp! It’s an enviable skill, but one honed by years of dedication and fieldwork out there in the wilds.
He's a landscape all-rounder, as capable of producing an intimate abstract as he is of gathering in the huge scenics. Mostly, he favours a dramatic foreground, well-lit with glancing side light, say, together with some epic backdrop, the whole working together on a level to which the rest of us can only aspire. Sometimes he will reverse the combination; a cool, shaded foreground, perhaps even frosted, with a bright, warm, sunlit backdrop. Some images are full and bursting with colour, while others are sparse and minimalist with a more subdued colour palette. And these, I should declare, are my favourites.
Man is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, yet is nevertheless at liberty, and from the moment that he is thrown into the world he is responsible for everything else he does.~ Jean-Paul Sartre
One might expect that the philosophy of Søren Kierkegaard (a devout Christian) and the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche (famous for asserting that God is dead) will have little in common. In fact, these philosophers shared some important ideas about how one should strive to live. Both believed that the key to meaningful living is for individuals to shape their own lives and to choose their own values, not just submit willingly to external influences.
The one idea uniting all existentialist thinkers is the importance of individualism—not in a glorified or romanticised way, but as the burdensome freedom to make, to live by, and sometimes to suffer the dire consequences of personal choices.
Both are considered today to have been the precursors of a philosophical movement known as existentialism.
Indeed, the fact that Kierkegaard and Nietzsche are both considered existentialist thinkers despite being at deep odds about such things as religious belief should not be surprising. Existentialist thinkers have often disagreed on important matters, and some were openly hostile to each other. The one idea uniting all existentialist thinkers is the importance of individualism—not in a glorified or romanticised way, but as the burdensome freedom to make, to live by, and sometimes to suffer the dire consequences of personal choices. In existentialist writing, as philosopher Walter Kaufmann put it, “Individuality is not retouched, idealised, or holy; it is wretched and revolting, and yet, for all its misery, the highest good.”
Only When I Dream is a group exhibition curated by Beth Taubner and Andrew Coningsby, opening August 30, 2022, at the Coningsby Gallery in Fitzrovia, London.
The exhibition is comprised of fine art photographs, original illustrations and one video and sound installation. Artists exhibiting include renowned fine art photographers Morag Paterson, Ted Leeming, Claire Rosen, Gina Glover, photographer and deep ecologist Carol Sharp, along with esteemed illustrators Sam Falconer and Martin O’Neill. Only When I Dream will stimulate the viewer as we ask them to go on a multiplicity of journeys with us.
Ted Leeming And Morag Paterson
Morag Paterson
The exhibition is about memories and dreams, real or fabricated. The Celtic poet, theologian, and philosopher John O'Donohue spoke about “the invisible world” that is constantly intertwining what we are able to know and see. O’Donohue said that a dream is a sophisticated, imaginative text full of figures and drama that we send to ourselves. These concepts are explored through the multi-dimensional language and visual landscape of Only When I Dream.
Dreaming can involve moments that crystallize yearnings, ethereal and romantic. They can be stories that we conjure tied to memories from the past, or the imagined past, therefore nostalgic and informed by memory or longings. We might experience highly sensory and visual waking or sleeping dreams where the mind and imagination travel to distant lands or just next door. Our dreams might conjure untamed places in the physical world we have been to and long to experience again. Focusing on the landscape as a vehicle for these ideas emerged during the curatorial process.
Gina Glover
Carol Sharp
Timing is everything, and gallery owner Andrew Coningsby and Beth were in agreement that this was the right time to present work that would allow viewers to lift out of the lingering pandemic and travel into other states of mind. We came to understand that each participating artist explored their own deep relationship to the natural world, underpinned by different concerns.
Exhibition Details
Only When I Dream Exhibition, 30 August - 10 September 2022, Coningsby Gallery, 30 Tottenham Street, London, W1T 4RJ
It’s not unusual to get to the point in a career where you realise that you are spending less time doing what you love. In Mário’s case, it prompted him to switch careers from biology to photography, and this allows him to spend longer outdoors in nature. His enthusiasm for what he is now doing is obvious, and his background undoubtedly helps him interpret and contextualize his observations.
His experience of dramatic scenery in other countries has prompted him to search out comparable landscapes in Portugal, and he shares the practicalities and the perspective he has gained from his experiences. We talk too about the contrast between mountains and woodland and what he gains from each.
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what that led you to do?
I was always connected to nature, although the environment was very distinct from what I am mostly attracted to photographing nowadays. I grew up by the coast, in a town called Póvoa de Varzim in the North of Portugal. Going to the beach was, and still is, something I do very often.
I was always connected to nature, although the environment was very distinct from what I am mostly attracted to photographing nowadays. I grew up by the coast, in a town called Póvoa de Varzim in the North of Portugal.
My interest in the natural world began at the beach. Snorkelling and looking for fish was simply amazing, and I could spend hours and hours just observing and contemplating nature. Later on, this led me to my academic career, where I completed a PhD in Biology studying fish behaviour. However, as many people in the field of biology experience, the more you progress in your career, the less time you spend in the field and the more time you spend at the office. This was not something unexpected, but I never thought I would feel so caged.
After my PhD, in late 2017, I decided to abandon my career and dedicate my life to nature photography. After deciding to marry my wife and have our beautiful daughter, this decision was the next best thing I did in my life; what a relief I felt! Now I spend more time in nature but don’t be fooled, a professional photographer working alone can't always be out photographing and having fun. A lot of work has to be done at the office if you want to make a living out of it, especially in the beginning. So nowadays, I am a full time nature photographer who, besides loving the art and craft of being out creating photographs, also loves teaching photography on my residential workshops/expeditions or through online courses.
Living almost on the shores of Loch Ness for the past six years has allowed me easy and constant access to the water. I wasn't travelling as much as I do now in the first few years of living here, so I decided to photograph the Loch every single day for one year. It pushed me to find locations, notice weather patterns, and produce imagery that I may not have done otherwise.
Loch Ness is one of the largest lochs in Scotland, and mostly, it is windy and often grey. But when conditions are good, there is no better place. Early mornings in the winter are generally when I find these incredible pockets of peace. The water is still and glassy, everyone else is sleeping, the mist of low before the wind picks up, and the sounds of nature are all you can hear. I have watched weather forecasts for many years and noticed patterns. If I can see a possible window of opportunity the following day. I will pack all my gear and get ready for an early start. Depending on sunrise, I can be out by 5 am and my day is done by 9 am.
The year project just continued past its end date. I stopped going out every single day as I found I was forcing myself out in conditions that just weren't right. It was time-consuming and not very helpful photographically. Instead, I have continued to photograph the Loch only during the moments that I find beautiful and peaceful.
I have wanted to make a book of these images for many years. In 2018 I sat down and grouped my images into chapters and came up with chapter names and a book name: Still Waters. I printed out possible images for each chapter using a cheap printer that returned a large bundle of 6x8 images. These were laid out all over my floor, and I began work on image selection.
Five years ago, I told myself the story that I was a photographer, and I couldn't write. But I have always thought that words and images work together to create a deeper understanding of any art form.
Five years ago, I told myself the story that I was a photographer, and I couldn't write. But I have always thought that words and images work together to create a deeper understanding of any art form. It was during working towards an exhibition at the Bosham Gallery in 2019 and a deeper exploration of the meaning behind my work that I really learned that I could write. We should never put ourselves in boxes.
But back in 2017/18, I decided to ask for help from one of my dearest friends. Chloe, who went to Art college with me in Manchester. We also found we both loved the sea and quiet places, and over time, I felt she knew me best. Chloe was always a powerful writer and has since become a published author. I asked her to write the intro to the book.
There is a general idea that you need someone well-known to write your intro if your book is going to be any good. I felt that I needed someone who knew me really well.
Chloe wrote a beautiful intro, chapters, and words to match the images. This book is unusual in that two artists, not just one, create it.
I then asked my designer friend David McCreight if he could put it together for me. The design was beautiful, and I was happy. So the question is, why did I take four years to print this book?
I then asked my designer friend David McCreight if he could put it together for me. The design was beautiful, and I was happy. So the question is, why did I take four years to print this book?
At the end of 2018, Suddenly, life got busy. I started my new landscape workshop business and was already busy running my social photography business. I had spent some time figuring out how to make this book work. What sort of printing, what size, what would the cost be? I had approached a local printing company and went through paper choices and book types but felt swamped with options, and the price just didn't make it commercially viable. I researched sponsorship and funding options and spent a long time just trying to figure out how on earth anyone didn't just make a significant loss on books. I approach my landscape photography from a very business viewpoint. My livelihood depends on it, and I didn't have spare funds to finance the book at this time. So it had to be profitable. With no answers to my questions, I ended up just putting the project away on the shelf. It stayed there for many years.
In 2019 I had a solo exhibition at the Bosham Gallery, and the gallery produced a small book of my images and words about the works. This process was pivotal in my career as I learned how to write. It deepened my understanding of my work and made me see the value of vocalising the images' meaning. I battled through the writing slowly and steadily, guided at all times by Luke Whittaker, the gallery owner. He taught me how to articulate my thoughts and express them through the exhibition's writing. After the exhibition, I had several books leftover and continue to sell them online. They are simple but a beautiful representation of my Hebridean seascapes, and I am incredibly proud of this book.
Fast forward 4 years, and I was sitting on a rock in Harris looking through one of Sean Tuckers Collection of images books. It struck me that the concept was similar to my quiet book. The same simple production fitted into my camera back, which I had taken down to the beach with me. We are often drawn down paths because that is how things are supposed to be done. That is how a photographic book should be; A large hardback coffee table book, with many pages, a more expensive and polished affair.
Fast forward 4 years, and I was sitting on a rock in Harris looking through one of Sean Tuckers Collection of images books. It struck me that the concept was similar to my quiet book. The same simple production fitted into my camera back, which I had taken down to the beach with me. We are often drawn down paths because that is how things are supposed to be done.
And absolutely, those styles of books are extremely beautiful and well produced. But I felt that maybe that style wasn't for me. And maybe I liked the simple approach, affordable, easy to produce, and accessible to many. And perhaps if I took that path, this loch ness book would finally see the light of day.
I recalled watching a video by Sean Tucker on creating zines, and a few days later revisited it and was led to ExWhyZed printing. I watched all their videos and reached out to them. What if I could match the size of the Quiet book I already stocked to eventually produce a whole series of books that matched in style. I have been working on a new idea for some while, along the lines of writing my thoughts next to images of the Hebrides. So maybe I can simply get the Loch Ness into print to prove the quality and method first.
By the end of my week on the Hebrides, I had decided on paper, finish, size and design. I adapted the original design to allow for new work of loch ness to be included, and the printers had been exceptionally responsive and helpful. It was a very easy experience. The price meant I would see a profit after selling 70 copies, and I felt pretty sure I could do that. I have a very engaged and lovely community that follows me, and I felt that would do as a start. So as long as I wasn't losing, it was a great exercise.
The final book has just been delivered, and I am delighted with the quality and feel. I also had forgotten how incredibly proud you feel when you see a physical product of your art.
During the winter of 1979, my friend Jim Keating and I skied the John Muir Trail from Mount Whitney to Yosemite Valley. The 211-mile-long trip took us 33 days. 11 days of storms kept us in the tent napping, reading, and catching glimpses of the falling snow out the tent door. Friends joined us for the start of the trip from Whitney Portal to a camp just below the steep climb to Trail Crest. Trail Crest at 13,777 feet is the high point of the Muir Trail. A foot and a half of snow fell when we got to camp, and we were forced to sit out the storm and eat part way through our 10-day food supply.
I snapped photos of the trip, starting with our departure from my Bay Area home. The camera was Dad’s Kodak Contina with a Zeiss lens. I was using Kodak Kodachrome 25 film. I used the distance scale on the camera to focus. My goal was to take photos as a way to journal the trip. I’d been influenced by a slide show Galen Rowell did at a nearby high school. Six to 10 of us watched Galen’s presentation. I had grandiose plans to make my living as a photographer which I was sure would happen after this momentous trip. I had admired Ansel Adams photography. The perimeter walls at the Yosemite Lodge Dining Room restaurant had probably sixty Adams photos. Back in my high school days, I could admire these while waiting for an ice-cream sundae. As a teenager, I spent most of my waking consciousness thinking about rock climbing. But Adams’ photos affected me in a different way than climbing. Climbing was all about feeling personal accomplishment. The photos made me aware of the representation of the scene and the object, the photo itself.
The storm ended, and Jim and I were forced to confront post holing knee-deep steps to the crest of the Sierra, which we did. At the top of the crest, the wind had scoured a spot where we could put on our skis and head down and into the winter landscape of the Sierra. At Crabtree creek, we stopped to make camp. We had our camp set up routine memorized from shake down trips we had taken that winter to get ready for the Muir Trail. This was our first day deeper into the Sierra, and our day-to-day routine became our day-to-day life. The next day we turned north, paralleling the headwaters of the Kern River.
After a cold morning start of coffee, warm granola, and cold boots, we skied along a gentle upward grade over the Bighorn Plateau. The crest of the Sierra sat on our right shoulder. Off to our left, the peaks of the Great Western Divide, Milestone, Midway, Table, and Thunder etched themselves into the western horizon. An endless series of ridges dropped from the crest and divide into the trench of the Kern River. This was the first time I felt that I was inside the High Sierra. Inside a place where lake basins and peaks and streams were there to discover and explore. Not as someone who wanted to conquer a climb or capture with a photo. But as someone who wanted to know what a place was about.
We were in a steady low angled climb headed north toward Foresters Pass on the Kings-Kern Divide. My breathing and the black TRUCKER ski graphic on the front of my skis were my meditation as I was pulled toward the rhombus shape of Diamond Mesa.
I snapped photos of the view, of Jim skiing, giving no thought to lighting or composition. My only thought was to document our progress. We stopped for lunch in the rolling terrain below Foresters Pass. A wind was picking up from the west signalling an approaching storm. As we looked up the south side of the pass, we could see that we would be able to keep our skis on for a while, but the point would come when we would have to boot-kick steps toward the top of the pass. The top of the pass did not look good; the final section had a cornice overhanging the only route to the top. The snow slope below the cornice steepened into a vertical wall. We tightened the rope climbers on our skis and did kick turns until it was too steep to keep skis on. We took our skis off and strapped them to our packs. We didn’t have a rope or crampons or ice axes. We stopped under a rock overhang about one hundred feet below the top of the pass. We thought it better to go one at a time up the headwall in case someone fell. I tried to erase the thought of Jim somersaulting down the rock-hard snow.
We didn’t have a rope or crampons or ice axes. We stopped under a rock overhang about one hundred feet below the top of the pass. We thought it better to go one at a time up the headwall in case someone fell. I tried to erase the thought of Jim somersaulting down the rock-hard snow.
Jim went first, a ski pole in each hand turned upside down so he could stab the handles of the poles into the snow. This didn’t work, and at times, all Jim could manage were thin slices into the snow. I watched Jim move steadily and with deliberation. He eventually made the last moves up and out of sight over the top. As Jim disappeared, I forced myself into a tunnel vision of what I needed to do next. I was very afraid of the prospect of a serious fall. The only thing I could do was to move and not hesitate or waver once I started climbing. I had to trust, not accept, the holds as they were. There was no looking to Jim for help or encouragement. There was no edging out over the cornice to watch my progress or demise. I cinched down my pack and headed up. The wall threatened to pitch me backwards. It was imperative to stay balanced over my feet. Trying to stab in my ski poles was a dangerous move that could easily throw me off balance. I had to look and precisely place my feet where Jim had left impressions in the snow. The start and end of my world were a six-foot circle in front of my face. I didn’t let the thought of the wall getting steeper at the top divert my attention. At the final pitch to the top, my mind swirled, knowing I was close to safety, pitching backwards could kill me. I concentrated on the next moves I needed to make. Then I was looking over the top. There were no good holds, only smooth, wind hardened snow at the summit tabletop. Jim was there but needed to stay just out of reach. In a move, I heaved the top half of my body onto the deck of the summit, knowing my feet would lose purchase. I squirmed for inches until I was safe off the north side of the pass. I didn’t turn back to look at the view. Getting down to additional relief was not a given.
A grey bank of clouds and a strong western wind stung us with snow pellets. We put on storm gear and found a spot just down from the pass to clip into our Troll three-pin ski bindings. We pushed off into the Bubbs creek drainage. At the tree line, we stopped at a spot far from any avalanche path and stomped in a tent platform, and burrowed into our sleeping bags as the snow started to fall at a steady rate. Soon enough, snow was hissing off the rain fly and building up the sides of the tent.
The trip up and over Foresters and the relief of making camp before the storm exhausted me. The storm pinned us down, but I welcomed not having to think about getting up in the morning, packing gear, and pushing off. But we were going through the food. We calculated that we had two days of food left. Our cache at Bullfrog Lake was a long day away.
The trip up and over Foresters and the relief of making camp before the storm exhausted me. The storm pinned us down, but I welcomed not having to think about getting up in the morning, packing gear, and pushing off. But we were going through the food. We calculated that we had two days of food left. Our cache at Bullfrog Lake was a long day away. The storm lasted three days. On the third morning, the air was cold, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Three feet of snow had fallen so we would be breaking trail down Bubbs creek and then twenty five hundred feet up to the food cache. My only hope for mental survival was to embrace the monotony of trail breaking for hours on end.
We marched through the day anticipating the goodies in the food cache. We’d stashed the food under a prominent and easily identifiable boulder near Bullfrog Lake. When we pulled up onto the lake, we could see the boulder and hurried over to our treasure. We easily dug down to the boulders covering our plastic encased food. Shreds of plastic started to appear as we dug our way to the mangled remains of what was supposed to be a food orgy. We were stunned at our stupidity. We sorted through what was left of the food. At this point in the trip, we were 10 miles from the Kearsarge pass trailhead and another day into the Owens Valley. A moment of reckoning was upon us: stay and make camp or bail out just as the trip was getting real. At this moment, Jim and I figured out that we had ten days worth of food. We’d have to cook pancakes for lunch at some point, but at least the robber rodents didn’t drink our stove fuel. So that was it. On we would go. We didn’t think about how to give up. We thought about how to keep going. This same type of situation arrives many times in the course of an adventurer’s life. At times the hardest thing to do is stop and turn around and call it a day. There are times when the signals all point to a disaster in the making. There are the times when the decision to stay or go isn’t clear but what’s the worst that could happen is a prudent thought. These considerations were not something that I had a lot of experience with at the time of the Muir Trail. In a very direct way the decision to continue was my presentation of the dragon to be slain. The thought of the ease of bailing out was replaced with knowing that skiing out would have been quitting on myself. I would not find out what it was like to ski the Muir Trail. It would be easy to find a way to distraction or move on to a mental comfort zone after ending the trip. The decision to continue the Muir Trail gave me a campaign medal and an experience that set my life course.
A wedge of Parmesan cheese and a couple of M and Ms provided additional but limited encouragement.
On we went toward Glen Pass. The sun angle was high enough that the snow on the south side of the pass had consolidated. At the top of the pass, a long north side descent across a bowl of snow led into Rae Lakes. We tied on avalanche cords. 75 feet of nylon cord with small metal arrows that were meant to lead to an avalanche buried a skier. The cord, according to the how-to pamphlet, would float on top of a running avalanche. A long traversing ski brought us onto the flats of the chain of lakes. The snow was deep, and we needed to link two ski poles, attach a water bottle and lower this down to open and running water. A technique we figured out on our pre-course skis. Long mellow touring led us through open stands of pine. The peaks had changed from craggy granite to colourful metamorphic formations. Side creeks of the Kings River crashed through stream boulders. At times the slope we traversed was a continuous flow to the river. The thought of sliding into the turbulence got me to concentrate on the grip of my ski edges. The days were long enough that I could soak in some warmth.
On we went toward Glen Pass. The sun angle was high enough that the snow on the south side of the pass had consolidated. At the top of the pass, a long north side descent across a bowl of snow led into Rae Lakes.
At Marjorie Lake, we made a planned early stop. We’d brought along psychedelic mushrooms to see if getting further into the Sierra was possible. We brewed tea and took the recommended dose, and stood on our ensolite pads. Soon enough, we were able to yell and get wind swirls to drop down the peaks across the lake. We amazed ourselves for hours.
The sun arced to the west, and the cold evening breeze pushed us into the tent.
Parts of the following days were warm to the point where a jacket wasn’t needed at a rest stop. Crossing Pinchot Pass into Upper Basin and the headwaters of the south fork of the Kings River, I got more of a sense of the geography of the High Sierra. Over that pass, there was Lakes Basin, and just over that ridge was Window Peak, and that big flat spot is Arrow Lake. To our right, Split mountain marked the south end of the Palisades. Reading the map, my mind extended beyond the Muir Trail into the complex of the mountains.
For some unknown reason, we decided to put klister kick wax on our skis in Upper Basin. It wasn’t like our rope climbers weren’t working. These were lengths of knotted nylon rope that we threaded or skis through, with the knots ending up on the bottom side of the ski. The knots gripped like tank treads. The rope cost a dollar and fifty cents at Sonora Hardware. Maybe the decision to put wax on was that we’d brought along a pot full of hard wax and klister. We broke out the stove and heated the toothpaste like tube until we could squirt blobs onto the bottoms of our skis. The wax was supposed to be smoothed out, but we achieved a bumpy, inconsistent mess. The wax did grip well, however. We marched toward the V shaped Mather Pass. We were constantly hungry at this point, and the thought of getting to our food cache at Blaney Meadows was haunting our thoughts. Switch backing up Mather Pass proved to be a straightforward series of kick turns. At the top a slight north breeze was blowing. From the top of the pass, mountains swept out like arms from the body of the north facing snow bowl below us. The right arm bent at the elbow and stretched to form the fingers of the Palisades. The left arm bent around the Palisade Lakes. Snow plastered the wall of Middle Palisade. A sheet of cold powder snow blanketed the northern bowl below us. The klister sticking to the bottoms of our skis was going to glue cold snow to the bottoms of our skis. We sacrificed a shred of clothing and stove fuel to clean the klister off the skis. The cleaning was worth it. A run through silky smooth powder-snow took us to camp on Palisades lakes.
I took a picture, a vertical, of Jim making elegant turns down Mather. This photo, along with a few others, distilled my experience of the Muir trail. After the trip it was fun to do slide shows for friends. Our photos telling the tale. But it was only a handful of photos, mostly the grand landscape, that were important to me and set the course of my photography. Early on in my photography, I would only use a large-format-camera.
The next day we traversed down Palisade creek toward Le Conte Canyon. The snow on the south facing side hill was hard, steep and a fall would have serious consequences. At one point, as I was edging hard, my sunglasses fell off and started to skitter away. This was a disaster in the making. Lucky for me, they stopped on a button of snow. I carefully side slipped to the retrieve. At the bottom of the creek at the confluence with the Middle Fork of the Kings River the trail turned right and north into the 5,000-foot vertical relief of the canyon granite walls. We made pancakes at the turn. Gray clouds were moving in fast from the west, signalling another storm. After pancakes, we hastened to make as much distance up the canyon as we could. The thought of breaking trail for 4,000-vertical-feet kept us moving until evening. By this time, snow was coming down hard and the threat of avalanches was on our mind. The thought became reality as we heard the roar of an avalanche echoing in the canyon. We stomped down a tent spot and surmised that being uphill and across the river from the granite slopes of Langille Peak were enough to keep us safe. There wasn’t much of a choice of where to find a safe camp. The canyon walls formed a perfect funnel for avalanches. We were at the bottom of the funnel.
We stomped down a tent spot and surmised that being uphill and across the river from the granite slopes of Langille Peak were enough to keep us safe. There wasn’t much of a choice of where to find a safe camp. The canyon walls formed a perfect funnel for avalanches. We were at the bottom of the funnel.
During the night, we would wake up and hold our breath as avalanches roared down the canyon walls.
In the morning, just as it was getting light, I asked Jim for a weather check. He unzipped the tent door a bit and said it was still snowing. As I was slipping back to sleep, a huge roar came barreling toward us. We could hear tree limbs snapping off as an avalanche thundered uphill toward our tent. Snow hit the tent and encased us in a white and yellow tomb. We carefully unzipped the tent and brushed the snow away from the entrance. We made our way out into the still snowing daylight. We pulled the crushed tent out of the debris. We are at the very end of the avalanche. One hundred feet toward the river, and we may not have emerged. As the snow was sure to keep piling up, we skied back down to the ranger cabin we had passed and broke into comfort and safety. A day later, the snow ended, and we broke trail to Muir pass and the stone hut at the top of the pass. It was cold inside, but we were out of the wind, and we could sleep on the frigid benches inside. The massive Wanda Lake and the curving Evolution Valley swept down the San Joaquin River headwaters. We had a day and a half of food left. The high peaks of the crest didn’t crowd in on the valley, and I no longer felt hemmed in or that I was skiing in what could be a dangerous place. We were descending to the south fork of the San Joaquin and making another turn north to reach Blaney Meadows and our food cache. At the low elevations along the river, we found exposed sun-warmed granite boulders. It felt luxurious to take our boots off and warm our feet on the granite. The warmth made me realise that I’d been cold for two weeks.
We eventually skied into a grove of aspens. Many of the tree trunks were carved with old sheepherder porn from the turn of the century and more modern petroglyphs. I would have thought more about the human need to imprint the earth with our passing, but we had a bouillon cube and a tea bag left for food. At the Diamond D dude ranch, our food was intact in the 55-gallon drum where it was stored. We ate until it hurt. There is a hot springs at the ranch, and we luxuriated in the hot water, washed our clothes, and waterproofed our boots.
At Silver Pass we could see the Minarets, Mount Ritter, and Banner Peak. The peaks and place where I made one of my first backpack trips as a teenager. We camped a short way down the north side of the pass. A strong morning wind in a cloudless sky flattened the tent and seemed to want to break the tent poles.
The stay at the Diamond D recharged our bodies. The characteristics of low elevation forest and open streams put a mellower tone on the travel. For a time, there was no high elevation passes to cross only tree branches to avoid. We started to see imprints of the trail in the settling snow. Five to six foot pinwheels of snow rolled down the Vermillion Cliffs. At Silver Pass we could see the Minarets, Mount Ritter, and Banner Peak. The peaks and place where I made one of my first backpack trips as a teenager. We camped a short way down the north side of the pass. A strong morning wind in a cloudless sky flattened the tent and seemed to want to break the tent poles. We stuffed our belongings, making sure nothing blew away, and high tailed it to down to the shelter of Tully Hole on the Fish Creek fork of the San Joaquin River. Another storm settled in as we made it to a Purple Lake. Lucky, we found a sheltered spot to make camp. We were less than a day to our next food cache at Reds Meadow, and I could relax, read, and revel in the stormy weather. I got out of the tent during the storm to ski around in the soft snowfall light. The world of white snow, brilliant sunlight, and sharp shadows was tempered into a lower contrast and muted contrast. This was the first time that this type of lighting got me to see how a subject changed with the light. The window of my response to the world opened.
We continued onto Reds Meadow, where our food was in an upside down trash dumpster. We dug down to our food, and set up the tent next to the nearby hot springs. No one was there. No ski tracks. No snowmobile tracks. Just over the hill was the town of Mammoth Lakes. Still in the stages of being a funky unplanned resort where someone could live in a Teepee, do summer of construction work, scarf food from dumpsters, ski all winter, and be homeless when that was something cool.
We camped at Thousand Island Lake and had a gentle ski to Donahue Pass. Standing on top of Donahue, the long, gently curving Lyell Canyon flowed west to Tuolumne Meadows.
In this familiar territory, we skied along San Joaquin Ridge with the Minarets and Lyell Range to gauge our progress. The snow on the dark rock of the peaks etched every detail in this scene. We camped at Thousand Island Lake and had a gentle ski to Donahue Pass. Standing on top of Donahue, the long, gently curving Lyell Canyon flowed west to Tuolumne Meadows. The Meadows, as they were known, had become my physical and spiritual home. I’d spent the past three summers rock climbing there with Tom, Alan, Vern, Nick, and Bruce. For me, every part of being in Tuolumne was perfect. There was the carefree life of rock-climbing on the most beautiful granite. Walls of golden glacial polish, and streaks of dark feldspar crystals made the climbing varied and intricate. Climbing puzzles to solve. The parking lot at the Grill served as a natural gathering post for the climbing denizens. Early morning sun and the last rays of the setting sun blessed climber’s battered vehicles. I drank endless cups of coffee in the Tuolumne Grill and rewarded myself with a cheeseburger after a day on the crags.
This was a life I would enjoy until the mid-1980s.
We made it to the park service Visitor Center turned winter shelter as the sun was setting. There was no one there. The next day Jim and I ate the remainder of the psychedelic mushrooms and did pack-free runs down Lembert dome. The skiing felt fast and free. The snow was staying on top of spring melt-freeze corn-snow. Back at the Visitor Center, a group had joined us. When they asked where we had come from, we laughed when we said, Mount Whitney. It felt weird to hear our voices conversing with other people. Talking about the trip made me feel the Muir Trail was the world for me and that the other stuff, day-to-day life, the oil embargo, and the coming of Ronald Reagan were a separate reality.
We skied through the Cathedral Range the next day. Traversing past Cathedral Peak, the peak where John Muir felt he was attending church, and I had climbed at least once a year since I was sixteen, the feeling that this adventure was about to end and what I was going to do in the short term crowded into my thoughts.
We camped one last night and the next day hiked down the Mist Trail to Happy Isles in Yosemite Valley.
The trip was over, but my range of life had just begun.
Extending for about 900 hectares, the pinewood of Classe (RA) is directly mentioned in Dante’s Divine Comedy (Purgatorio XXVIII, v20). The poet himself – who spent the last 19 years of his life in exile, dying in 1321 in the near city of Ravenna – is believed to have wandered into this forest. Despite the modifications that occurred in the area over the centuries, this remains one of the very few settings, among those mentioned by Dante, in which we are still given the opportunity to experience the original sense of the place as preserved in the poem.
The project originated as an attempt to create an evocative series of images which could guide the viewer along the paths of light unfolding within this dense and ancient forest (see more images on Pio's website). Since I did not want my photographs to be mere illustrations of those verses describing this wood, I instead focused on the journey that both Dante and the reader had already undertaken before reaching the Earthly Paradise. In fact, these verses of Purgatorio XXVIII are almost impossible to read without our mind immediately recalling the dark wood of Inferno, the other forest in which Dante finds himself at the very beginning of his journey. On the contrary, such inevitable comparison is the key element through which the intensity of light can now become so vividly depicted. Likewise, the series develops as a crescendo of light, slowly penetrating the forest to reveal its inner paths.
I remember feeling the need for a very rigorous visual approach that could at least mitigate the risk of otherwise being devoured by the inconceivable vastness of the subjects unfolding before me everywhere I could turn. I, therefore, soon decided to shoot the entire project on a 50mm equivalent lens, looking for those scenes in which the monumentality of this unique landscape could become more evident. Since I wanted the viewer to be able to move their eyes on the entire surface of each image, I always tried to focus on the hyperfocal distance – usually at f/8 – thus preserving readability to its fullest, even in the finest details.
To my great surprise, this appears to be the first photographic project on the topic. If, on the one hand, I did remember about this forest from school, what really made me step into this pinewood for the first time was the – very – strong determination with which my wife, the painter Anna Evdokimova, insisted that we visited it during our stay in Ravenna, where we had been invited to arrange an exhibition for Camera Work, in 2018. Back then, she had just read about the pinewood of Classe in an essay by the famous Russian poet Ol’ga Aleksandrovna Sedakova, one of the greatest contemporary authors and among the finest and most relevant critics and translators of Dante’s work. Although on that occasion we managed to spend there a few hours only, neither of us could stop thinking about that landscape.
From the very beginning, I had the opportunity to share my initial thoughts as well as the first photographs with Ol’ga Sedakova. She herself had visited the pinewood long before we met, and I was very reassured by the way she felt about both the idea of my project and the first few “visual notes” I was able to show her.
Just days later, while on our way back to Genoa, we got in contact with Ol’ga Sedakova’s assistant, Margarita Krimmel, who let us know that the poet right at that time happened to be working on her new book – which, among other themes, also covered the relationship between Dante and Ravenna – and was actually looking for a photograph of the pinewood to be included in her new publication. I cannot tell but feel that, in many ways, my project had somehow originated way before I even realised I would shoot it.
From the very beginning, I had the opportunity to share my initial thoughts as well as the first photographs with Ol’ga Sedakova. She herself had visited the pinewood long before we met, and I was very reassured by the way she felt about both the idea of my project and the first few “visual notes” I was able to show her. Meeting her and her assistant was of the uttermost importance for my series to develop in the way it did. Funnily enough, not only did Ol’ga Sedakova write a superb essay for my book La Divina Foresta Spessa e Viva, but she also very kindly allowed one of the photographs from the final series to be featured in the endpapers of her new publication, Mudrost’ Nadezhdy i Drugie Razgovory O Dante, which came out shortly after mine.
A second essential contribution, which instead focuses on the evolution of the landscaping features of the pinewood, was written by the Italian professor Giorgio Lazzari, among the most prolific and well-respected researchers in the field providing the reader with a context to understand the traits of this ancient forest better.
A second essential contribution, which instead focuses on the evolution of the landscaping features of the pinewood, was written by the Italian professor Giorgio Lazzari, among the most prolific and well-respected researchers in the field providing the reader with a context to understand the traits of this ancient forest better.
Since Dante is supposed to have entered the Earthly Paradise in the early morning of a Spring day (either on the 30th of March or on the 13th of April, 1300), I needed to photograph the pinewood in a similar period of the year. For the same reason, I managed to have the book printed in March (in Florence, Dante’s hometown, by La Progressiva) and then published it in April 2021.
In the same year, the project became part of the official programme for the Seventh Centenary of Dante Alighieri’s Death, with the Municipality of Ravenna contributing to publishing the first edition of the book and hosting a 3-week solo exhibition.
1 Vago già di cercar dentro e dintorno
2 la divina foresta spessa e viva,
3 ch’a li occhi temperava il novo giorno,
[...]
19 tal qual di ramo in ramo si raccoglie
20 per la pineta in su ’l lito di Chiassi,
21 quand’ Ëolo scilocco fuor discioglie.
22 Già m’avean trasportato i lenti passi
23 dentro a la selva antica tanto, ch’io
24 non potea rivedere ond’ io mi ’ntrassi;
English (Mandelbaum)
1 Now keen to search within, to search around
2 that forest—dense, alive with green, divine—
3 which tempered the new day before my eyes,
[...]
19 just like the wind that sounds from branch to branch
20 along the shore of Classe, through the pines
21 when Aeolus has set Sirocco loose.
22 Now, though my steps were slow, I’d gone so far
23 into the ancient forest that I could
24 no longer see where I had made my entry;
English (Longfellow)
1 Eager already to search in and round
2 The heavenly forest, dense and living—green,
3 Which tempered to the eyes the new—born day,
[...]
19 Such as from branch to branch goes gathering on
20 Through the pine forest on the shore of Chiassi,
21 When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco.
22 Already my slow steps had carried me
23 Into the ancient wood so far, that I
24 Could not perceive where I had entered it
Although he is not particularly well known in the UK, Craig Potton is pretty much a household name in New Zealand. His publishing company produces the most beautiful books and calendars with a focus on New Zealand’s wild places. I first came across his work when I borrowed one of his flagship titles from Wellington Library, having just moved to New Zealand in 2005.
It was called ‘Classic Walks of New Zealand’ and was a collection of intimately illustrated essay guides to nine famous backcountry ‘tramping’ routes (‘tramping’ being the term for multi-day hiking in New Zealand).
In this issue, we talk to photographic artist Gin Rimmington Jones about her striking portfolio of work that draws upon a deep personal connection to stones.
Gin has been drawn from the outset to working in series. She talks eloquently about why stones resonate for her and recur in her work. Onlookers may think in terms of subject, but for Gin, process and time are key considerations.
For Gin, the family’s camera was a precious thing, but the memory of it stayed with her and later on, she found a freedom with digital photography to follow her curiosity with the added benefit of instant feedback.
It’s easy to think that by not starting sooner or becoming more serious about our passion earlier on, we have missed out. What we rarely appreciate at the time is that we bring to our work both our early interests and our life experience, and it is enriched as a result. Photography allows us to both lose ourselves and find ourselves, and time is part of that process too.
Slipping Worlds, 4
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself - where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what that led you to study and do?
I grew up on a farm in a small village in SE England, so from an early age, I was aware of the rhythms and cycles of the natural world almost by osmosis. Being a tenant farmer and making a living from the land was very hard for my father, it was an uncertain, precarious existence. Each farming year success or failure balanced on the dictates of the unpredictable weather systems and the demands of commerce.
This undercurrent of tension threaded through my childhood, but on the surface, there was the joy of the outside world, which was my playground, where I learnt to respect the forces that shape the earth.
This undercurrent of tension threaded through my childhood, but on the surface, there was the joy of the outside world, which was my playground, where I learnt to respect the forces that shape the earth. My childhood was free and quite wild but very much anchored by my mother, who made sure we learnt about art, music and the classics as well as the flora and fauna that surrounded us. She was a wonderful storyteller and could bring to life Greek mythology for instance, which fascinated me and sparked my imagination.
I was into classical music and literature, reading widely outside the school curriculum, and I also played the piano and wrote poetry. I studied literature at university, but that didn’t work out, and after two years, I left to live in New York for a while.
Water hollows stone, wind scatters water, stone stops the wind. Water, wind, stone.
Wind carves stone, stone's a cup of water, water escapes and is wind. Stone, wind, water. Octavio Paz1
During the pandemic, it seems that many people – among them photographers - have discovered the nearby landscapes, or as João Ferrão2 wrote, "The pandemic has led everyone to explore the "backyards" of our lives, whether physical or metaphorical."
At the same time, many people are aware of the impact of climate change on our lives and on our planet Earth and try to facilitate both behavioural change and social engagement for the actions needed to reduce gas emissions and our ecological footprint. As a result, a growing number of people – among them photographers - have made the conscious decision to reduce their carbon footprints by avoiding air travel or flying less.
And no need to say that, as a consequence of the high number of existing conflicts and crisis situations in many places around the world with their consequences of enduring violence, struggles among communities and the growth of criminal violence, walking with a camera in some landscapes of the world, could be very dangerous.
The world is at a critical turning point, and travel could be any more – at least in the near future - an illuminating, life-enriching experience, as Joe Cornish wrote in his heartfelt and honest essay3.
This situation gives us the opportunity to be focused on the regional landscapes around where we live, exploring our physical backyards, although that can create new problems, such as restrictions or traffic congestion for visitors accessing the Nature Protected Areas,
The world is at a critical turning point, and travel could be any more – at least in the near future - an illuminating, life-enriching experience, as Joe Cornish wrote in his heartfelt and honest essay
overcrowding, problematic behaviour of new profile of visitors and conflicts among different user groups (cyclists against hikers, for example). Our culture, instead of solving the problems, just changes their location.
My local area
In a broad sense, the regional landscapes I usually explore are the landscapes of the German part of the Rhenish Massif, a massif which stretches from western Germany to Luxembourg and eastern Belgium and is drained centrally by the rivers Rhine and its tributaries Main and Moselle, between others.
The Rhenish Massif was formed approximately between 400 and 290 Ma during a period of large-scale crustal convergence, the collision of continental plates and subduction, known as Variscan orogeny, which there are still witnessed in Portugal, Spain, southwestern Ireland, England (Cornwall, Devon, Pembrokeshire), and in the Czech Republic and southwestern Poland.
These regional landscapes, an almost unbroken belt of forest, look, at first sight, like a featureless and eroded structure of plateaux with smooth, rounded peaks that hardly reach 900 m., cut by rivers and broken by deep narrow valleys.
To Plan or not to Plan, that is the Question
Many discussions and articles take place about that theme, and my conclusion is that it depends on every photographer and on the circumstances of every photographer...at every moment.
Reading topographic maps is my approach to the problem. For me, they are nowadays the best reading of the travel literature genre. I spread the map out on the table, and through the contour lines, I visualise the relief: mountains, valleys, slopes, rivers, lakes, ponds, the depths of the slops, the location of meadows and wetlands... At that very moment, photography becomes geography, and geography becomes photography, both sharing the same problem:
Thus we confront the central problem: any landscape is composed not only of what lies before our eyes but what lies within our heads.4
During these readings, instead of plans, what arise are the ideal landscapes and the ideal photos.
Some years ago, reading a map I saw the sinuous line of a river, on the south border of the Rhenish Massif, the Nahe river, a tributary of the Rhine. Between two meanders of the river the contour lines were drawn close together, very close, showing me that there it was steeper ground. Surely cliffs.
The Red Cliffs
The cliffs between the meanders of the Nahe river are the remains of a Rhyolite massif made up of intrusions and lava flows during a special active volcanic period after the Varizcan orogeny (290 - 260 Ma).
The valleys of the Nahe and its tributaries have been being formed since 2,6 million years ago as a result of the ground heaving of the surrounding mountains of Hunsrück and North Palatine Uplands. This led to strong erosion activities – as Paz wrote: Water hollows stone; Wind carves stone - and depending on the underground, narrow gorges with cliffy precipices arose in areas with hard volcanic rocks -as in the Red Cliffs - or wide gentle valleys with flood plains in areas with soft sedimentary deposits. The frequent change between both forms is charming along the Nahe river.
For four or five years, I've visited and walked around the cliffs - a wall of 1200m. long and 200 m. high – , bounded by a huge number of thermophile species which usually can only be found in the Mediterranean region. Being native to Mediterranean shores, I feel at home.
And every time I visit the cliffs, I remember the Octavio's Paz poem Wind, Water, Stone. The power of the words of the poem fascinated me. With a few verse lines, Paz shows us how the powers of nature sculpt, in an endless and constant play, the surface of our planet.
Doing the same with a few photos instead of words is my dream. But I know that's just a dream. Even with hundreds of photos, I couldn't.
My pictures are the endless attempts to capture the momentary and fragile beauty of these cliffs where some trees survive with an unstable balance over the crests and, in the evening, a pair of common kestrels fly with gentle and slow glides among the crags.
References
Octavio Paz. The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz, 1957-1987. Printed by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Sanatorium. On Landscape Issue 246. December 2021
A Question of Responsibility. On Landscape Issue 180. April 2019
Donald William Meinig. The Interpretation of Ordinary Landscapes: Geographical Essays. New York, 1979
Every landscape photographer and outdoor enthusiast has heard of the Grand Canyon in the United States and has probably seen countless images of it. It is widely known as the largest canyon in the world. But when you start asking people what the second largest canyon in the world is, it usually remains silent. Did you know that it is the Tara canyon in Montenegro, with a maximum depth of over 1300 metres? And can you name 5 other European canyons outside your own country (if you live in Europe)? I suspect not. And to be honest, a few years ago, I would not have been able to do this myself either.
Fresh green, spring in Bodetal, Germany
The unknown of European canyons was one of the main reasons for me to start a new book project on this subject a few years ago, besides my fascination for (the power of) flowing water, my interest in mountains, rocks and geology and my love for rough, unspoilt nature. But the unknown was the big trigger. Why are American canyons - not only the Grand Canyon but also, for example, Bryce Canyon, Antelope Canyon and many others - photographed to death, but do you rarely see a photo of a European canyon? Are there no canyons in Europe, or is it impossible to get there? Or are they just not that interesting and photogenic? Or are they just not on the radar of landscape photographers?
Meanwhile, my project is about halfway, and I would like to give an update.
We have all heard the advice before – “you really should specialise in some kind of photography if you want to stand out from the crowd.” Indeed, many of us in the nature and landscape photography space has taken that advice to heart, and some of us have even dove deeply into super-specialisation in night photography, coastal photography, intentional camera movement photography, woodland photography, or waterfall photography exclusively. After all, that’s a fantastic way to make a name for yourself – by being known as the [insert your sub-genre here] guy/gal. As such, it has been incredibly exciting and refreshing to get to know and appreciate the work of Viktoria Haack, who has chosen to specialise in being a generalist. As will be revealed, this conscious choice, while likely seen as unwise by most, has given Viktoria an edge as a photographer, not only in the creative output of her work but also in her ability to financially sustain herself as an artist. In many of Viktoria’s most well-known images, she seamlessly incorporates beautiful nature scenes and moments into her images, including lifestyle assignments, weddings, and portraiture. This cross-pollination has also given her landscape and nature work that does not incorporate the human element an edge because she has refined her compositional and conceptual chops through this generalist approach.
Abstractions of nature have not left the world of appearances; for to do so is to break the camera’s strongest point – it’s authenticity~Minor White
During the 2021 COVID lockdown, I produced a book of photographs of water called The Still Dynamic, in aid of the charity WaterAid, that seemed to be quite well received. At least the limited edition of 100 copies sold out quite quickly. While the PDF of The Still Dynamic is still available for download, I found I had enough images from walking through Mallerstang and Switzerland in the last year to produce another volume, this time called Panta Rhei1. Since it is for a good cause, I hope you will not mind this article to publicise the book.
Panta Rhei, translated as Everything Flows, is an aphorism that is often used as a short summary of the concepts of the Greek philosopher Heraclitus of Ephesus, who lived (approximately) from 535 to 475 BCE2. Little is known about his life and since all of Heraclitus’ writings were lost, apart from a few fragments, it is not clear that Heraclitus actually used the phrase himself (it has been implied from the later interpretations in Plato’s Cratylus and Simplicius of Cicilia)3. One of those fragments, however, expresses the same idea as You cannot step twice into the same stream. As a hydrologist, I am very aware of this aspect of my subject. Rivers persist, but their characteristics change over a range of time scales, from the single rainfall event to their geomorphological history, and the water in them is forever being renewed.
River Eden at Stenkrith
From the fragments that do survive, and more so from later writings about Hercalitus, it seems that he was more concerned with fire as a (perhaps metaphorical) driving agent for change than water. He was, however, one of the first philosophers to address the issue of process dynamics and to give process the role of an explanatory feature of nature rather than as something to be explained4.
From the fragments that do survive, and more so from later writings about Hercalitus, it seems that he was more concerned with fire as a (perhaps metaphorical) driving agent for change than water.
He also gave some insight into the way in which process dynamics can lead to order and was the first to distinguish between dynamic change and dynamic permanence, such as in the waveforms and eddies we see in rivers. Constantly changing but with a recurring form.
As a hydrologist, Panta Rhei is also a homage to the International Association of Hydrological Sciences (IAHS), which celebrates its centenary this year. IAHS has used Panta Rhei as the motto for a decade long initiative with the aim of encouraging research on the interaction between water and society5. There is no doubt that anthropogenic effects on the hydrological cycle in many parts of the world are having an increasing impact, both directly through the exploitation of water resources for industry, agriculture and hydropower and indirectly through climate change. It is not that change has not been long recognised in hydrology, but that the societal impacts are still not sufficiently understood. This includes the impacts on the hydrological extremes of floods and droughts and the feedback of those extremes on vulnerable societies. The pollution of waters and its impact on biodiversity is also an important issue in many places. Water security, in terms of both quantity and quality, is becoming a critical issue in many parts of the world, including the potential for cross-frontier disputes between nations.
The collection of images of water in Panta Rhei does not deal directly with these larger aspects of change. It rather tries to address the challenge posed by water to the photographer. Everything Flows but to the photographer, that also creates a fundamental difficulty in representing such change in a still image. I discussed this in a couple of previous articles for On Landscape6. It is a challenge to capture the fleeting changes of light and flow in a way that still implies the nature of a flow in a way that is indeed still dynamic. As a hydrologist, of course, I should have some understanding of the way in which water flows through the landscape, but such knowledge is necessarily approximate and uncertain since many of those pathways are hidden beneath the surface, and where the water is visible in streams and rivers, the patterns of flow are often highly complex in response to the detail of the boundary conditions of the flow. This is something that has proven attractive to film makers for a long time. The Dutch film maker Bert Haanstra (1916-1997) directed a monochrome film called Panta Rhei in 1952 (that can be found on YouTube7) that used a variety of techniques, including time lapse photography, to illustrate the change of water in the forms of clouds, drops, streams, and waves, and the light reflecting from water surfaces.
The collection of images of water in Panta Rhei does not deal directly with these larger aspects of change. It rather tries to address the challenge posed by water to the photographer. Everything Flows but to the photographer, that also creates a fundamental difficulty in representing such change in a still image.
River Eden at Shoregill, Mallerstang
Still photography has to stop the motion (or integrate that motion over the time scale of a longer exposure). This would appear to be a disadvantage but also provides some useful possibilities. The first is that the stilled motion can be explored in all its complexity and detail, at the viewer’s leisure, in a way that the eye cannot either in nature or in video – the movements are just too fast to follow. The second is that creative techniques, smoothing the flow lines or recording the light trails of reflected light on the surface, can be used to represent the nature of the motion in ways that are lost to the eye in real time. These can be seen in the images below.
Another aspect of the Heraclitus fragment, and its later use by Plato and others implies more than the nature of change in nature. It implies that we are always changing as well. A second fragment states: "We get into the same river and yet not into the same river, we are and we are not [the same]." In terms of my photographic practice, it has certainly changed over time: as a result of gaining experience; of spending time with different streams with different characteristics; of changing light when returning to the same stream; of changing from film to ever better digital cameras, though some of the images in Panta Rhei were still taken on film.
In fact, I have now taken many thousands of images of water in its different forms but capturing images I am really satisfied with remains a challenge. It perhaps helps in using digital cameras to be able to see what has been captured on the spot, but I still find that many do not turn out as pre-visualised while other images are unexpectedly magical when viewed on screen or as prints. I would at least like to think that I have got better at choosing when to press the shutter over the years but, even then, the rapidly changing nature of the flow also means that multiple images taken in succession can be more or less successful in terms of the patterns of light traces or the splash and bubble tracks that are produced on the film or sensor. In general, the images are underexposed with minimal post-processing (usually only raising the shadows and increasing the contrast.
Reflections, Sarine at Hauterive
Taking a photograph involves making a selection from nature. Most of the images I have included in the book are selections of only a small part of nature, creating found abstractions8. I generally choose to take photographs of small selections because it is easier to find a satisfying balance of elements. Interestingly, with the cameras I have, I mostly cannot get too close, so the images are mostly no smaller than a bit less than 1m square……but perhaps this is the smallest scale that can be considered as landscape, in that it must include a number of interacting elements of form in a semi-abstract way.
But, of course, those imperfections are also part of the nature of a place; anything that appears perfect is also unrepresentative. This is what gives rise to the tension of the choice - what the Japanese call Wabi Sabi, seeking the perfection of transience and imperfections.
Even at that scale, it is difficult to find perfection in all the elements because of the random nature of things not being in quite the right place or not being able to view from the right direction. But, of course, those imperfections are also part of the nature of a place; anything that appears perfect is also unrepresentative. This is what gives rise to the tension of the choice - what the Japanese call Wabi Sabi, seeking the perfection of transience and imperfections. To frame an image, I am seeking something that is well balanced in form and colour, even if complex in structure and textures. Making semi-abstract and minimalist images is perhaps a way of finding satisfaction more easily, avoiding things for the eye to seize on and critique. In that way we can just enjoy an abstract image as a selection from the wonder of nature. I hope you might enjoy the images in Panta Rhei. Others may be seen at www.mallerstangmagic.co.uk where the book may be ordered in hard copy or pdf.
For the past six and half years, I have made the majority of my income from photography, and the majority of this income has been from print sales.
I live in west Wales, right at the point where the three counties of Ceredigion, Carmarthenshire and Pembrokeshire meet; the “old” Dyfed. It’s a beautiful area, and I have never felt the need to drive more than an hour for my landscape photography, save for the odd trip to Blaenau Ffestiniog (which I love) and London.
Aberystwyth
I sell my landscape prints through a couple of art and craft cooperatives which have permanent galleries, sale or return in a large number of seasonal and permanent outlets, and with four craft groups of which I am a member where, from Easter to October, we rent suitable premises from a few days to 5 months and divide the stewarding duties.
To be perfectly honest, I have come not to like many of the images that sell the best, and they’d certainly end up nowhere near my wall, and conversely, the images that I do really like, sell modestly or, in some cases, not at all!
My market is unashamedly largely the tourist one, most of whom would like to buy a memento of a beach or other place that they have visited on their holiday. I am under no illusions about these images being works of art. They are ephemeral gifts for the purchaser themselves or whoever has watered the tomatoes in their absence. I am sure that they go on the wall for 3 or 4 years, before being thrown away to be replaced by something else. And that’s fine.
To be perfectly honest, I have come not to like many of the images that sell the best, and they’d certainly end up nowhere near my wall, and conversely, the images that I do really like, sell modestly or, in some cases, not at all!
I have, though, really enjoyed the process of building up a portfolio of these saleable images, of learning about the landscape where I live, learning to understand how weather, tide and light can combine in different places to produce pleasing results. I have enjoyed (re)learning how to use a camera in a variety of situations and to take control of the controllables to get the images that I want. I have enjoyed learning how to use software to process the RAW files to give a finished photo that looks the way that I want it to but retains an integrity to what I witnessed. The whole thing has been fun!
Cenarth
Henllan
The thing is, though, after more than six years of doing this, it is no longer a challenge. It has got to the stage that if I feel the need to add another pretty picture to my portfolio of images that tourists are willing to buy, I can have a look at a few apps, choose my location appropriately, and be reasonably confident that I can pop along, and get the outcome that I want. It’s not that I hate or resent doing this. To a point, I still enjoy it, it’s just that it no longer really satisfies me: it isn’t enough.
Over the last year or so, whenever I have gone out with a camera, it has increasingly been for me; to do what I want to do, to learn new stuff, rather than to add another photo of an obvious location to my portfolio (although commercially, I do have to do a bit of this). I have become much more interested in the details of a place rather than the wider view. The small things that would often have gone unnoticed are increasingly fascinating to me, and I have a strong desire to record them but do so in a way that is very visually appealing. I suppose that, conventionally, a landscape photographer photographs a view or a scene with the intent of showing the viewer what he or she would have seen had they been stood next to the photographer. I am becoming much more interested in showing the viewer stuff that they probably wouldn’t have seen had they been stood next to the photographer, but stuff which can be really interesting and/or beautiful. For me, it’s about going beyond the obvious and really trying to get under the skin of a place.
I have become much more interested in the details of a place rather than the wider view. The small things that would often have gone unnoticed are increasingly fascinating to me, and I have a strong desire to record them but do so in a way that is very visually appealing. I suppose that, conventionally, a landscape photographer photographs a view or a scene with the intent of showing the viewer what he or she would have seen had they been stood next to the photographer.
Llansteffan
What I didn’t expect is just how hard this is! To be perfectly honest, in the past, I’d looked at the work of photographers like David Ward and not really got it. I couldn’t see the point, and anyway, the photographs just looked a bit like snaps of random objects to me that pretty much anyone who knows how to use a camera could do (sorry David!). I am very happy to say, here and now, I could not have been more wrong, and by actually becoming firstly interested in it, and then by trying to actually do it, I have come to realise it is very, very difficult to do, even vaguely competently, let alone superbly well. It is much, much, much harder, in my opinion than photographing the wider scene. And, I don’t think that it is just because I am relatively new to it, either. I do think that it is, inherently, a harder or more challenging approach to get “right”.
There are a couple of reasons for this, I think. Firstly, the approach to looking at the details of a place is completely different to the photographing of the wider view, for me at least. When I do go out to get an image of a wider view to put out for sale, I usually have a very clear idea in my head of what it is I want to photograph. Not just the place, but more or less the exact composition. I will check the tide apps, the weather apps and The Photographer’s Ephemeris and go to the right place at the right time. I am successful more often than not, and failure is usually down to the weather not doing what it was supposed to do.
When I go out to take the sort of photographs for me that I’ve described, I pay little or no attention to weather, tide or light. I pick a day and a place, I take a camera, two lenses and a tripod, and I go for a wander. I do everything I can to absolutely not try to preconceive any kind of image or prejudge what I might find. This is difficult because you not only have to look really hard, but you also have to learn to see in very new and exciting ways. So, I’ll be wandering along, and usually, I see nothing at all. After a while, I usually see something that might be a photograph. I think it just takes a bit of time to get in to the mindset of looking hard and seeing differently.
Marloes
Once I’ve found something that might be a photograph, the real work starts. And it’s here I think that the second reason for this being such a challenge rears its head. It’s a truism that photography is the opposite of painting: the painter starts with a blank canvas and paints in what s/he wants or sees. The photographer starts with all of reality in front of him or her and has to edit this down until there is a photograph that says what he or she wants it to say. When photographing the wider scene, I just think that this is, by definition, a less complicated process. When looking at the intimate, millimetres matter!
So, having found something that might be a photograph, I usually spend quite some time just looking at it, walking round it and really studying it hard, with the camera still in the bag. This can very easily take half an hour.
The concentration and attention to detail that this takes is way beyond what, I at least, use when photographing a wider view. The thing is that it doesn't seem like an hour; it’s only if I look at my watch afterwards that I realise. There have been occasions when I’ve spent the whole day in an area no bigger, and often a lot smaller, than a football pitch and made maybe 3 or 4 images if I’m lucky.
Quite often, I then decide that it isn’t a photograph. At least not today, and I walk on. If I think that there is a photograph, then up goes the tripod, and out comes the camera. The tripod is raised, lowered and repositioned numerous times. Then even more micro adjustments take place (incidentally, I think I’d find this impossible without a geared head and an L bracket: the two best bits of photography kit that I have invested in). And it’s only then that I truly know if I want to make a photograph of that thing on that day. The whole process can easily take an hour and might result in nothing.
The concentration and attention to detail that this takes is way beyond what, I at least, use when photographing a wider view. The thing is that it doesn't seem like an hour; it’s only if I look at my watch afterwards that I realise. There have been occasions when I’ve spent the whole day in an area no bigger, and often a lot smaller, than a football pitch and made maybe 3 or 4 images if I’m lucky. I may have walked far less than a mile, but I am exhausted (but sometimes exhilarated) too! It’s the mental rather than the physical exertion that is the hard part.
In a former life, I knew a hypnotherapist very well. I was extremely sceptical about the whole process. That was until I said, “Go on then, Tim, put me under!”. Without going into unnecessary detail here, it was a profound experience that, 16 years on, I still remember vividly. What Tim also taught me was some self hypnosis techniques, and it is these that I employ when I’m out with a camera. One of the things that he used to say to me frequently was, “It’s when you focus your attention on your intention that you can achieve great things”. My intention is to make an interesting and hopefully appealing photograph, and all of my attention becomes focused on this to the point where hours pass and seem like minutes. Although I am not claiming that my photographs are great!
Mwnt
Tresaith
One thing has been bugging me, though: what to “do” with this new (to me) approach. A conversation with Rachael Talibart gave me the answer. Using Blurb, I have turned them into a project and a book, just for me, really.
I visited nine locations that I know intimately well, within an hours drive of home. For each of the locations, I photographed an obvious, wider view that went on the left hand page of the two pages in the book allocated to that location. Then, within that view the challenge was to find four more intimate photographs of the “unseen” that would be both interesting and hopefully appealing, to go on the right hand page opposite the wider view. And, believe me, it was a real challenge, but one that I loved and consumed me for months. The idea is to use the more obvious wider view as the hook to hopefully attract the viewer’s attention and then more or less force them to consider photographs that otherwise they would possibly have only glanced at or not even looked at at all.
Porthgain
I don’t know if I have succeeded or not, but it has given my love of this approach to photography a purpose, and it has helped me to focus my attention on my intention. It has also led me to really think about what it is that I want to achieve with my photography, beyond taking pretty pictures for the tourist market.
I don’t know exactly how these will evolve, or even if they will all come to fruition, but what I do know is that this approach is, at the same time, both hugely liberating and exciting for me and really forcing me to continually question why I am doing what I am doing
A fairly local photographer to me, who I know well, and who is, in my opinion, a genius photographer, is Chris Tancock. Chris sees very little value in the single image, and now only works in large bodies of photographs to create a narrative. He likens the single photograph to a sentence in a novel: it might be a beautiful sentence but, on its own, has little meaning. So, I now have 3 or 4 ideas for projects, using the approach that I have outlined, where I intend to use many photographs, sequenced and working together, to try to tell a story.
I don’t know exactly how these will evolve, or even if they will all come to fruition, but what I do know is that this approach is, at the same time, both hugely liberating and exciting for me and really forcing me to continually question why I am doing what I am doing. The why of photography is so much more important than the how or the what!
Have you got a project that you would like to write an article about? Or perhaps a photography trip that you have been on and would like to share an article about the images? Get in touch as we are always looking for submissions.
Although we don’t typically equate fine art landscape photography with documentary imagery when you think about it, that is precisely what landscape imagery boils down to. Occasionally a series of images are created in order that they might capture a landscape before it is changed forever by mankind’s insatiable needs. Such is the case with the work of Eliot Porter. A collection of 80 images was first published in 1963 under the title “The Place No One Knew - Glen Canyon on the Colorado” as part of the Sierra Club’s Exhibit Format Series. This was not Eliot’s first foray into documenting the Southwest before it disappeared from view. However, this specific book and its images had a very strong influence on how I saw the land and photography in my youth.
Glen Canyon was formed by the Colorado River beginning in Southern Utah and crossing the border into Northeastern Arizona prior to the Grand Canyon. In the 1950’s it was determined that Hoover Dam in Nevada could not provide for the electrical and water needs of the area, and studies began to create a larger dam somewhere along the Colorado. Glen Canyon Dam began construction in 1956 and was controversial from the beginning. In fact, it has been credited for establishing much of the modern environmentalist movement. Creating a dam project also requires creating a lake where none was present before. At that time, The Bureau For Reclamation saw the value of the water and electricity along with recreation as being far more important than the beauty of the Canyon and the archaeological importance of the area to Native culture and history. The 710 foot high dam was built between 1956 and 1966, with Lake Powell filling to capacity in 1980. I grew up in Arizona in the 60’s and 70’s, making many trips to Northern Arizona with my Grandparents and remember seeing the dam’s waters change the landscape.
Alongside the exhibition by Joe Cornish and Simon Baxter detailed elsewhere in this issue, the two photographers also collaborated on a book to work alongside it (and as a showcase for those unable to visit the exhibition). Designed and printed very quickly, the book follows the structure shown in our recent article but with a few extra chapters and many more photographs.
Although Joe and Simon are working in the same area and on approximately the same timescale, the differences in their images are still very clear. Joe’s exquisite attention to compositional detail and eye for serendipitous associations is clearly present in most of his images. And Simon’s natural graphic design recognition of broad shape and structure and his love of the natural beauty of the woodland locations is clearly on display here as well. Browsing through this showcase book is a good way of clearly demonstrating how two ‘mature’* photographers bring so much of their identity to their work.
Many exhibitions are, in the grand scheme of things, relatively transient affairs. In a national sense, they are often difficult to access and, inevitably, only a subsection of a photographic community (never mind the population at large) gets to access the results. Although it is absolutely true that seeing a photograph in person, printed, framed and illuminated well, is still the very best way of appreciating a photographer's work; being able to see that work arranged in a well-printed book is still infinitely better than browsing through a slide show on a website. The cost of printing a book is still a major investment, and as such, I applaud Joe and Simon for their commitment to creating something permanent from their joint project.
I would highly recommend buying a copy of this book as a great showcase of what woodland photography can be.
Welcome to our 4x4 feature, which is a set of four mini landscape photography portfolios which has been submitted for publishing. Each portfolio consists of four images related in some way.
Winter offers a series of photographic opportunities that are extremely specific in comparison to other seasons. Abstract, simple, graphic images are the ones that attract me the most during winter photography, as the textures, shapes, light and tones nature offers to make for an exquisite subject in terms of visual characteristics.
This set of images is an excellent example of the diversity snow presents in an abstract photographic approach, each with a different visual geometry and distinct feel concerning the nature and direction of light, yet keeping the unity of the ensemble in terms of the sensation they give of cold, frozen, almost mystical fragments of nature.
I've been travelling the coasts of Brittany for years looking for the most beautiful places, and that's not what I miss. Brittany is a fantastic playground for landscape photographers. However, the particularity of the Emerald Coast, where I live, (the extreme north-east of Brittany) is to offer many wild, jagged coasts, often with a lot of relief. All that I love! Just be there at the right time, with a colourful and cloudy sky!
It should be noted that the climate can change quickly and the rain never lasts long. So don't give up too quickly.
The pictures presented were taken at the end of 2018 with a Nikon D800 or D810. The lenses used were Nikkor 16-35 f/4 (often), 24-120 f/4 (sometimes) and 80-400 f/4.5-5.6 (rarely). Since 2019, I have been using a Nikon Z7. The lenses used until the end of 2021 were: Z 14-30mm f/4 S-Line, Z 24-70mm f/4 S-Line and AF-S 70-200mm f/4 ED VR + FTZ. Since 2022, I now use Z 14-24mm f/2.8 S-Line, Z 24-120mm f/4 S-Line and Z 100-400mm f/4.5-5.6 S-Line.
I almost always use a tripod (Really Right Stuff TVC-33 + BH-55 or for travelling, a Gitzo traveler 2545 + 1382QD). The use of ND, GND and Polarizing filters (Lee Filters until 2020 and Nisi Filters since 2021) allows me to spend less time in post-processing. For transport, I use an fStop backpack from the Mountain series.
Post-processing and archiving are done with 3 software (DxO PhotoLab, Adobe Lightroom Classic and Adobe Photoshop CC on Mac). Calibration is done by X-Rite and printing by Canon (imagePROGRAF PRO-1000) mainly on Canson Infinity paper. Finally, my website is made and hosted by Smugmug (Perfect interaction with Lightroom).
For most of the history of Texas, surface water has been rare. However, huge underground aquifers cover 80% of the state. Windmills drive the pumps that bring the water up for the crops and the cattle.
The windmills you see today look a lot like they did 150 years ago, and they're as much a part of the landscape as prickly pear cactus and barbed-wire fences. These four are in four different parts of Texas: South Texas, Hill Country, The Panhandle, and Big Bend Country.
I have always loved the sea; having lived near the sea most of my life and being a keen deep-sea and rock and surf angler, the shoreline is my happy place.
I love the light at the coast, it is always different and generally unpolluted. I love cloudy skies; the cloudier, the better.
A Photographers Paradise was shot where I live in Sedgefield on the East coast, 450 km from Cape Town. The river mouth is 10 minutes drive from my home and looks west into the sunset, so it is always back / side lit at sunset. I had finished shooting my sunset and was about to pack my camera away when the Heron Bird flew into the shot and landed exactly where I would have placed it and stayed there for a few minutes. Shot on Canon 5DsR.
Drift Wood at Stormy Sunset was shot at Buffels Bay, about 20 minutes from my home. Shot on my Hasselblad H4D40 as the wave receded with a 0.7 second exposure to capture movement in the waves. I placed my tripod in the wet sand with their Manfrotto Snow Shoes attached, which are so useful when shooting so near the water.
Harbour Wall was shot at Velddrif, Port Owen on the West Coast, 150km from Cape Town. I shot it at sunset on my Canon 5dmk2 with a 2 minute exposure (thanks Lee Big Stopper) to smooth the sea and streak the clouds back-lit.
Moonset at Robberg was shot at Robberg Nature Reserve, Plettenberg Bay, 100 km away from my home. I planned the shoot many months before as I had to book the single shack inside the reserve to stay overnight to be able to get to the location before sunrise. I shot it at the full moon as it was setting and the sun was coming up behind me. Fortunately, the weather played ball as I needed a clear sky (for a change). Shot on my Canon 5DsR.
The object of art is not to make salable pictures. It is to save yourself. . . . The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor. The point of being an artist is that you may live.~Sherwood Anderson, in a letter to his son
What is the purpose of art? Why do we invest so much time and effort making, experiencing, attempting to define, and arguing about art? These questions suggest that art has some sort of value that justifies what Albert Camus described as, “the ordeal it [art] demands of a man and the opportunity it provides him of overcoming his phantoms.” What, then, is the value of art? How does art deliver this value?
If we can characterise what the value of art is, we can then presumably use this characterisation to rank some types or some works of art as more valuable than others.
Aesthetics is the branch of philosophy concerned with beauty and taste and, by extension, art. Like anything having the distinction of being a branch of philosophy, aesthetics is a broad and complex subject
In philosophical terms, what we need in order to answer the questions in the previous paragraph is a normative theory of art—a theory that assigns and distinguishes among different arts and works of art based on value.
Aesthetics is the branch of philosophy concerned with beauty and taste and, by extension, art. Like anything having the distinction of being a branch of philosophy, aesthetics is a broad and complex subject. Philosophers who have offered normative aesthetic theories suggested different ways in which art can be valuable. For example, art may have hedonic value (by giving pleasure); it may have aesthetic value (by being beautiful); it may have expressive value (by conveying or arousing emotions), or it may have cognitive value (by contributing to knowledge and/or understanding).
With these types of value in mind, we can now consider such things as whether some types of value are more venerable or desirable than others. For example, is art whose value is only hedonic less valuable than art that is (or also is) expressive of powerful emotions? Is expressive art that imparts an obvious emotion less valuable than art that has profound cognitive value—art that enriches the viewer’s (or artist’s) understanding of the world?
In this third and final part about the Impressionists, I will explore their working mentality and their thoughts about schools, masters and mentors, and see how it compares with today’s photography. (Read the first article: Past masters and expressive photography - The Impressionists - Part I and Part II).
Working Mentality
Paul Cézanne, Camille Pissarro, Henri Matisse and Paul Gauguin, along with fellow impressionists, had the same approach to work. They conceived it as an obsessive, single-minded pursuit.
Paula’s work and life have taken her from graphic design in London to portraiture and fashion/studio photography in Charlotte, North Carolina. In the last couple of years, she has been experimenting with alternative photographic processes. The latter, most notably cyanotypes, have become popular recently. As digital photography becomes more controllable, perhaps it’s inevitable that there will be a desire by some to bring physical craft and chance back into the medium. I came across Paula’s work on Instagram and thought it would be good to find out more about both her background and the variety of different experimental processes she has been working with. It’s been a particularly busy period for her, with two of her watergrams - Skimming Stones and Our World - selected for exhibition in the 2022 Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, what your early interests were, and what that led you to do?
I was born in Cambridgeshire, England, in 1965 and moved to Edinburgh, Scotland, when I was three. My father, who was a fighter pilot, had been killed in a plane crash, and my mother was forced to move off the air base with three young children and chose to live near her sister. Edinburgh was a wonderful place to grow up because it is a small city steeped in history and culture, and the surrounding area is incredibly scenic and accessible, though I am sure I should have appreciated it more at the time. I was never very good at drawing or painting, so I found an expressive outlet in photography and the darkroom; we had a very good art department and a fabulous photography teacher who always encouraged me. She suggested I apply to art college, and I ended up specialising in graphic design for the next four years. You could say I just “fell” into the discipline because it was new and exciting, and I wanted to do something different.
My college years were both practical and vocational with a lot of skills-based workshops as it was before computers were around to create type, move an image, manipulate it, or change proportions; it was the era of typesetting, Letraset, and cut and paste collage, and if you made an error you had to start over. Photo manipulation was all done manually, which was often laborious and time consuming – correcting exposures, dodging and burning, cropping images in the enlarger, and superimposing negatives. Films and prints were developed and printed manually, and the alchemic process was deeply satisfying. I enjoyed the peace and solitude of the darkroom, which requires focus and patience, a lot of trial and error, and quick decision making; it felt experimental, self-expressive and involved - both mentally and physically. Looking back, it was great training for the hands-on work I am engaged in today.
The Navajo Nation is a Native American territory covering about 17,544,500 acres, occupying portions of northeastern Arizona, northwestern New Mexico and a smaller portion covering southeastern Utah, in the United States. This is the largest land area retained by a Native American tribe in the United States and is managed by the Navajo people through agreements with the United States Congress.
Colleen and I heard of these two slot canyons at the turn of the century and made tour arrangements in 2007 making our images in two trips on March 18th and September 24th.
We travelled from our Salt Lake City, Utah, home to Page, Arizona, where we stayed prior to reporting to the parking lot on the northern edge of the Navajo Nation where tours began. The ride in open topped tour buses through the sand desert was bouncy and dusty. The approach to the canyons was modestly unassuming, with sandstone bluffs rising from the desert floor.
Wayne Bingham
Colleen Smith
We were carrying Nikon D200 cameras with 18-200mm lenses and were allowed to bring tripods into the light filled canyons. Images were later developed using Adobe Lightroom software. The mystical, narrow, and sensuous carved walls of red sandstone were from 30 to 50 feet high. The sand path we walked on is raised and lowered by the movement of flash flood waters that rush through heavy rainfall and have created the canyons. Awestruck and blown away are understatements for the spiritual experiences of leaving the brightness of the desert and entering the vertical walls with soft reflected light.
Make images horizontal or vertical? Yes, with the most successful being vertical, catching the cascading light from the opening slot above to the sand floor. If we inadvertently admitted the sky into the frame, it was such a contrast to the reflected light of sandstone that the sky exceeded the dynamic range of our cameras and became pure white. So, we excluded the sky from our images finding more than enough interest in the sinuous walls and the floor. Capturing the sand floor had its own challenges. There were few enough other individuals there so that we were able to miss most tripod legs and people standing where the images waited for us. So, we composed and waited. We used small apertures that allowed the cameras to adjust for capture time. During the short time, we were allowed inside the canyons the major challenge was moving through the circuitous ways, finding another compelling composition, and moving to another position.
We used small apertures that allowed the cameras to adjust for capture time. During the short time, we were allowed inside the canyons the major challenge was moving through the circuitous ways, finding another compelling composition, and moving to another position.
Sometimes the passage was so narrow we had to squeeze through sideways. We never ran short of places to make an image, rather our limitations were time and other people moving about as they stood in awe making their own images.
Colleen Smith
Wayne Bingham
The stone bluffs rising above desert sand have allowed trickles of water guided by gravity to flow circuitously across the stone surfaces and down cracks for eons. As each storm passes over, the trickles become raging rivers, and the particles of sand erode the sandstone bluffs making beautiful curves and ripples of different colours as they wore the layers of stone. In addition, the freeze/thaw cycle of winter helps chip away at the monoliths.
Water movement has carved canyons, not straight down, but following the softest sandstone curves rendering layers of hard and soft, orange, red, and permanently leaving deep dark desert varnish. The formation will remain as it is until the next storm changes the configuration.
Water movement has carved canyons, not straight down, but following the softest sandstone curves rendering layers of hard and soft, orange, red, and permanently leaving deep dark desert varnish. The formation will remain as it is until the next storm changes the configuration.
Light is a stream of photons, packets of energy, travelling at the speed of 670,616,629 miles per hour. Colours and shapes are highlighted by the photon streams touching the different layers of sandstone. In their turn some absorb, others reflect, darker tones absorb more of the light, and lighter colours reflect and reflect again. Refraction, reflection, absorption, dispersion, scattering light enlivening and differentiating the surfaces.
Sometimes there is enough slot opening for the photon streams to scream all the way to the floor of sand, sometimes visible as a bright column as it passes through scattered dust. Every step one takes along the circuitous narrow canyons, the visible forms and their light quality change and you catch your breath in awe. Time of day is an important consideration, with high, mid-day light providing the deepest penetration into the canyons. Early or late afternoon light diminishes the effects. We were there in March and September mid-day and found the light to be excellent.
Colleen Smith
The Antelope Canyons have become renowned for their spectacular beauty and in order to manage the interested crowds, tours are now more limited and restrictions about what you are allowed to bring into the canyons are in force. Alas, tripods and selfie sticks are no longer allowed. We understand some tour guides allow only handheld phone cameras.
The Antelope Canyons have become renowned for their spectacular beauty and in order to manage the interested crowds, tours are now more limited and restrictions about what you are allowed to bring into the canyons are in force.
We used a google search for tours now available and found “Navajotours.com” to be the one we would choose if we were to return there. Other tours are also available. All of the tour guides are members of the Navajo Nation who are fully authorized to give tours of the Canyon and are able to provide visitors with in-depth information related to the Canyon and Navajo culture as well as weather and flashflood and danger warnings. Rain, miles away can gather volume and speed as they enter the canyons and pose danger to those there. Deaths have occurred in the canyons due to not heeding the warnings.
The exhibition opens at the Danby Lodge (formerly The Moors National Park Centre) on 16th July and will run until 12th September. Entry is free and you can find more details on Simon Baxter's website.
Woodland Sanctuary is a joint exhibition between photographers Simon Baxter and me, Joe Cornish. The work was gathered over the last five years, all of it within the North York Moors National Park.
One obvious restriction of the pandemic was the obligation to stay at home. But no travel created an opportunity to explore our local area more widely and deeply. For Simon that was more or less an extension of his existing practice. For me, it was a chance to deepen the local emphasis I had taken years before, but with a growing focus on woodland.
In our different ways, this converging concentration on trees happened almost simultaneously. Simon’s injuries had led him into the woods as solace and relief from persistent pain. My growing fascination was driven in part by increasing alarm about the environmental crisis… trees seem both a symbolically and scientifically critical resource in preserving biodiversity and mitigating climate change. Whatever our motivation, we both found therapeutic value and artistic inspiration among trees. In May 2019 when we were comparing notes via email, Simon suggested sharing a location he’d discovered. It turned out I had walked through the same woodland the previous month with friends and was intrigued to join him. It was the first of many shared excursions.
The work we had done before, and still the majority since, have been solitary trips. But increasingly as we exchanged pictures and ideas there was a sense of solidarity and shared inspiration. The pandemic accelerated the process (for me especially) as the distractions of more distant travel evaporated.
We recognised that while our work was distinct, the similarities were based on a shared value of respecting the appearance of things as they really are, photographically speaking. This attachment to visual reality is the philosophical basis for the exhibition. There is always a degree of translation and interpretation, but the sense should be that what we saw could have been seen by anyone else standing next to the photographer in that moment.
Natural woodland, forest and trees are no longer taken for granted by policy-makers and corporations. Countless books have appeared about them recently revealing their scientific details, community relations, their cultural and evolutionary importance, their endless utility to humans etc. They are recognised for the critical role they play in the biosphere, carbon sequestration, and in our wider culture. In this new atmosphere of interest and understanding of trees, a photographic/artistic perspective seemed especially timely.
The Inspired By gallery at Danby Lodge in the North York Moors seemed the perfect place to hold an exhibition focussing exclusively on the woodland of the National Park. Arranged in a series of artistically inspired themes, we hope the photographs convey a sense of joy and wonder, and sometimes other complex emotions that can be triggered by looking at trees and walking through the woods. The images reflect the intense experience of studying trees in all weather conditions and all times of the year. Beginning with the idea of a journey in ‘A River runs through it’, the exhibition has nine themes in total, ending with the simply named ‘Sanctuary’, to be found in the small studio gallery.
The passages that follow introduce each section for visitors to the gallery…
A River runs through it
Light Flows Through It | Joe Cornish
Most of the oldest woodland of the North York Moors follows the course of streams, brooks and rivers. The dynamic interaction between cascades, falls, calm pools and wood is a source (literally and metaphorically) of visual delight and an affirmation of life’s dependence on water.
Certain tree species (willow, alder, ash) are especially comfortable with their roots in damp soil, while others prefer the drier slopes. The sound of running water is a therapeutic form of ambient music that helps free the mind from the trivia and distractions of our busy and sociable lives.
Remains of Memory
Life Goes On | Simon Baxter
Surrounded by the comfort and convenience of home, sheltered in our villages, towns and cities we may not notice that buildings, railways, roads and bridges are sometimes abandoned. In a lifetime or two what were once significant homesteads, or even industrial buildings, can be swallowed up by the forest.
The remnants of walls and barely used lanes remind us of the tenuous hold we have on nature. Within three generations all living memory is also lost. Although our influence is profound and pervasive on the planet, abandoned homes show us that the natural world quickly reclaims territory. On the North York Moors, there are many examples, some associated with mining and the birth of the industrial revolution. The natural regeneration that has occurred since is in some sense profoundly reassuring.
Dark Matter
No Smoke Without Fire | Joe Cornish
Although woodland is a place of predominantly positive emotions, there are also dark moments. Fires destroy trees and understory; clear-cutting can appear callous, and brutal; ancient broadleaf trees are choked of light and moisture among conifer plantations. Some dark places in the wood can themselves become the stage setting of a nightmare.
Nevertheless, these encounters are important, all part of a landscape story worth confronting, recording and translating. A dark wood can sometimes suggest the menacing presence of the unseen. This darkness reflects our complex, exploitative relationship with nature as well as our own emotional and physical vulnerability.
Chaos Theory
The Search For Beauty | Joe Cornish
Photographers often seek the elegance of simplicity. However, broadleaf and mixed woodland is the opposite of simple. A tangled wildwood can present the ultimate tortured jigsaw puzzle to torment the photographer. The synthesis of trees and branches jostling for space and light can seem impenetrably complicated, and the impression of chaos profound.
Yet this is also the truth of the wood, and so is an aspect that must be embraced. There is still an obligation to find some sort of order, or pattern, in the confusion of conflicting lines, shapes and textures. Artistically, it’s also an opportunity to embrace the truth of chaos, and use its energy, complexity and discordance to symbolise something of life itself.
The Age of Trees
Descendants | Simon Baxter
Our ancestors evolved using the living shelter that trees provided. Until very recently most of the human population have lived beneath, or close to them and depended on wood as our most abundant and reliable tool and building material.
Various technological advances have seen the rise of stone, bronze, iron, steel, aluminium, concrete, glass, plastic, carbon fibre. Yet wood remains unique in its combination of characteristics and subsequently, its utility. Arguably, it is also more beautiful than its geologically-sourced rivals. As we confront the challenge of living more sustainably, we may once again learn to depend on wood as a primary building material. Perhaps this will even lead to a new ‘Age of Trees’?
But there is another interpretation of this title, which highlights how trees grow and prosper over enormous spans of time compared to our own lives. Numerous tree species in the UK grow to many hundreds of years old, and such ancient trees can be found in pockets on and around the National Park. In a typical forest, seedlings appear widely and a few of these may avoid being eaten by deer or other grazers and make it to become saplings and on into maturity. In the complex web of relationships in the forest, this blend of older and younger trees, as well as the astonishing variety of species, is a constant source of wonder and beauty.
Life Cycle
Beech Leaf Murmuration | Joe Cornish
The fabulous fertility of spring and summer, the evocative colours and forms of autumn and winter - these cycles of life are fundamental in the forest every day of the year. And while wildflowers and mushrooms are easily visible, thousands of microbial and smaller species thrive in the cycles of life, decay and rebirth that operate beneath the trees.
It is within woodland that we can readily feel the pulse and rhythm of nature and the wild world operating where it is left largely free from our interference. You could say this makes woodland the most life-affirming of landscape habitats.
Gifts of Light
Light Weaver | Simon Baxter
The raw material of light is an inextricable dimension of every photograph. In one form or another, all artists depend on it as an expressive force. It can even become the subject - an unpredictable, intangible, elusive manifestation of energy.
When everything works like this, solid matter can seem to dissolve, or the sun may project beams through the ether, evoking a divine presence. Such conditions are usually the result of a rare synthesis of high humidity, almost no wind, and discreet pockets of mist that allows the sun to work its magic. Being so short-lived there is rarely time to practise or experiment, and so our photographs are usually reactive, instinctive, making successful images feel special and quite literally ‘gifts of light’.
All the Wood’s a stage
Winter Clothing | Joe Cornish
Trees can gesture, point, walk, argue, weep, shelter, talk, encourage, mourn, dominate, dispute, dance, perform. Their range of expression is remarkable, and while these interpretations may seem whimsical, the scientific evidence clearly shows how trees function as a living community.
In a very real sense, they do protect and support each other, and share information through their root and associated systems. Older trees are truly the parents of those that spring from their seeds nearby. Broadleaf trees especially seem to echo the range of human actions and body language - sometimes exuberant, sometimes tired, passive, tortured and even asleep.
They act out a full range of emotions, growing and changing through the course of their lives. Sometimes they are injured by storms, fire, lightning, disease and drought, yet still, they live on – their suffering recorded in their trunks and branches. Through the accumulated scars of age, they reflect back to us something about what it means to live a life.
Sanctuary
Welcome Home | Simon Baxter
A place of shelter from the weather, woods are relatively warm when it is cold, and cool when it is hot. The wood is a stabiliser of temperature and humidity that slows the flow of groundwater. While not all creatures favour woods and forests, they are wildlife refuges as well as human ones. In times of war or extreme economic hardship, people may return to the forest as their only chance of survival.
In times of relative prosperity, the woods are the first places we think of for a walk and exercise. They are a haven of birdsong in the spring. They harbour carpets of bluebells in May, as well as the wonderful aroma of wild garlic. Wildflowers also crowd woodland flanks through the summer, and autumn leaves are a red and gold gift. In winter the naked beauty of broadleaf trees is revealed, with their leaves now decorating the forest floor. Spaces in the wood may feel like a small chapel, or even a cathedral when the light, clearing and moment are just right.
Whether it is a search for survival or the search for beauty and a revival of the senses, our woodlands are a sanctuary.
The exhibition is FREE TO ENTER from the 16th July - 10th September, but some special events and talks require a ticket. All ticketed events and booking links are listed on Simon Baxter's website.
What if the landscape in a photograph looked like Salvador Dalí’s clocks?
I've recently had the privilege to meet with an outstanding photographer Fedor Gabčan. He attended the opening of my first ever solo exhibition in a renowned gallery in the city of Ostrava where I live. I must admit that I didn't recognise his work until that day and I did not have enough time to speak with him at the opening. Fortunately, I was gently advised by the owners of the gallery to meet him again. Sure, why not, I would love to meet and talk photography with everyone, every time. So I Googled his work and was amazed by his portfolio, and by one image particularly. You see, one thing I dream about in my photos is to change the way how we perceive the traditional perspective. And there it was, a photo with two perspectives. You can see a huge pile of soil with few chimneys in the background and some sort of waterfall in the foreground. The land looks like Salvador Dali’s cIock. I realised it is a manmade artificial landscape but the photo was definitely taken on an analogue camera with little adjustment done to it. What a refreshing thing to see in comparison with current fashion for pristine wilderness style photos with a lot of editing.
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against beautiful looking landscape photos. But the more I do it and more I see it, I feel it is contrary to what our current landscapes look like. We tend to shoot wilderness but most of the countryside and cities we live in look so differently. Only a few of us capture manmade landscapes with human impact in them.
"Looker Watchers of the Forest' is the first land art exhibition of its kind to be displayed along the major oak trail at the reserve."
"Much of our conservation work here at Sherwood Forest National nature reserve is dedicated to the protection of our magnificent ancient Oak trees, which have survived for hundreds of years. They really have seen many things during the centuries, so Gary’s work provides a thought- provoking perspective, turning the tables on us the viewers or admirers of the trees to highlight a very topical issue for the natural world."
Jess Dumoulinm, Visitor Experience Manager, Sherwood Forest National Nature Reserve.
I had the idea for Outsider for quite some time, in the autumn of 2017 I began working on my first outdoor photographic art installation which was for the grounds of Amcott House, a local museum in Retford Nottingham, which showed from Jan 3rd- June 30th 2018. Outsider is an evolving land art project which acts as a vehicle in which to experiment and explore various art forms, ones that I have never attempted before and which are outside of my comfort zone.
I can't work with the thought of being pigeonholed to any one particular practice, there is so much more to explore and learn about and I feel you just end up neglecting the others by just doing the same old thing. I also believe comfort is the death knell for creativity. Secondly, I wanted to bring my photographic artwork outside in a natural outdoor environment in the form of outdoor installations, and move away from indoor gallery spaces and being at the mercy of curators. There were a few ideas that I wanted to try with the original concept for the Land art exhibition at Sherwood Forest one of which was to hang the artwork from the trees which ran along the trail using fishing line and to use the branches of the tree as a part of the installation itself.
The reasons being was the lines translucent properties and damage limitation to the trees and for their strength. I liked the idea that from a distance the line would be difficult to see, so it would give the illusion that the pictures were being suspended in mid air amongst the trees. The picture frames I wanted in keeping, I wanted an alternative to the generic massed produced ones, so I created the borders for the pictures myself.
I set about and used my walks in the forest to scavenge for various organic materials which were either dead or rotting together with barks from cut down trees along with various other materials which included moss, lichen, leaves, pine needles, coal, goat willow seeds, burnt conker shells and rotting wood pulp. I have always found that nature never fails to bring something new to the table, either visually or organically. The picture frames I made double sided with a laminated print mounted on both sides which enabled the images when suspended from the trees to be seen both ways when either coming or going along the trail.
This original concept unfortunately for me was rejected, and instead offered the idea of securing the images to wooden fence posts that ran along the trail. That was something I really didn't want to entertain. I wanted to do something different which is what the Outsider project is all about. On the upside, having the artwork shown outdoors in such a beautiful forest, took the sting out of not having my original concept taken on board. That's life. You win some - You lose some.
The picture frames I made double sided with a laminated print mounted on both sides which enabled the images when suspended from the trees to be seen both ways when either coming or going along the trail.
I also feel a deep affinity with the natural world, and it has always had a place in what I do and that's something I try to express in my work whether it's in art, photography or film. That said I have no interest whatsoever in political statements. Visual or otherwise. Art and nature transcend politics for me.
I was just floored, to say the least. I have always been drawn by people either in music, film, art anything really who have the integrity to work and do things differently outside of the system.
I also feel a deep affinity with the natural world, and it has always had a place in what I do and that's something I try to express in my work whether it's in art, photography or film. That said I have no interest whatsoever in political statements. Visual or otherwise. Art and nature transcend politics for me. The Looker series is just a personal take on the situation regarding the demise and destruction of our trees. The Looker series is an observation of the trees eyes. Beautifully created by the trees themselves. Which ironically mirror the very problem. A Humankind.
Much of what I do is intuitive so when I'm asked to write about what I do finding the words is difficult. I am no intellectual by any stretch of the imagination, or academically trained, I'm self taught and have made my own way in life without any need for qualifications or degrees. The act itself of creating art in whatever form has always been at the heart of what I do. It takes me somewhere else. It's never been about money, winning awards or prizes. If it was I would have given it all up along time ago. For me personally it's about being an independent artist which gives me the freedom to experiment with ideas and to see where they go. That’s the prize.I am an individual that really doesn't feel I need someone qualify my work. I do it for me. It's just in my blood. I have spent most of my life in the creative arts and it has always been something that I love doing. I have never really looked upon it as work. It's not a career anymore. But more a way of life.
This time last year we were just receiving the first submissions for our Natural Landscape awards and one of those was from Steve Alterman. Later, after many rounds of judging and verifying images, his exquisite photograph of a pseudo mountain on a midnight black sandy beach won first place in the competition. Since then, I’ve seen a few more of Steve’s photographs in a couple of his published books and he also sent the winning image as well, as a few extra images, for me to drum scan. Yes, the winning image was photographed on his Pentax 67 using Fuij Velvia film. We thought you’d like to learn a little more about Steve’s work and, fortunately for us, he agreed to a Featured Photographer interview.
First Place - Natural Landscape Photographer of the Year - Tip of the Iceberg, Fellsfjara
Can you tell me about how you got into photography, did you study it, were you shown it by friends or family etc?
I have always been interested in photography (my parents got me a Brownie Hawkeye when I was about 10 years old),
I love the landscapes of the American West and at one point actually represented the Arizona Department of Transportation in their dealings with the Washington bureaucracy.
but I never took it seriously until the early 1990s. I love the landscapes of the American West and at one point actually represented the Arizona Department of Transportation in their dealings with the Washington bureaucracy.I started taking pictures on trips there and wondered why they weren’t very good. Rather than taking classes, I started going on workshops with professional photographers and spent more time watching how they worked rather than actually shooting. Things took off from there.
Making the step from photography as a passion to something that puts money on the table is often stressful. How did you make the step and were you immediately successful or did it take a lot of work?
You’re supposed to make money from photography? I didn’t know that. Actually, I have a full-time day job (I’m an aviation attorney, but I don’t spread that around in photography circles), so the pressure to commercialise my photography has been relatively minimal. I’ve always been able to sell an occasional print or sell images to magazines or calendar companies, but the real commercial activity started when I decided to publish a book on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. More on that later.
Volcanic Mud Patterns, Theistareykir, Iceland
Your published work is a combination of reportage/editorial and pure landscape photography but your website is mostly pure landscape. What was it about landscape photography particularly that engaged you and still makes you want to explore with a camera?
Trying to present a picture of the planet on which we live has been a driving force in my photography. Doing editorial/reportage photography has always been secondary, but I usually travel with a camera so I’m sensitive to the rest of the world around us and willing to capture “non-landscape” images. With respect to the landscape, I think the greatest challenge is to give the viewer a “feel” of the place, not just a pretty picture. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as interested as anyone in taking the iconic shots, but it’s often the intimate details that best represent the area. The challenge of finding those details keeps bringing me back to my favourite places.
Who (photographers, artists or individuals) or what has most inspired you, or driven you forward in your development as a photographer? What books stimulated your interest in photography?
Very interesting question. When I was first exploring the western United States, I came upon David Muench’s book Nature’s America. It inspired me to go to certain places and look at the landscape more critically. In terms of other “inspirations”, I love the work of Jack Dykinga, and Bill Neill’s way of looking at the details of the landscape intrigues me. Moving away from photographers, I’m also inspired by the work of the great American artist of the West, Thomas Moran. Painters have the advantage of not being limited by what is in front of them and viewing how they perceive the landscape provides a slightly different set of learning tools.
With respect to the landscape, I think the greatest challenge is to give the viewer a “feel” of the place, not just a pretty picture. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as interested as anyone in taking the iconic shots, but it’s often the intimate details that best represent the area. The challenge of finding those details keeps bringing me back to my favourite places.
Rainbow Eucalyptus Bark, Kauai
On The Beach, Fellsfjara, Iceland
How has your commercial work with photography changed over the years?
I think the whole world of commercial photography and the way in which photographers can sell their work (and their expertise) has changed dramatically in the past few decades. The “gold standard” of professional photography used to revolve around stock agencies and selling individual images to magazines, calendar companies and other commercial endeavours. Digital photography changed all that. Now everyone can enter a world that was once reserved for an elite few. In turn, that meant that other income sources were necessary. The most obvious is the proliferation of photo workshops and tours where the professionals make their incomes, not from their own images, but rather for helping others improve their skills.
The “gold standard” of professional photography used to revolve around stock agencies and selling individual images to magazines, calendar companies and other commercial endeavours. Digital photography changed all that. Now everyone can enter a world that was once reserved for an elite few. In turn, that meant that other income sources were necessary.
I never really got into the workshop field (why would I want the administrative details or having to put up with people like me?) and I turned, quite by accident, to the field of book publishing.
Could you tell us a little about the cameras and lenses you typically take on a trip and how they affect your photography?
Ah, now we get to the weird part of me! I usually take everything I own on photo shoots. You just never know what you’re going to confront in the field. For me, that means at least two camera bodies (Pentax 67 and occasionally a Leica R7) and an assortment of lenses from 35 mm to 300 mm. I have a 55-100 mm telephoto as well as a 90-180 telephoto to give me some flexibility, but my “most used” lenses are a trusty 45 mm, a 100 mm macro and the 300 mm for longer shots. Those choices are a bit more limiting that the modern digital bodies and lenses, but they’re what I like to work with.
What sort of post processing do you undertake on your pictures? Give me an idea of your workflow?
OK, another slightly strange answer for you. The simple answer is “not much”. It usually consists of any needed cropping and straightening horizons (because I’m terrible at that), but not much else. If there are wide variations in light in the image, I’ll probably adjust the highlights and shadow detail, but I don’t use very many of the tools in Lightroom. Of course, all of this is after having the images scanned to digital. (You didn’t ask, but I only scan about 5% of the images I take. I keep a lot of the rest, but only scan those I anticipate being able to use somewhere other than on my lightbox).
Mount Edith Cavell Reflected In Cavell Lake, Jasper National Park, Alberta, Canada
Your winning image in the Natural Landscape Photography Awards is on film and I was wondering if you still used film or have moved wholly to digital.
By now, you might have guessed that I still only shoot film. The only time I shoot anything digital is with my cell phone and only if I somehow don’t have my cameras with me or I’m simply too lazy to get the equipment out of my backpack.
We know there were so many negatives to using film, especially commercially. However, do you think there was something positive about using film that has been lost?
Obviously, for commercial purposes, a digital image is necessary so there is an extra (expensive) scanning step if you’re shooting film.
The shrinking number of film types is a continuing problem, but I’m still shooting slides and haven’t really thought of trying colour negatives - although I may go there if I need higher speed films for certain low light situations
There are also the issues of having to carry and change film and not being able to change the ISO to account for changing lighting conditions. BUT, I also think there are interesting advantages to using film (other than the fact that I enjoy having the “hard copy” to view on my light table). The most important element for me is that shooting film slows me down and makes “getting it right in the camera” more important. I simply don’t have the right equipment, and can’t afford, the “spray and pray” technique of some digital shooters who apparently think that taking thousands of images and hoping one works is the right approach to photography. I have nothing against digital photography, and modern equipment is utterly fantastic, it’s just not the way I choose to go. (My wife claims it’s simply because I’m stubborn; she may have a point, but I’m not changing!).
Given that you still shoot on film, how do you cope with the reduction in the number of film types available? Are you still primarily a slide photographer or have you dabbled with colour negative?
The shrinking number of film types is a continuing problem, but I’m still shooting slides and haven’t really thought of trying colour negatives - although I may go there if I need higher speed films for certain low light situations. In addition to lack of historic film options, there is also the problem of getting certain current films in the United States. Production cutbacks and outright closing of facilities in Asia during the pandemic have not yet sufficiently reversed themselves. My answer, at least right now, has been to become a bit of a hoarder. A refrigerator that was supposed to hold cold white wine and soft drinks is now filled with every roll of film I can find.
Can you choose 2-3 favourite photographs from your own portfolio and tell us a little about them?
Rhododendrons in a Redwood Forest
This reflects a pre-visualised image that actually worked.
Autumn Moss in California
This was an accidental total surprise!
Glacial River in Iceland
This is in the “Huh?” category
How do you like to approach your image making? Do you pre-plan and go out with something in mind, or do you prefer to let your photography flow from your explorations on foot?
Yes and yes! I ALWAYS research an area before going into the field and I always have some preconceived notions of what I want to shoot. But my most rewarding images are often those that simply present themselves unexpectedly. I love being surprised! And perhaps the most rewarding question I can be asked by someone viewing my images is “What is that?” That was the case with the winning entry in the Natural Landscapes Photography Awards and many of my other favourites, some of which are included in this article.
How important do you find it to be in the right frame of mind? Have you found ways to work around periods when your mind is busy with other things?
Great question. I think it is essential to be in the right frame of mind – and sometimes there is absolutely nothing you can do about it! Some of the most frustrating times have come when I have been in a fabulous setting and my mind is somewhere off in the clouds preventing me from making the most of the opportunities presented. I can usually get the obvious, iconic, images in these situations, but the lack of creativity is really upsetting. In looking back, I think that many of these times of “creative block” come from fatigue, so I guess one piece of advice is to get sufficient rest – even if you’re going to shoot a sunrise at 4:00 a.m. And try to rest during the day so you are somewhat rested for the late afternoon shooting.
I think it is essential to be in the right frame of mind – and sometimes there is absolutely nothing you can do about it! Some of the most frustrating times have come when I have been in a fabulous setting and my mind is somewhere off in the clouds preventing me from making the most of the opportunities presented.
Layers Of Colour, Autumn In Zion National Park
If you had to take a break from all things photographic for a week, what would you end up doing?
Going to ice hockey games! Or other sporting events that are totally mindless. Or maybe sleeping a lot!
You’ve published a few books in the landscape/editorial vein. Were these successful for you and did you learn any lessons about publishing you could share?
The books, particularly Outer Banks Edge which is in its third printing, have been moderately successful. At least they make enough money to fund my film supply! There have been a lot of lessons learned along the way. The first, and perhaps most important, is that you’re never going to totally agree with your publisher/editor about much of anything! You just have to deal with that. Your concepts about presenting your photography and their concepts of how to sell books are often wildly different! I have also been a bit surprised about the real importance of the optimal paper choice – even if it means spending more money on publication. For me, there is nothing more frustrating than seeing a vibrant image “dulled down” by an incorrect choice of papers. I’m also somewhat addicted to spot varnish on images, but that’s just me.
Can you tell us a little about how Outer Banks Edge came about and the process of making it? What would you say to anyone thinking about trying to produce/sell a photography book?
I never really set out to publish a book on the Outer Banks, but it simply became an outgrowth of other photography work in the area. Before I moved to the area, I wanted to buy a coffee table book that showed the beauty of the landscape (and other elements of a unique barrier island). What I discovered was that weren’t any books that I would consider buying. I had sold a number of images to a magazine publisher in the region and asked whether she had ever published a book or would she be willing to give it a try. Much to my shock, she said yes. And so the adventure of the blind leading the blind began. We engaged a really talented designer and eventually we had a book. We had a bad experience with our first printer in the United States and eventually had to switch to another printer in Hong Kong, but otherwise, things went fairly smoothly. Distribution of the book was always an issue, but I have now found an independent publisher who does all the distribution for me.
Landmannalaugar Mosaic, Iceland
Daybreak, Bandon Beach, Oregon
What sorts of things do you think might challenge you in the future or do you have any photographs or styles that you want to investigate? Where do you see your photography going in terms of subject and style?
I’m not sure that I’m going to change much, but I always have the challenge of breaking away from my comfort zones of the Outer Banks, the American West and Iceland, and finding new lands to explore that will change the way I look at the landscape. I’m not sure my style will change much, since I’m driven to let the land define the way forward without imposing any preconceived notions.
Which photographer(s) – amateur or professional - would you like to see featured in a future issue?
I was going to say Franka Gabler until I discovered you have already done that! (Read Franka's Featured Photographer interview). Not sure who to recommend.
Volcanic Mud Patterns, Theistareykir, Iceland
Totem Pole Sunrise, Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park
Rainbow Eucalyptus Bark, Kauai
On The Beach, Fellsfjara, Iceland
Mount Edith Cavell Reflected In Cavell Lake, Jasper National Park, Alberta, Canada
07 Mammoth Hot Springs, Yellowstone National Park
Layers Of Colour, Autumn In Zion National Park
Landmannalaugar Mosaic, Iceland.
Daybreak, Bandon Beach, Oregon
Bridalveil Fall With Pine Tree, Yosemite National Park
Foggy Morning, Lake Louise, Banff, Alberta, Canada
Along Foothills Parkway, Great Smoky Mountains National Park
Me, After A Bad Day In The Field (valley Of Fire State Park, Nevada)
After sunset on a scorching hot Easter Sunday, I was hiking back to my car with my friend Kane Engelbert through the dunes of White Sands National Park in New Mexico, and as it typically goes with my friend Kane and I, we filled the time by talking about photography. We had just photographed an incredibly beautiful scene where the diffused warm light after sunset cast pastel colours onto the white sand dunes, creating one of the more memorable moments we had both experienced. As such, we were both in a fantastic mood. Our conversation quickly turned to discuss other photographers’ work that we admired and my friend Kane immediately asked me if I had “heard of this guy named Eric Erlenbusch, or “ee_visual” on Instagram. I emphatically affirmed that I not only had heard of him but that I was a big fan of his work. Where the conversation went next was interesting because usually these sorts of conversations end quickly and we move on to the next person; however, Kane and I talked at length about how Eric sets himself apart as a nature photographer. What we had both noticed about Eric’s photographs is that many of them possessed a chaotic composition that still somehow worked well. Of course, thinking about and discussing composition from the perspective of chaos is no easy task and we were both quite stumped as to how Eric was able to pull it all off. I’ve put some thought into this since then and I believe there are several factors that contribute to Eric’s ability to do this: embracing experimentation and play in his fieldwork; seeking out and photographing cryptic subjects in a more random style; and the use of curiosity and openness.
Several years ago, I made a conventional exposure of birch trees in the morning sunlight that seemed inadequate to convey the surprise of my encounter. Suddenly, I got an impulse to try again and move the camera during exposure. The result appeared to express a visual vibration more commensurate with my experience of the trees. I did not see the trees move, but I felt a visceral internal movement. Before I made this exposure, I had seen a few examples of intentional camera movement. Still, I did not know ICM was an established method. I subsequently experimented periodically with this, but it was such a departure from my usual way of working that I was reluctant to pursue it at the time.
The lack of sharpness in these pictures challenged me. Clear and precise rendering of details and texture has long been a primary consideration in my photographs. Did a visual conceit of blurred images make sense for me as a photographer? The natural landscape has been my continuing preoccupation for the last two decades. I like to think my photography affirms solidarity with the nature around me. If I admire and respect the forms of this voluminous universe of beings, why would I want to present it as blurred?
In the throes of COVID, I picked up this thread again, and somehow my results seemed more promising. I did not use long exposures because I wanted to preserve some semblance of the identity of the forms before the camera. I wanted to convey a sense of their aliveness. However, I continued to wonder about my departure from realism. I wasn't sure where this path would lead, but I knew I would not find out if I didn't explore it. So I continued to work with intentional camera movement and considered my understanding of photography and visual perception. .
One of the original appeals of photography was accurately depicting the physical world, unaffected by an artist's skill or interpretation. Though this was a mistaken presumption, photographs are still associated with descriptive accuracy and can be seen as a direct representation of reality.
One of the original appeals of photography was accurately depicting the physical world, unaffected by an artist's skill or interpretation. Though this was a mistaken presumption, photographs are still associated with descriptive accuracy and can be seen as a direct representation of reality. The desire to see things as they are without bias is critical to human intelligence. In that regard, I have been curious for many years about phenomenology - a study of things as they are in themselves, in the most immediate sense of how we experience them, without any assumptions, just what is before us.1 That approach seemed akin to photography's emphasis on what is real. However, phenomenology explores sensory stimuli in its many sources.
When I read David Abram's The Spell of the Sensuous2, it inspired me to rethink the process of awareness. Abram is a philosopher known for applying phenomenology to ecological issues and his perspective resonated with my experience as an artist and nature photographer. In retrospect, Abram's writing seems an essential clue to what I find appealing in these pictures I have persisted in making, despite my uncertainty about them. For Abram, phenomenology is a way to rediscover the perceived world as an interactive one. To see something is to become a host for what we see, however awarely. Even if we are walking unaware in a park, we still interact with the trees through the subliminal calming effect of the sights and sounds. The absence of this kind of experience is associated with what has been called "nature deficit disorder."3 But whatever the consequences, we are always within a field of sensory stimuli, interacting with it in ways dependent on our attention and the brain's processing of sensory information.
The issue of attentiveness is a key one for any artist or craftsperson. The achievement of undivided attention is often called mindfulness: when a person is not preoccupied with the past, future, or judgment. Such a mind is, at its best, open as fully as possible to the present moment and the body's spectrum of sensory stimuli. Of course, there are degrees of mindfulness, and the full extent of this attentiveness might be called acceptance – a mind that neither excludes nor judges what is before it.
The issue of attentiveness is a key one for any artist or craftsperson. The achievement of undivided attention is often called mindfulness: when a person is not preoccupied with the past, future, or judgment.
In Frederick Sommer's words, "In total acceptance, almost everything becomes a revelation."4 The word revelation may sound suspect in modern secular culture. Still, it was a way of breaking through habitual perception to previously unconsidered ways of seeing for Sommer. In a similar vein, Minor White wrote that "the state of mind of the photographer while creating is a special kind of blank, …actively receptive and sensitive, with no preconceived ideas."5 For White, the goal was to sense the spirit of a thing and express that through the photograph. Like "revelation," the invocation of "spirit" can be problematic. However, sensory awareness is a critical element in the literature on spirituality, and sensation is accessible to everyone.
The idea of mindfulness has become a cultural buzzword after being introduced by Jon Kabot-Zin as a stress reduction program at the UMass medical school in 1979. Though Zinn's work was inspired by Buddhist teachings, his medical research, and subsequently that of many others, has shown considerable evidence for the value of mindfulness. However, it is widely unknown that mindfulness was a central idea for early 20th-century phenomenologists Edmund Husserl, Martin Heidegger, and Maurice Merleau-Ponty6. Husserl called for a study of things-in-themselves and for living contact with the here-and-now. For all three seminal thinkers, mindfulness was about the life-world, the world of experience, before sensory awareness transforms into knowledge. For Heidegger, encountering a tree is a two-way experience; to be mindful is to savor its presence and wonder about its existence.7
For Maurice Merleau-Ponty, a principal inspiration for David Abram, the body was not something we have but something we are, the way we experience the world. Our body is what enables our sensory awareness, just like with all other beings in the tree of life. Hence direct embodied experience is regarded by Merleau-Ponty as pre-objective and primordial.8 Perception can allow sensible things to inhabit us experientially, depending on our receptivity and resonance with the experience. For Merleau-Ponty, art was a way to express this primordial experience and return us to the life-world.
Regarding visual sensation, research indicates that human vision involves rapid eye movement to explore what is before us, even when maintaining a steady gaze. The conventional static image we associate with stationary objects seems to result from neural processing that stabilises eye movement differences and associates the visual data with words and concepts.
Regarding visual sensation, research indicates that human vision involves rapid eye movement to explore what is before us, even when maintaining a steady gaze. The conventional static image we associate with stationary objects seems to result from neural processing that stabilises eye movement differences and associates the visual data with words and concepts.9 Though I cannot recover my eye motion during a static subject encounter, I found this research intriguing and suggestive of a more direct experience of micro-moments latent in the perceptual process. Moreover, it is unlikely that any memorable visual experience is static. We move our head to take in what is right and left; we move our body closer to see detail and back to see the context. Seeing involves motion when we are paying attention.
Though representing objects at rest is necessary for documenting details in science, art, or daily life, it also reinforces what phenomenologists call the "natural attitude."10 Indeed, it is customary to see the visual world as a collection of objects from which we are fundamentally independent. Of course, our body is physically separate from the things we see, but we only see them because we are attending to them. There is no "seen" without a "seer." For these pictures, it is as if I do not see them as objects but as interactions. The blur in these pictures records moments when things appear in time rather than being taken out of time. I like to think that the blurring displaces my internal animation back to its source as a vibration that resonates with me.
Of course one can go ‘too far' and except in directions in which we can go too far there is no interest in going at all; and only those who risk going ‘too far’ can possibly find out just how far one can go.”
~ T.S. Eliot
In his autobiography, “Bill Bruford: The Autobiography,” drummer Bill Bruford recounts his time in one of the many bands in which he was associated and explores the question of whether a musician should be regarded as an artist or a craftsman. The band was from the UK, a late 1970’s “supergroup” in the progressive rock genre. He recounts that after their first highly successful album two of the band members wanted to employ the same musical templates in order that their follow-up album be as equally successful. On the other hand, Bruford and guitarist Allan Holdsworth were more interested in exploring new musical territory, wherever that may lead them. Bruford posits that music is art when the musician has no idea during the creative process what the final product will be. Conversely, craft is the result of following a blueprint to a predictable result, be it a sellable record or a carpenter's chair. Ultimately, this difference in approach and philosophy led to the dissolution of that iteration of the band.
Bruford posits that music is art when the musician has no idea during the creative process what the final product will be. Conversely, craft is the result of following a blueprint to a predictable result, be it a sellable record or a carpenter's chair.
I believe exploring and studying the approaches and philosophies of artists in other mediums can greatly inform our photography.
On the afternoon of Saturday 11th June a group of curious and like-minded people gathered in Northallerton to listen to Paul Kenny talk about his unique photographic practice. Paul's talk coincided with an exhibition of his Seaworks images which is running at Joe Cornish Galleries until 27 August.
With Joe Cornish present to introduce, question and organise proceedings, Paul surveyed his 50 year career, taking the audience on a journey through his mysterious and painstaking practice that has resulted in the awe-inspiring, strangely beautiful images that are on exhibition today.
The exhibition is entitled ‘Ten Years of Seaworks’ and the pictures on display were made between 2008 to 2018. Demystifying his way of working, travelling back in time to his first experience of early trips to the wilderness of the far north-west and his wonder at the power of the ocean, Paul explained how he slowly evolved a method of making pictures which both contained and reflected the creative destruction of the sea, eventually creating his work out of material collected on the beach.
Paul recounted that over 50 years he has moved from analogue to digital, from monochrome to colour, from working outside to working in a studio, from making paper prints to making lightboxes and from camera to scanner. The only consistent element has been his use of the ever-changing medium of photography.
Using a commission he undertook for the An Lanntair Gallery In Stornaway, Paul led us through his photographic practice. He detailed how a trip to Luskentyre Beach on Harris seeded in his imagination. Paul took the obligatory photographs of waves turning and sand patterns on the beach, but there was something more profound in his experience of the place. He showed us his collected material from the visit and how it eventually became a finished piece of work.
Paul’s practice is his response to the coastal landscape and watching the Atlantic Ocean roll the flotsam and jetsam of ages onto the far-flung beaches of that massive body of water. Paul started to glean from those beaches, and this extended to using beaches closer to his Northumberland home and on the West Coast of Ireland (where he now visits regularly as a Life Fellow of the Ballinglen Arts Foundation). His destination is always the strand line, the meandering mark of the highest tide, that turn of the water where what is delivered up by the sea remains beached on the sand.
And Paul started to do what the sea did. Experimenting with fragments of copper wire, fishing net, coca-cola cans and plastic oddments, and crucially, a bottle full of accompanying sea water, Paul started a process of placing and arranging his collected treasure of metal and plastic oddments on old 1mm thick bleached and cleaned 5”x 4” photographic plates. Those plates became a replacement for traditional photographic negatives. He slowly dripped the collected seawater over the arrangements. He scanned the resulting erosion and the intricate patterns of salt crystallisation, sometimes many times, sometimes for many months.
In his talk, Paul referred to the ‘cameraless negative’. ‘Cameraless’ being the apparatus he now uses, a flatbed scanner and ‘negative’ being the glass plate on which he places his collected detritus. A chance recommendation in the early 2000s by a technician/lecturer at Lancaster University, during his year’s Sci/Art residency, that he scan rather than traditionally develop black and white prints from these glass plate ‘negatives’, opened up whole new worlds of creative endeavour, of scale and colour; intense, natural colour.
Astounding, breakthrough images emerged from this exacting process. Images such as ‘Mappa Cheswick’ and ‘Iona sun’ replete with crystallising salt water and decaying metal filaments where incredible detail gives the lie to the fundamental, timeless shapes of the image’s composition. As Paul says, the universe is an amazing place and the never still process of change which Paul echos and captures has as its reference the abounding material cosmos.
Paul broke the rules of photography, he broke his own rules. He photographs not using a camera, he uses objects as negatives. He could be termed a site-specific artist or a sculptor of the minimal. But Paul calls himself a photographer and in the prints he creates, which start with ocean decay and end with Paul’s exacting interventions, the effect of time and process on particles of matter are on exhibition for everyone to see.
As someone who needs solitude and time away from the noise and chaos of modern life, I spend as much time as possible wandering around my local woodlands and ponds, appreciating and observing the smaller details in nature, the shapes, patterns and colours that are all around me if I look carefully enough. Of course, I can appreciate the beauty of a dramatic “grand vista” too but it is the quieter, more intimate scenes which speak to me and inform my own creativity. I am also attracted to images which veer towards the abstract or are ambiguous in some way, making me question what it is I am seeing.
It’s almost an impossible task to just choose one image for this feature (something I’m sure everyone says when asked to contribute to End Frame) and has caused much soul searching. The image I eventually decided on is by the Canadian photographer and naturalist Krista McCuish (featured photographer in On Landscape in November 2018) and is one that has stayed with me since I first saw it earlier this year on social media.
One of my first limpet images, taken on a colourful rock in Asturias, Spain
Introduction
Although limpets are widespread and can be easily observed at low tide in many places along the Atlantic coast of Europe, the life of limpets is completely unknown to most people. This included me, until a few years ago. Certainly, I have seen them many times when photographing coastal landscapes for my photo book Shaped by the sea on wonderful beaches in countries like Spain, Portugal, Scotland and Ireland. They looked like part of the rocks they lived on and blended perfectly into the landscape.
But it wasn't until I was working on a focus stack and noticed that the position of the limpets changed slightly during the shots that I realised they were actually living creatures that could move! After that, I started paying more attention to them in the field and I also started reading all about them. You could say it was the beginning of a kind of love affair with these beautiful and interesting creatures.
In the first part, I wrote about the historic context surrounding the Impressionist painters, their struggle towards recognition, their belief regarding personal interpretation and how their understanding of art reflected on their final works.
In this second part, I'm going to explore their thoughts on perfection and on influences. To see how their mature thinking can be applied to our approach towards expressive photography.
On Perfection
It is absurd to look for perfection.~Camille Pissarro
With this statement, written in 1883, Pissarro was advocating a radically modern step in the common understanding of art. Sensations matter more than perfection: the former come naturally, the latter does not. Therefore, as an artist, one does not have to look for sensations, one can not seek for sensations, one can only find them. In this sense, Pissarro anticipates Pablo Picasso, who never sought, but found. Another formulation of this same problem for Pissarro was to find character.
For there is no light of justice or temperance or any of the higher ideas which are precious to souls in the earthly copies of them: they are seen through a glass dimly; and there are few who, going to the images, behold in them the realities, and these only with difficulty.~Plato
Note: I wrote this article as a possible first in a series themed “Philosophy for Photographers.” My hope is that it might help photographic artists understand photography in the greater context of historical thinking about art. This is why I decided to start with Plato, hoping to build up to more recent ideas. If this theme interests you, please leave a comment to help us gauge your interest.
- Guy
Plato’s theory of forms suggests that the material world is not true reality but a collection of crude manifestations of ideal, perfect forms—true, unchangeable essences of things existing in their own transcendent realm beyond the material world.
Alfred North Whitehead characterised European philosophical tradition as “a series of footnotes to Plato” (the same can be said about other philosophical and scientific traditions, as well). Around 375 BC, Plato wrote his most famous work, The Republic, describing his vision for a just society. Plato’s recipe for such a society is this: put philosophers in charge, give the (philosophical) aristocracy an army of “guardians” (who will be bred and selected by eugenics, well-compensated, and trained rigorously to ensure their loyalty), and keep the remaining masses busy as “producers”—an obedient working class. Artists—specifically “mimetic” artists: those who strive to represent realistic depictions of worldly things—would be banned from this ideal society.
To understand Plato’s disdain for mimetic art, we must consider one of his most iconic ideas: his “theory of forms.” Plato’s theory of forms suggests that the material world is not true reality but a collection of crude manifestations of ideal, perfect forms—true, unchangeable essences of things existing in their own transcendent realm beyond the material world. According to the theory of forms, a physical chair, for example, is always an imperfect embodiment of the pure idea of a chair—the transcendent form of a chair that is beyond our ability to perceive directly. No physical chair is ever a perfect chair, but some chairs are closer to the ideal than other chairs.
A new solo exhibition of photographs, by photographer Paul Burgess ARPS, exploring how conflicts over the centuries have marked the landscape, opens at the Trinity Arts Centre, Church Road, Tunbridge Wells on Tuesday 28th June and runs until Sunday 3rd July. The free exhibition is open to visitors from 10:00 – 15:30 daily and during evening events at the theatre.
Sound Mirror, Denge Marsh – a 1920’s precursor to radar for tracking enemy aircraft
My passion for landscape photography, which began in the 1990s, has been driven by a fascination with the marks made by man on the landscape and nature’s innate ability to reclaim these sites for itself.
The south of England has been the defensive front line of the UK since the iron age when the Roman legions landed at Richborough in Kent. Since then, successive conflicts have left their marks on the landscape in the form of earthworks and structures. Many of these sites present a multi-layered history of conflicts over hundreds of years, for example, Grain Fort, which started life as a fort to defend the Medway estuary from the Dutch Navy, supported naval guns in WW1 and an anti-aircraft battery in WW2.
Grain Fort, Protecting the Medway Estuary
Layers of Defence, Sheerness Isle of Sheppey, from Napoleon to the Present Day
The photographs, a mixture of digital and 4x5 film monochrome images, are part of an ongoing project exploring how these structures have marked the landscape and how the landscape is reclaiming them.
The project started in 2012 but crystalised in the final year of my degree course in 2020. Researching 2nd world war structures led me to the Extended Defence of Britain Overlay to Google Earth, made available by The Pillbox Study Group. This huge database contains details of the tens of thousands of installations still extant and the extent to which they are still visible.
The images depict some of the more obvious installations along the south coast, but also explore less obvious features, for example, the WW1 rifle range in Ashdown Forest that has been reclaimed by nature so that you will miss it unless you know its location, pill boxes are hidden in the undergrowth along the river Medway, now ad-hoc shelters for sheep and cattle and scenic ponds that were originally WW2 bomb craters.
I feel a strong sense of the presence of the men who manned the installations over time when photographing these sites. Many of the men who served in these locations left their own marks before moving on. The WW1 training area in Ashdown Forest has a particular significance for me as my great uncle trained there before going to France in 1915.
The images depict some of the more obvious installations along the south coast, but also explore less obvious features, for example, the WW1 rifle range in Ashdown Forest that has been reclaimed by nature so that you will miss it unless you know its location, pill boxes are hidden in the undergrowth along the river Medway, now ad-hoc shelters for sheep and cattle and scenic ponds that were originally WW2 bomb craters.
Abandoned WW1 Rifle Range, Ashdown Forest
Overgrown Pill Box, River Medway, Leigh
Warden Point Battery and Radar Station, Isle of Sheppey now under water at high tide due to coastal erosion
Kent has been associated with the production of gun powder and munitions since the 16th century. The marshes along the Thames and Medway are pockmarked with derelict buildings and docks, associated with the production of munitions until they were abandoned at the end of WW2. These places, once hives of industrial activity are now silent remains occupied only by birds and sheep.
Munitions Hut Dartford Marshes
Abandoned Gunpowder Dock – Oare Marshes
This show is a snapshot of my progress to date and not the end of the project. There are many sites locally and more widely in the rest of the UK that I intend to visit and photograph over the coming years.
Exhibition Details
Marks of Conflict is at the Trinity Arts Centre, Church Road, Tunbridge Wells TN1 1JP from the 28th June until the 3rd of July. Opening Times 10:00 – 15:30 Monday – Saturday, and when events are taking place in the theatre in the evenings
Warden Point Battery and Radar Station, Isle of Sheppey now under water at high tide due to coastal erosion
Abandoned WW1 Rifle Range, Ashdown Forest
Overgrown Pill Box, River Medway, Leigh
Munitions Hut Dartford Marshes
Machine Gun Emplacement Rye Harbour
Layers of Defence, Sheerness Isle of Sheppey, from Napoleon to the Present Day
Grain Fort, Protecting the Medway Estuary
Sound Mirror, Denge Marsh – a 1920’s precursor to radar for tracking enemy aircraft
There’s an inevitability about the fact that, sooner or later, the photography bug gets you. For Mattias Sjölund it took a while, like water wearing away stone, and it was the images he saw online that finally transfixed him. From a passion for music, he found himself approaching and conversing with the rock stars of landscape photography. Coming online as a tour operator just as the pandemic broke could have spelt disaster, but Mattias was able to continue with his plans in his home country of Sweden.
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, your education and early interests, and what that led you to do?
I spent my childhood in what I presume would be best described as a classic countryside village with all its charm and challenges. Originating from the inner city, I was somewhat of a stranger to the environment as well as the locals for the first few years and I didn't really make a lot of friends until I turned double digits. As a kid, we had a second home up in the Swedish north and I have only fond memories of the beautiful environments that the Arctic presented. I can only presume somewhere in that age I also grew a love for nature and especially the one of the north.
As I grew older we moved back to the town of Uppsala, a place I very much like to call home, although a few years in Stockholm, as well as Los Angeles in my late teens and late twenties, became a fun and exciting break as I was both a student of and a professional in the vivid music industry of the late nineties. I’d never been good at school; despite that my parents always encouraged higher education but my university experience ended before my first semester in the law program was over. Starting new business ventures somehow was always more appealing and has taken me places I hardly could have imagined as I made my way in both the airport sector, the communication industry as well as a few odd ventures in the creative industry including music and photography.
The coastline of South Wales has a concealed history.
A history of tragedy and death.
A history of lives lost at sea.
The treacherous waters of the Bristol Channel have long been navigated by waterborne vessels and on many a gale driven night or fog laden morning, many of these vessels have foundered on rocks unseen. This photographic work investigates the history of these shipwrecks. The work also inspects the landscape that caused these catastrophes, in particular, Tusker Rock and the coastline of South Wales. Tusker Rock is a submerged reef that sits in the middle of the Bristol Channel. The 500m rock is only visible at low tide and is a notorious hazard for ships and as such it is scattered with maritime skeletal remains.
Ghost Ships and Tides is undoubtedly the most rewarding photographic project I have undertaken. For me, it is the culmination of my personal transfer from commercial/general photographer to art based/project photographer. The shoots that made up the content of the project were the most demanding photo shoots I have ever undertaken.
Unsure as to how best to present the work, the early shoots saw me photographing via large format, DSLR, drone and pinhole camera. The shipwreck locations across South Wales are fairly inaccessible, encompassing miles of walking over beaches, soft sand and dunes to reach them. An eight mile round trip, off road, carrying all the equipment, with a multi-format photoshoot in the middle, is an exhausting thing. In addition to the large format imagery that forms the main body of work, I also created four installation pieces for exhibition purposes. Comprised of drone photography of the surface of the sea, and shipwrecks on the sand, these two images are layered on purpose built stands. Printed via the duratrans method (the shipwreck) and suspended under the sea (glass gelatine cyanotypes), these cyanotrans pieces represent the tumultuous force of our sea in a new way.
The idea for Ghost Ships and Tides came about whilst watching a BBC programme called ‘Hidden Wales’. The presenter, Will Millard was taken to the rock by Ross Martin (a resident of my hometown, Porthcawl) and whilst standing on the rock, Millard said “I think something should be done to remember those lives lost”. I decided to create a project as a legacy to those lost by Tusker Rock.
Initially, Tusker Rock was the main focus, but this soon expanded out and via research became a project across South Wales, focusing on lives lost through shipwrecks in the Bristol channel.
Initially, Tusker Rock was the main focus, but this soon expanded out and via research became a project across South Wales, focusing on lives lost through shipwrecks in the Bristol channel.
My projects centre heavily around landscape, place and memory. These three constants are undeniably interweaved within this work, especially within the starting place, Tusker Rock. I feel enormously privileged to have stood on that rock with my large format camera. The emotions and feelings that I had as I traversed the treacherous rock were overwhelming in their contrasting calm and unsettlement. To be stood in that environment, that is only fully accessible twice a year, but that can be seen from the shore every day (and that I have been fascinated by from a young age) is a memory that I will hold forever.
Whilst landscape is the driving force and the main visual factor behind this project, in reality, the work centres around people. The people who lost their lives. The people who saved the lives of those shipwrecked. People are the most important things that we have in life. Connections that we make in life and an understanding of when something is good is an underlying driving force behind our decisions.
Therefore, this work looks at the people who have lost their lives at sea, in particular in the treacherous waters of the Bristol Channel. These people sailed on ships, on boats, and had an enormous impact upon the industry and economic make up of our land. This work pays homage to the people who on black, stormy nights floated to their salty doom.
This work is a reminder of how treacherous our seas and oceans are. It is a reminder that eventually the seas and oceans, the landscape, nature, and the Earth will one day once again regain control. We as humans do not have control. Our actions are slowly breaking down both our well-being and the environment..
This work is a reminder of how treacherous our seas and oceans are. It is a reminder that eventually the seas and oceans, the landscape, nature, and the Earth will one day once again regain control. We as humans do not have control. Our actions are slowly breaking down both our well-being and the environment. That said, the sea is another ruling factor in this project, in many ways. The project is about the sea and the effect that it has had upon lives, pleasure and industry. It is about the tide and the position of the tide, both for enabling my own capability to shoot and as the deciding factor in whether a ship has easy passage or the potential to flounder. And this project is a reminder of how fragile we are within our watery landscape.
This is a visual story of a treacherous history. A story of foundered ships. A story of submerged doom. A story of pirates. A story of pillars of rock that smashed wood and bent metal.
This is a legacy for the stuttering candles extinguished by the sea.
Fictional Narrative
Imagine standing on Tusker Rock in the dead of night, as the waves wash all around you, your clothes are heavy and soaked. Rain and gale force winds pummel you from every direction. You are freezing to death and the water rises… Imagine…
It was 1882.
It was the year that I died.
I was killed by a rock.
I was killed by a reef.
I was killed by the sea.
I was swamped by waves and water and under I went into the flow and pull of the great tide.
I left behind two beautiful souls.
I left behind another soul, in whose presence I rejoice.
The night I died, the wind was high and the waves were wild. A storm blew in from the south. We lost our way. I couldn’t see the bow of the boat. Waves lashed at my face, rain soaked my skin and drenched my clothes. The sea roiled in a seething mass of foamy spume. And the boat struck the reef. We hit Tusker Rock.
The boat groaned I was thrown forward, and my chest hit hard a cleat. And I fell from the boat. I landed hard on something sharp and dark. The rock. It was beneath me. Blood poured from my arms, my legs, my hands; the rock was so razor sharp. The boat boomed against the black rock. It creaked and tore as the waves pounded it against the reef. I got to my feet and I clambered away from its hulking bulk; I was afraid of being crushed. The wind and the waves were everywhere. They became my world. The wind howled around my ears and I could not hear. The waves roared around my body and I was so cold that I could not feel. I slipped, tripped, slithered and slid across the razor rocks beneath me. With every fall the rock opened my skin and I bled red, red, red. I heard the boat groan again as it was wrenched from the rock and swept away. I knew not what to do. I heard the screams of my crewmates. The dark and wind and the waves were my world.
And the waters rose.
I stood upon the rock only to be knocked over, over, over and over again. The waves tried to wash me into the sea. I clung on with wrecked hands to the rocks, all the while the sea tried to drag me out. My knees tore, I felt bone meet rock. Two hard surfaces competing with one another for grip. All was heavy. Heavy clothes. Heavy waves. Heavy wind. My heart was so heavy, so heavy with the weight of doom that loomed overhead. So I pulled myself up, I pulled up my collar and I faced the cold, on my own. The rock mocked me beneath my heavy feet. And around me, my crewmates, my friends, were dead and drowning.
And the waters rose.
And again a wave knocked me from my feet. The rock vanished from beneath me. There was nothing on which I could stand. In the water, I was thrown around the ocean like a piece of driftwood. The saltwater burned my eyes. The sea filled my mouth. I couldn’t breathe. No breath. The rock that had killed me was nowhere to be found. I had nothing on which to stand. I was engulfed by waves. Torn by the wind. I struggled to stay afloat. My salty tears mixed with the salty sea; a tiny part of me merged with the fury of the ocean. And under I went.
And the waters rose.
I reached up with my hands and they breached the surface. I felt air on my fingertips. The cold brine seethed around my body. I breathed, I inhaled, but it was not aired that I breathed. I breathed water, but fish I was not. I was a man alone in the sea and I breathed water. Submerged, I coughed; the water expelled from my lungs. And I breathed again. Saltwater ravaged my lungs, my body, my mind, my brain. I was taken by the waves. In my mind, I saw…
His face; my boy.
Her face; my girl.
And her face; her face.
And all I wanted was to be out of the sea. The rain fell like a sad song and in that moment, the future did not exist. The only souls I saw were underwater ghosts. Stuttering candles are extinguished by the sea. Memories of old crashed like waves on the shore of my mind.
I am inspired by the work of many photographers, including Paul Wakefield, Bruce Percy, David Ward and Paul Sanders. I can enjoy and happily move between the images of all of these photographers despite their individual approaches and style being so different. For me, the common factor linking them all is the sense of calm and quietness that they bring into their photography in their own unique way.
From this group of photographers, there is one I have returned to many times over the years and that is Paul Wakefield. As a young photographer, it was Paul Wakefield’s early books, especially “Scotland The Place Of Visions” (with Jan Morris 1986) which inspired me. I would spend hours looking through this book over and over again, spellbound by the photographs. The images of Buachaille Etive Mor, the Cuillins and Loch Scavaig were among my favourites. As I explored further it was the intimate compositions of bracken growing out from the rocks on the River Findhorn, or lichen at the Storr on the Isle of Skye, which drew my attention. The level of detail, colour and texture in these images is amazing and all are made in subdued light. In fact, there is almost no direct sunlight in any of Paul’s photographs.
Photography for me lay dormant for many years due to family, work and sporting commitments. Then once again it was the work of Paul Wakefield which I rediscovered and his new book, “The Landscape” (2014). This is an incredible collection of beautiful photographs, any one of which I would happily have hanging on my wall. A little while after rediscovering Paul’s work I bought a new camera, digital this time, and felt inspired to explore the Scottish landscape once again.
The emphasis on going to university or college used to be about getting an education, then choices seemed to be as much about the social side of it (though that was always there) but I wonder if we ever really stop to think about how the people that we meet influence and even change us – or have the potential to. It’s good to hear Michael reflect on this and how much he gained both at the time and subsequently. He talks eloquently about the benefits of nature, his mindset when making images and his own approach to photography.
During the pandemic, many photographers were forced to spend time in their ‘local’ areas (for some definition of local). This might have been in their local park, a stretch of woodland nearby their town or village or a more rural location that was more easily accessible. It seems that for Theodor Paues, adapting to the new normal wasn’t quite as hard as for many. Theodor’s work has changed over the last few years, from his first forays into landscape photography (as documented in On Landscape) to the changes in approach that transformed his passion from craft to art.
In his previous article, he describes how mediaeval sculptors would say that they are just removing the stone that wasn’t needed to reveal gods work. I would suggest that Theodor’s swamp approaches seem a secular version of this phenomenon. As he says “It’s not documenting what I see or experience, it’s bringing out something else and I am often surprised at the end result”.
How does this manifest itself in the book?
We have a collection of images that document a forgotten place, a liminal space on the edge of the parks and local communities. A bog that would be seen by most as ‘useless’. But the images within come together and communicate a cycle of life through the seasons; of growth and decay. Glimpses of order, both found and organised, preserve moments of recognition.
The locals, who may just catch a glimpse of a peculiar five-legged figure with rubber feet disappearing into the gloom, must wonder at what possible reason they could have to wander here and yet the explorer returns with discoveries after each visit. Some discoveries engage long enough to find themselves captured in the pages of the book we browse.
The locals, who may just catch a glimpse of a peculiar five-legged figure with rubber feet disappearing into the gloom, must wonder at what possible reason they could have to wander here
But for all of this space's hidden treasures, the explorer is not alone. I can only imagine the intimate photographer's reenactment of Livingstone and Stanley’s meeting next to Lake Tanganyika - “Mr Strand I presume?!”
The book is in Swedish but comes with an English translation and is an eloquent description of the creative processes involved in the development of the project with a celebratory introduction singing the praises of the swamp by his fellow bog lover and swamp denizen Hans Strand.
I leave you with Theodor’s comments in the last essay of the book…
“Maybe a fragment of The Swamp's reality has always been inside me. Unknown and unredeemed, but still a part of my person. As an intuition, a silent companion in life, when my conscious thoughts were enough. Now partially uncovered.
One part of me wants to return to the security of who I was. But there is no turning back. The feelings and thoughts that emerged in my encounter with the swirling world of The Swamp are now irrevocably etched into my consciousness. I am all this now, for better or worse.”
You can buy Theodor’s book from his website, theodorpaues.se, which is itself, well deserving of exploration (with the assistance of Google Translate for we who are stuck with a single language).
In this issue, we talk to Fabio Marchini from Italy. For numerous people, Italy is well known as a holiday destination. Especially the north of Italy, with the majestic Dolomites, holds a warm place in the hearts of many. For landscape photographers, the Dolomites could be considered part of heaven. Fabio has spent the last 15 years, of which 10 years professionally, photographing exactly this area.
Could you give us a bit of background about yourself and how you got into photography?
In my life I have always had different passions, as a boy up to the age of 20, I played football, then I dedicated myself to various other activities, like fitness and skiing. Not many signs of becoming a professional mountain photographer! My love for photography only started around the age of 23 when I bought my very first compact digital camera. The camera was just a small point-and-click camera to take souvenir shots during my mountain treks.
My real passion for photography was born in 2011 at the age of 28 when I bought my first digital reflex camera, a Nikon D90. I also consider that occasion to be the start of my growth as a photographer. Photography was a wonderful discovery for me, and I suddenly fell in love with it.
I have never studied photography, painting, or any visual art for that matter. I have developed my photography technique and vision over time, by trying to learn from the great landscape photographers that I have admired.
My passion for photography was born of my passion for the mountains. I can definitely say that the mountains have always been my muse. Going on treks in the mountains I discovered the pleasure of taking and bringing home images that could go beyond the simple souvenir photo. I wanted to become a professional photographer as I wanted to carry out a career that came with love, that fit and that could enhance my skills, not only artistic but above all personal.
My professional career in the world of photography started in 2016. I love my job, I like to teach and pass on my passion for photography to those who choose to come on workshops or take an online class with me.
What / who were your first influences/influencers and what do you remember about the images you made?
In the early days when I was making images, I didn't have any real references, but at that time I started attending a well-known photography forum in Italy, I started learning mainly thanks to the feedback and criticism I received on my images from other users.
In the early days when I was making images, I didn't have any real references, but at that time I started attending a well-known photography forum in Italy, I started learning mainly thanks to the feedback and criticism I received on my images from other users.
To learn you must first make a lot of mistakes, it is from your mistakes that you learn and improve.
I like to observe and try to grasp what can be a source of inspiration for me. To do this, the person doesn't necessarily need to be my favourite photographer, there are many aspects and facets in photography. This is why I consider it important to observe and analyse every shot that appears fascinating to our eyes regardless of who took it. I think that every good photographer has something to teach.
In Italy, there are many good photographers, but I want to mention Enrico Fossati as he has certainly been a reference for me all these years, even if we have quite different styles. To learn how to photograph and develop your own style, you must observe a lot and try to copy little.
Has anything remained a constant? Or has your photography changed over time?
My photography has changed a lot over time, and luckily so, I might add. Change is also synonymous with evolution, so it means that over time I have grown and consequently I have changed my approach to photography. For me, photography is a constantly evolving artistic and personal journey. What I have never changed is the kind of photography… I always photograph only landscapes.
Can you explain something about your passion for the mountains?
The mountains have always fascinated me, their shapes, their silence, their majesty, they always made my soul vibrate with emotions. Being in the mountains for me means feeling grateful for what I have in life. Whenever I find myself living and photographing certain landscapes, I feel very lucky and for this, I must be grateful to nature and to myself.
The mountains have always fascinated me, their shapes, their silence, their majesty, and have always made my soul vibrate with emotions. Being in the mountains for me means feeling grateful for what I have in life.
I started going to the mountains frequently at the age of 23, I have always done many treks, even quite demanding ones, but I have never practised mountaineering or other more extreme activities. One could say I was a mountain-addict long before I became a photographer. As soon as I discovered my passion for photography, I combined the two, and the two reinforced each other. As a result, I certainly discovered wanting to improve my photography and how magical it is to go to the mountains during sunrise and sunset times, and especially how early or late, that can be.
I have never taken courses in mountaineering or anything else, simply because I do not do anything extreme or difficult. To go to the mountains and do what I do, it is enough to be fit and to know the mountains and the different locations. Obviously, in 15 years of going to the mountains, I have also learned a lot of things from experience.
What should the reader understand about hiking and climbing (to keep safe and take the best pictures)?
Never improvise in the mountains! When escaping into the mountains it is of utmost importance to plan the route in line with your abilities and study the weather forecasts. As Conditions in the mountains can change very, very quickly. Not being prepared can be a risk too for your safety, not to mention the joy of taking photographs.
Be aware of thunderstorms. during the summer. These are certainly one of the most underestimated dangers by photographers and hikers…. It is not pleasant to be in a huge thunderstorm with lightning all around you. Take it from someone who tried it.
Of course, we shouldn’t forget that unusual circumstances also create rare opportunities for beautiful pictures. If you are in search of the right atmosphere, and you have doubt that a thunderstorm may occur, look for a location that offers shelter. This could be a cave or an emergency bivouac. In doing so you can go in search of the most spectacular conditions, without running into personal danger.
Except for the mountains, which obviously inspire you, are there any other areas where you seek inspiration or are motivated by?
I can sum it up by saying that I like wild nature, without a hint of reference to manmade work. I have a passion for the Nordic countries: Norway, Canada, and Alaska, just to name a few. These countries fascinate me because of their extensive wild lands, places where nature reigns supreme. The great landscapes of North America, for example, with coniferous forests, towering mountains, glaciers, and rushing rivers, are for me the true essence of wild nature.
Can you lead us through your portfolio using a couple of photographs and tell us why they are so special to you?
Between heaven and hell
I consider this to be my first “big photo” that I took after a year of photographing mountains, and it represents one of the most epic conditions I've ever witnessed in my life.
Lagazuoi
Lagazuoi is one of my favourite places in the heart of the Dolomites and this photo tells how spectacular this location can be.
Shower of light
This photo will always remind me of what it means to shoot after a storm… an incredible light that made that sunset something unforgettable.
Can you explain to the readers the philosophy behind your photography?
Photography for me is not just a passion, but a path of personal growth.
I think that in photography there is never a point of arrival, but only a continuous growth and evolution over the years. I certainly like to recognise myself in the photos I take. By this, I mean not only conveying the beauty of the places but also my philosophy, feelings and emotions I experience in those locations that I visit.
What kind of post-processing do you do on your photographs? Could you give us an idea of your workflow?
It is important to always remember that it is landscape photography we are practising. The result, however modified it may be, must in my opinion retain a certain naturality. Whoever observes our images must still find them realistic and natural regardless of the interventions carried out during the editing phase.
Whoever observes our images must still find them realistic and natural regardless of the interventions carried out during the editing phase.
The first step is to perform general optimisation with Adobe Camera Raw. In Camera Raw, I try to choose the brightness that suits the picture best. Thereby trying to maintain details in the rather dark shadows and mid-tones, without giving too much weight to the more consistent shadows too much. Even from the chromatic perspective, I try to intervene to find the right colours and therefore make the shot as optimised as possible.
Once the general changes are made in Camera Raw this phase is completed and I move on to the next step in Photoshop. I use Photoshop mainly to apply local adjustments through dedicated masks. In Photoshop I almost never make a single adjustment that applies to the whole image, but I make multiple adjustments based on the various areas of interest. Interventions in Photoshop are done in a more targeted way, aimed at invoking changes in colour and putting and putting more, or less emphasis on specific (high)lights and shadows. It happens that multiple images need consistent targeted colour changes; Photoshop offers me the possibility to do them more effectively.
I use a creative post production, aimed at interpreting the individual images and according to my personal artistic vision. No picture is developed in the same manner, but development always differs based on the image I am developing. This doesn't mean I change my workflow, but it does change the way I use and dose the various techniques and adjustments. For that reason, I don't use presets.
Instead of the presets I use some very useful tools, such as the "Tonality mask" plug-in created by the Italian photographer Gaspare Silveri. This plug-in allows you, in addition to the classic luminosity mask, to create many masks quickly and intuitively according to your needs. The panel also has other interesting actions that are useful in developing images. Coming back to the shadows and highlights there are many techniques all very similar, leading to (slightly) different results.
Experience helps, you learn which tools suit you best and understand when to use one technique rather than another. Don’t let yourself be misled/fooled by the apparent ease some people display while editing a picture, hundreds of hours of trial and error, and as a result experience, is the foundation!
Can you explain what's in your backpack (both photography and unrelated to photography) and why?
In my camera backpack, I have the following equipment: Nikon D800, Nikon 14-24 f/2.8, Nikon 24-120 f/4, Sigma 100-400 f/5-6.3 and a Mavic 2 pro, and next to this all sorts of accessories. You will not find any filters in my bag as I find them highly impractical, and masks lead to the same results. Make sure you have fully charged spare batteries. If it is really cold, keep them as close to your body as possible. The cold will drain batteries quickly
I prefer to use zoom lenses because in landscape photography it is important to have a certain flexibility with focal lengths. Fixed focal lengths also tend to be heavier. When trekking, weight is an important factor in the equation. That same factor also comes into play choosing a tripod, is one of the reasons I chose a Sirui T-2204X.
I also use the Mavic drone because it allows you to have a unique view that would otherwise be impossible to attain. For me, the drone is like having an additional lens in the Landscape photographer’s backpack. I do not consider myself an aerial photographer but use the drone if I think attaining a higher point of view will add to the quality and visual impact of the image.
After all, not all locations are suitable for the use of a drone. Furthermore, to achieve shooting it is not enough to simply fly the drone and shoot from above. Taking good photographs is already difficult, photographing with the drone is even more complicated if you want to obtain pictures with the same quality and impact. For me, therefore, the drone is an extra work tool, which I use only when I think it allows me to really create a better picture given a certain interesting situation. I will not go flying the drone to find this context but to have something in mind and then conclude that flying the drone could give me an extra opportunity.
In addition to the photography equipment, I always carry a down jacket to wear once on site, a raincoat for obvious reasons, gloves, and a hat. The temperatures in the mountains can fluctuate tremendously, both in summer and in winter and treks can be quite demanding physically. To replenish the loss of fluids, water is also standard in the bag and my backpack is never missing a fresh shirt. For longer more demanding treks and overnights, I use an 80L hiking backpack, so that I can take food and everything I need for the night bivouac with me.
Which people inspire you photographically and why?
I have always tried to be inspired by the many good photographers that the web allows us to admire. I'm not used to picking out favourite photographers, but if you ask me who is one of the photographers I admire most, I would definitely say Marc Adamus, as he is a great adventurer and because he is one of the photographers in the world to have unique and exclusive images. He was the one who created a style from which amongst many others I take inspiration. In addition, he has a truly incredible photographic vision, for me, his work remains one of the reference points.
Adamus teaches me that to have exclusive images, you first have to be an explorer. In recent years, in my own small way, I have been trying to photographically explore still little-known places both in the Dolomites and beyond!
Over the last year I come to be very impressed by the shots of the photographer Filip Hrebenda. He has grown a lot and has come to consistently deliver pictures with very high-quality levels. He is in my opinion one of the top photographers of landscape photography despite, at the moment, he is still relatively little known. His photos are impeccable from all points of view, which is why I invite you to go and get familiar with his work.
As I am sure many photographers across the globe got to experience first-hand during COVID, being restricted to your local area for photography can be either a blessing or a curse, depending on your personal outlook and what’s close by. It is my opinion that these restrictions, given the proper mindset, can really expand your creativity and range as a photographer, and allow you to deeply explore themes and ideas close to home while reducing your carbon footprint – all good things! In the case of this article’s subject, Tristan Todd, that is exactly what he has been able to do over the past three years. Tristan has committed himself to focus solely on landscapes that are close to his home in Vancouver, British Columbia, and I think the results of that focus have really shined through in his more recent work.
In conversation with Tristan, he shared with me that a lot of his photography is conducted in the lush rainforests accessible by a short bus ride from his home and that this closeness has allowed him to become much more familiar with the terrain, when to know when conditions are ideal for certain types of images, what times of day to arrive to make the most of any given situation, and of course, increasing the amount of time spent making images as opposed to travelling. Now, one could argue that Tristan highly benefits from being in one of the world’s most naturally beautiful destinations already, and there is absolutely truth to that; however, I personally believe that this approach can really improve one’s images over time no matter where you live, and it can greatly extend your love and appreciation for the craft of landscape photography.
Ask yourself whether you are happy, and you cease to be so. ~J. S. Mill
Lately, I have been pondering the prospect of happiness. Questions flood my mind as the topic surges in and out on a daily - hourly - basis. What does it mean to be happy? How can one become happy? Is there even such a thing as "becoming" happy? If so, what is the cost of such a goal? Most importantly, perhaps: why is it that we, as a society, grow to find ourselves unhappy, despite it seeming as though, as children, we are always happy? (https://science.howstuffworks.com/life/inside-the-mind/emotions/kids-happier-than-adults.htm)
Lastly, I wonder, what does one's state of happiness have to do with art and the creation therefore?
As I begin writing this piece, I sit on the porch of my family's cabin in northern Pennsylvania. The weather is rather warm for a mid-March day, the sky mostly clear of clouds, the sun beaming upon the lake, still as glass. A slight breeze toys with a windsock as it stands tall on the grassy runway, which used to be frequented by my grandparents' plane years ago.
Whatever leaves are left upon trees around me, rustle gently in the breeze. A squirrel plays around in the brush to my left, searching for whatever nuts it may have buried long before the winter season. Birds chirp and ducks quack. And atop the mountain, at the edge of the property, the warehouse is bustling with activity - the only sign of human existence, other than myself.
There's a general sense of solitude here. Perhaps that has to do with the lack of the typical hustle-and-bustle the world finds itself consistently entangled within. Despite the usual chaos my mind finds itself delving into, the solitude creeps within me, calming me. Is this what happiness feels like? Though I cannot say for sure, it seems as though this is the closest to it I have ever gotten. Perhaps it is the closest I will ever get.
When people think of happiness, and compare it to how others view the same emotion, they may often find their definitions skewed. Not everyone garners the same emotions from similar aspects of life. For instance, the joy felt whilst wandering the woods is something from which I derive great joy - perhaps something which could be considered happiness; however, someone who grew up in the city may find it disgusting to be out amidst the wilderness and the various insects and animals which may be found. Another example of this variation in emotions is the happiness an expecting mother feels, versus someone who has no desire for children. Though the latter may empathise with the expecting mother, it is understood if they were in the expecting mother's shoes, they would not feel the same way.
Australia is the driest and most fire-prone continent on Earth and every summer bushfires sweep across the landscape. The 2019-2020 bushfire season was amongst the worst the country has experienced and has become known as “Black Summer”. Millions of hectares of bush were ravaged by fires, some burning for months. The fires resulted not only in the loss of many human lives, but also it has been estimated-the lives of billions of animals (mammals, birds, reptiles and frogs) and trillions of insects. It will take years for the environment to recover, and more than likely never to anything resembling its former state.
While the major fires were largely confined to the eastern states of Australia, my home state of Western Australia was not immune. Of particular concern to me was the fire that swept through the Stirling Range National Park in the southwest of Western Australia, not only because it is a landscape I love, but also because I knew the threat it posed to its many unique floral species.
The fire was started by a lightning strike during a dry thunderstorm on Boxing Day 2019. It was an intense fire, creating a huge pyrocumulus cloud that could be seen over 80 kilometres away as it burned its way through the landscape. It took over 200 firefighters a week to bring it under control. By the time it had finished sweeping its way across the landscape it had burnt through 40,000 hectares of the Park’s 116,000 hectares of pristine bush.
Bluff Knoll before the fire.
Australia is the driest and most fire-prone continent on Earth and every summer bushfires sweep across the landscape. The 2019-2020 bushfire season was amongst the worst the country has experienced and has become known as “Black Summer”.
Bluff Knoll after the fire.
The Stirling Range National Park is located in the southwest corner of Western Australia, 400 kilometres south of Perth, the state capital of Western Australia, where I live. The southwest of Western Australia is an internationally recognised biodiversity hotspot with high levels of endemic plants. The National Park is a world renowned wildflower wonderland and every wildflower season it attracts thousands of wildflower enthusiasts from around Australia and overseas. People come not only to enjoy the amazing variety of wildflowers found there but also to immerse themselves in the wild beauty of its magnificent mountain scenery.
The Stirling Range was named after the first British Governor of Western Australia, Sir James Stirling, in 1835. But the local indigenous people, the Noongar, know these mountains as Koi Kyeunu-ruff - meaning “place of ever moving about mist and fog”. This is surely a fitting name for the “Stirlings” which are renowned for the unusual cloud formations that frequently form around the summits of the higher peaks even when the rest of the sky is clear. Perhaps it was this phenomenon that prompted a local newspaper in 1937 to describe the Stirlings as the “Mountains of Mystery”.
Grass tree flower spikes can be up to three metres long and contain thousands of tiny flowers.
The Stirlings are not a true mountain range, but rather a series of isolated hills and peaks. At 1,095 metres, Bluff Knoll is the highest peak in the Range. While not high by world or even Australian standards, the way the jagged peaks of the Stirlings rise abruptly from the surrounding plain of the West Australian Wheatbelt makes them appear much higher than they actually are. It is the only major mountain range within the southern half of Western Australia, and the higher peaks are the only place in Western Australia where a light dusting of snow occasionally falls. It is a mountain landscape devoid of great rivers or lakes, having only seasonal creeks and a few salt lakes on its fringes.
The Stirling Range was declared a National Park in 1913 at a time when the surrounding bush was being cleared for agricultural land. The Park encloses the entire Stirling Range mountain system which extends over 60 kilometres from east to west and 30 kilometres from north to south. Today it forms an island of undisturbed pristine bush set amidst a sea of cleared farmland.
There are over 1,500 plant species growing within the Park’s borders. That is more plant species than are found in the entire British Isles. More than 80 species are endemic, meaning they grow nowhere else in the world. Over 100 orchid species have been identified in the Park, around 40 percent of all the orchid species known to occur in Western Australia. No wonder a botanist has described it as “a coral reef out of water”.
There are over 1,500 plant species growing within the Park’s borders. That is more plant species than are found in the entire British Isles. More than 80 species are endemic, meaning they grow nowhere else in the world.
Regrowth on the upper branches of a tree sprouting from epicormic buds.
Regrowth from epicormic buds on the trunk of a tree that is shedding its bark.
The mountain bells (Darwinia sp.) are perhaps the most famous of all the endemic plant species growing within the Park. These showy shrubs only grow above the 300 metre contour level. Of the ten species that are known, nine of them are only found in the Stirling Range and with some species even confined to individual peaks. Rather than a single flower, the “bell” is in fact a cluster of hanging flowers enclosed by large colourful petal-like leaves referred to as “bracts”.
I usually make several trips to the Stirlings every year, mostly in spring and early summer when the wildflowers are in bloom as photographing wildflowers is one of my passions, my main one photographing fungi.
The flowers are pollinated by nectar-feeding birds and since birds find their food by sight the bells are brightly coloured to attract their attention.
I usually make several trips to the Stirlings every year, mostly in spring and early summer when the wildflowers are in bloom as photographing wildflowers is one of my passions, my main one photographing fungi. (Yes, even though I subscribe to On Landscape, I am mainly into close-up nature photography!). But I also love visiting the Park in winter when the peaks are often covered in swirling mist and the landscape takes on an ominous atmosphere that makes you feel that these truly are “mountains of mystery”. But perhaps, most of all, it could be because misty mountain tops remind me of my native Ireland. A touch of “hiraeth” perhaps?
But I don’t only go to the Stirlings for the photographic opportunities on offer. I also go there to immerse myself in its wild, rugged mountain landscape and to be at one with nature. It is a place that feeds my soul; a place where I can clear my mind of all the accumulated clutter I acquired back in the built environment and quieten my inner thoughts enough to engage in meaningful creative work. It is a place where I can think with clarity that’s not possible back in the built environment with all its distractions constantly making demands on my attention.
This tree is not giving up!
In 2020 I made my first trip to the Stirlings some eight months after the fire. Driving towards the Park along a road bordered on either side by lush green farmland left me unprepared for the full extent of the devastation that was about to unfold. As I drew closer to the Park I could see that the fire had swept over the summits of even the highest peaks.
As I entered the Park, what had once been thick mallee bush on either side of the road was now only its blackened, charred remains. Surveying the fire scarred landscape all around me the devastation was well beyond what I had imagined.
I knew these peaks were home to some unique plant species-such as the mountain bells-and that their long-term survival as a species would now be at risk.
As I entered the Park, what had once been thick mallee bush on either side of the road was now only its blackened, charred remains. Surveying the fire scarred landscape all around me the devastation was well beyond what I had imagined. Even though I had seen images of the aftermath of the fire in the media it had not prepared me for what now lay before me. Of course, I was only witnessing the destruction the fire had wrought on the vegetation, but no doubt countless animals would have lost their lives. Given all that had been lost, it was impossible not to feel an immense sense of grief.
When viewing such devastation it is difficult to accept that it is all part of the natural cycle and has been happening for millions of years; a reminder, if one is needed, that the landscape is in a perpetual state of flux. But, given time, just as it has done many times in the past, the environment will recover, although it will probably be changed forever. Indeed looking around me I could see that the rejuvenation process had already begun, for amidst the blackened, charred remains, fresh green shoots were already rising from the ashes. But this did not surprise me since Australia’s flora have evolved with recurrent fires over millions of years and have developed strategies to ensure their long-term survival. In fact, some plant species are reliant on fire for flowering and seed release.
This tree has shed the thick bark that has protected its trunk from the heat of the fire and is resprouting from a lignotuber
Rising from the ashes
Grass trees (Xanthorrhoea species) are amongst the first species to recover after a fire. They retain their old dead leaves which form a “skirt” around the trunk that helps protect it from the heat of the fire. While not wholly dependent on fire for flowering, it stimulates the plant to flower and set seed. Their new leaf growth and white flower spikes can be seen dotting the blackened landscape soon after a fire. Their long cylindrical flower spikes can be up to three metres long and contain thousands of tiny flowers. They are extremely slow growing and many of the plants in the included images would be hundreds of years old and have survived many fires.
Plants that are not killed by fire resprout from either lignotubers or epicormic buds. Lignotubers are below ground rejuvenating buds that can sprout new growth from the plants root system which has survived the heat of the fire. Plants that regenerate from lignotubers can survive many fires. Epicormic buds are dormant buds that are protected from the heat of the fire by lying deep beneath the thick bark of a stem, branch or trunk of woody shrubs or trees. They produce leaves that enable the plant or tree to photosynthesise after it has been defoliated by fire. This new growth can be seen growing up the side of tree trunks or their upper branches soon after a fire.
Plants that are killed by fire rely on seeds for regeneration. The seeds are either stored on the plant or a seed bank in the soil that is insulated from the heat of the fire. Seeds that are stored on the plant are enclosed in hard woody fruits that require the heat of a fire to stimulate fruit opening and seed release. After germination, the seedlings need to be able to reach maturity before the next fire in order to produce seeds. If there is too short an interval between fires then the seedlings will not have matured enough to produce seeds and there will be no next generation.
Regrowth emerging from an epicormic bud beneath the burnt bark of a tree.
Some of the mountain dwelling species are slow growing and can take as much as ten to fifteen years before they are mature enough to produce seed. This is the case with the mountain bells which rely on seeds for regeneration and are slow to mature. This puts them at risk of extinction if there is too short an interval between fires. With the drying climate, particularly in the southwest of Western Australia, this is already happening. The bushfire season is lasting longer and fires are not only becoming more frequent but also more intense.
What really stood out amidst the blackened landscape was the huge number of ground dwelling orchids that were in flower. A park ranger who has been in the Park for over ten years said that it was the best year for orchids he had ever seen.
What really stood out amidst the blackened landscape was the huge number of ground dwelling orchids that were in flower. A park ranger who has been in the Park for over ten years said that it was the best year for orchids he had ever seen. It is common for orchids to flower in large numbers following a summer bushfire, something many orchid enthusiasts eagerly look forward to.
Orchids have adapted to fire by remaining dormant during the warmer bushfire prone months and only start to emerge in late autumn and early spring. They can survive many fires as their reproductive organs (tubers) are located underground well insulated from the heat of the fire. By flowering and producing seeds soon after a fire, there is less competition from other plants and a nutrient rich bed of ash for the seeds. Interestingly, there are some orchid species that will rarely flower without fire and in its absence will only produce a leaf.
I returned to the Stirlings in the spring of 2021, a year since my last visit and just over a year and a half since the fire. The regrowth was still underway but it was obvious that it was going to be a great many years before the environment is restored to anything in the least resembling its former state and, given my age, probably not in my lifetime. There were still large patches of earth devoid of any form of vegetation making it susceptible to erosion and weed infestation. Just as in the previous year, there were huge numbers of orchids in flower and they were very easy to spot in a landscape still largely devoid of undergrowth.
These hard woody fruits required the heat of a fire to open and release their seeds.
While the flora is slowly recovering it will be many years before the burnt areas are fully recolonised by animals. I only saw a few emus and kangaroos in the burnt areas during my trips, but as most Australian animals are nocturnal this was not really surprising. Unfortunately, as native animals start to move into the now more open landscape they will be highly susceptible to predation by the introduced European red fox and feral cats. Feral cats and foxes are threatening the survival of hundreds of Australian native species that have not evolved with these predators. They are already responsible for the extinction of some ground dwelling birds and small to medium-sized animals.
At the time I made my trips to the Stirlings (in 2020 and 2021) Western Australia had closed its border to interstate and overseas travel to help contain the spread of COVID (which it did very successfully). This meant that Western Australians who would normally have travelled interstate or overseas could now only travel within the state. This resulted in a huge increase in visitors to the Park with one report saying numbers had increased by more than 150 per cent. Many of these visitors were people who would not normally have visited the Park if other options had been available. I am not sure what impact this increase in visitor numbers has had-if any-on the environment as many of these visitors were not the environmentally aware, or outdoor type (given the increase in the number of mountain rescues).
The common mountain bell (Darwinia lejostyla) only grows in the Stirling Range.
But it is not only fire that is threatening the unique flora of the Stirling Range. It is also under threat from “Dieback disease”, a plant disease caused by the soil-borne fungus Phytophthora cinnamomi. It infects the root system of plants eventually killing them.
Even though I have been deeply saddened by the devastation that the fire has caused to a landscape I love I still relish my time immersed in the wild mountainous landscape of the Stirling Range.
But it is not only plants that are under threat from the disease, birds, animals and insects that rely on susceptible plants for their survival are also at risk. The fungus was introduced into Australia by the early settlers and up to a third of the Park may be infected. With the huge increase in visitor numbers comes the risk that the disease could be spread even further throughout the Park.
Even though I have been deeply saddened by the devastation that the fire has caused to a landscape I love I still relish my time immersed in the wild mountainous landscape of the Stirling Range. Our modern way of life has severed our connection with the natural world which is why we need wild places such as this where we can reestablish that connection and once again experience oneness with nature. We must ensure the preservation of these wild places, not only as a refuge for the non-human life forms that depend on them for their survival but also as a refuge for humankind from the artificiality of modern life.
'From the seahouse' is a collection of images and words that have formed over five successive winters of living, writing, and photographing from a remote Scottish beach.
Although primarily a photographic book, 'from the seahouse' also holds a story. A story that begins when, exhausted by travel and depleted by loss, I rent a neglected croft-house at the edge of the sea. Stilled by the act of photographing,
Although primarily a photographic book, 'from the seahouse' also holds a story. A story that begins when, exhausted by travel and depleted by loss, I rent a neglected croft-house at the edge of the sea.
I draw down emotionally and artistically and enter an intense relationship both with the house and with the beach. What develops is not only a portrait of the shoreline but a series of interwoven poems which, together with the photographs, illuminate the power of landscape to trigger memory and emotion.
My thoughts of the seahouse will always be dominated by an impression of containment: a quiet wrapping of moor around the house, truncating sightlines and forcing me to look seawards, out towards the Summer Isles and the distant hills of Coigach and An Teallach.
Immediately beneath the house, a dip of warrened machair seeps into an arc of wind-planed beach, where the first, and the most powerful, of three winter burns slices across the sand. It carries uncertainty: changing course daily, moving stones, opening fissures. Then, after 800m or so, the sweep of sand breaks against a spine of shallow rocks. A rise of dune and marram grass leads into a second, shell-rich bay where the herons fish. Here, a tidal lagoon, bottomed by filigreed slabs of coloured rock, pulses to a mirror back. A third rise and the landscape changes once again, into a run of brick-red cliffs and a rough, scarified foreshore that holds more pools of floating weed and richly marked stones.
Unable to drive, I am bounded by the distance I can walk, and so this short stretch of coast becomes the landscape of my imagination.
Stilled by the act of photographing and unfettered from time, images surface quietly. Banishing thoughts of 'too bright', 'too dull', I let myself wander, adjusting myself to the height of the tide and the strength of the wind.
Stilled by the act of photographing and unfettered from time, images surface quietly. Banishing thoughts of 'too bright', 'too dull', I let myself wander, adjusting myself to the height of the tide and the strength of the wind.
The large, fixed forms of landscape retreat and I find myself drawn towards transient things, a drift of weed, the play of light on submerged rocks. Immersing myself in sea and tidal pools, I look for flights of extraordinary colour in weathered stones and a float of sky. On scarce, frozen days, I scour the littoral for ice-fast rocks and imprisoned weed and, when the wind is down and the light is low, I seek the scarce tumbled stones that, when photographed against a swirl of sand and shell, become a universe of planets.
As night draws in, I write, drawing words from the same physical and emotional landscape as the images. Whilst the photographs have a stillness that belies the tumult of the winter shoreline, my thoughts and words explore that turmoil: the raw physical power and fugacity of the winter environment and my internal world, where unsettling memories and unresolved grief are unlocked by a sudden scent or a turn of a stone. These are the hardest hours of the project - confronting the issues that brought me to the beach and probing the connections between the life I have lived and the images I make.
My father was a keeper of stones. He kept them in a drawer and on special days would take them out and name them. An incantation that conjured worlds where devils lost their toenails and snakes were turned to stone. Where insects began as woodlice and featherless birds skimmed the skies.
On perfect days he would let me choose one. My hand would hover between the glistening pull of mica schist and the delicate fronds of a crinoid fan. And, although the mica was buttery and shone with the softest mercurial light, I loved the life within the crinoid. The star like segments of its fractured stem. Tracing their outline, I would imagine it whole and living, its tentacles moving with the brush of passing prey'. - extract from 'A Memory of Stones.
My father and I had met over stones.
The impulse to draw the words and images into a book came in waves. At first, driven by the idea to create one beautiful object and with a passion for printing, I saw 'from the seahouse' as an 'artist's book': a single book, printed by me and bound in collaboration with an artisan bookbinder. An invitation to exhibit made me think that such a book could become a focus, turning an exhibition into an installation, comprising a book, prints and a soundscape of the beach. But, as I explored the options, I ran into difficulty finding paper of the right size and grain direction that would allow me to realise the drum leaf folded, lay-flat structure I was looking for. And so, as I reluctantly moved towards accepting the idea of outsourcing the printing, I began to re-think the value of the book.
Asking 'artistic' friends and fellow photographers to review the spreads, I came to see that, by tying together my emotional response to the beach and the images that arose from it, the collection had gone beyond a simple portrait of a place and was reflecting my personal creative journey. And so, I settled on printing 100 copies to accompany a mid-summer installation and having designed the layout, I put myself in the hands of exacting bookmaker and friend, Eddie Ephraums (Envisage books), to make the final tweaks and supervise the printing. The plan is to print 'from the seahouse' on high quality Mohawk Eggshell paper and, because of the weight of the paper, to make two volumes, hand-glued and finished. Which is all very well, but as many of you will have experienced, comes at a cost.
I chose Kickstarter rather than some of the other crowdfunding platforms because of its arts focus, and I could see that it had plenty of photography projects attempting to raise funds.
This brings me to my experience of launching a crowdfunding campaign to help manage the printing costs. I chose Kickstarter rather than some of the other crowdfunding platforms because of its arts focus, and I could see that it had plenty of photography projects attempting to raise funds. I wasn't especially daunted by Kickstarter's condition that you must reach your full funding goal or receive nothing.
In preparation for the campaign, I created lists of potential backers: friends, family, my photography network, and people who live locally and who might be interested in having a book about their place. For months before, I posted regularly on social media, targeting and building up a substantial following within the LinkedIn photography groups. I thought hard about a hierarchy of rewards, essentially incentives to encourage backers to pledge. These included prints which could reward small pledges and higher value rewards, including the book itself – which, of course, becomes a way of pre-selling the book. What I didn't think hard enough about was the value of a 'marketing' video. Kickstarter advises that 80% of successful projects have a video, and with insufficient pre-thought, the making of the video became the toughest challenge of the pre-launch phase. If I had my time over again, I would have made a better plan.
As of today (23rd May), I am 12 days into a 60-day campaign and the project is 66% funded {77% as of 2nd June - Ed}, which is brilliant news. Most of the pledges have come from my friends and from my photographic network, the majority of whom are choosing to pre-order a book. Of course, it's not rocket science that my closest social network has responded early and that, as time goes on, I can expect support to dwindle, unless I can recruit new backers.
I am still trying to think creatively about where they might come from and the best time and ways to reach them. Could they come from the larger Kickstarter community? The platform certainly has a large philanthropic following which is eager to engage with projects. One of the most consistently successful photographic projects is the "Remembering wildlife" series by Margot Raggett. She brings together images from some of the world's top wildlife photographers and makes beautiful coffee table books. It's easy to see a wide appeal, especially as profits on sales go to wildlife charities. Her most recent 'Remembering bears' made almost £150,000. However, most of us, including me, have less globally compelling projects! So far, I have seen 20% of the funds raised coming from the Kickstarter community.
Would I do it again? Possibly. It's certainly a lot of work, but if I can reach the funding target and bring the book to print, it will all have been worthwhile! And should I exceed the target, then not only will it help fund the framing costs for the exhibition, but maybe I could think about the commissioning of a bookbinder to create that one 'beautiful object'.
If you are curious to learn more, the link below will take you to the 'from the seahouse' campaign page where there is a second link from where you will be able to see all the images as a flipbook.
Completely entranced and with goosebumps stippled arms, I sat staring at the large cinema style screen in front of me. I could barely take a breath. Before me was an underwater world that was filled with mystery and inexplicable beauty. The speaker’s voice faded into the background as my mind’s eye wandered around and through a watery realm. Like Alice in Wonderland, I had been shrunk and placed in an environment I had never imagined seeing. Mesmerizing light from above filtered through the veins of the translucent canopy and gently painted my surroundings. I felt the teasing tug of the river current as the stems of the giant lily pads slowly waltzed to the rhythm of nature. The fantasy was holding me captive, and I did not want it to end. I felt one with the image before me.
Such was one of my most overwhelming visual experiences with a photograph. It was one that helped me understand the profound power of an image. In fact, it may have been a pivotal moment for me, as a novice photographer, to recognize the true significance and impact of capturing and portraying the true magic of nature.
I was roused from my reverie when the next image came up on the screen and the voice of the speaker once again reached my ears. It was the voice of world-renowned photographer Frans Lanting. From that moment on I was hooked on every word.
Considered one of the greatest photographers of the natural world, Frans Lanting is best known for immersing himself, literally and figuratively, into the environment and capturing aspects of nature seldom seen. His eye-level, expressive images always excite viewers as they share his discovery of the extraordinary wonders of the world.
The Landscape Group of the RPS have launched an outdoor exhibition across several cities for 2022. Having just opened in Edinburgh and running until 18th June, the event will move next to York, then south and finally moving towards London in the autumn. We chose an outdoor exhibition to show the genre to a wider audience, including passers-by, and to give a standard “look & feel” as the event moves around the UK.
This is a first time exhibition by the group to show members’ work, with images chosen on a Selection Day back in February. The 61 images have been printed onto vinyl and onto 22 high-quality, weather-resistant boards; local RPS members have very kindly volunteered to support each location. We are pleased with how the first event looks, 2 runs totalling 25 metres at opposite corners of St. Andrew Square, by the major tram stop. The York location is also central, on the riverside in front of York Museum Gardens
· 22nd May to 18th June St Andrew Square in central Edinburgh.
· 26th June to 10th July Dame Judi Dench Walk, York (*on the Riverside adjacent to Museum Gardens.)
Further locations and dates for the exhibition as we move south will be announced in due course.
More details are here: https://rps.org/Landscape-EXPO22/
Here are four images, with a few comments from the photographers.
Church in the Sea, by Rolf Kraehenbuehl ARPS
I consider myself fortunate to live near the North Wales Coast, with many stunning locations. Living near these places allows repeat visits throughout the different seasons and at various times of the day. St. Cwyfan's Church, often also called "Church in the Sea", is a small, lovely chapel off the west coast of Anglesey. Before the pandemic, it was still used three times a year for service.
The chapel is accessible by foot only, via a tidal causeway. The church is often photographed when completely surrounded by the sea, or with the causeway partially submerged and with the still visible tops of the rocks along the causeway serving as a leading line towards the chapel. Looking for a different composition and viewing angle - away from the main tripod holes - it took me many visits at different heights of the tide, and a good deal of crouching and crawling on the beach, to finally spot this small rock formation, which I've chosen as the foreground, to create an image which is hopefully a bit different.
Loch Tay Island, by Janet Lowe LRPS
I took this photograph from the shores of Loch Tay in the town of Kenmore in Perthshire. The mountain in the distance is Ben Lawers, one of Scotland’s highest mountains. I waited for the evening light to be reflected in the loch and chose an exposure that captured the lovely stillness of the scene. I am delighted to see my image included in this exhibition. The RPS Landscape Group organises many interesting projects and motivates me to continue to develop my practice as a landscape photographer. I hope the photographs inspire members of the public to see the world in new ways.
Contemplation, by Ingrid Popplewell
This is an image of an iconic lighthouse at Burnham on Sea on the north Somerset coast. But rather than being about the lighthouse it is about the mood conveyed by the little structure seemingly contemplating its vast, and on this occasion, calm and peaceful, seascape. This image is only possible at certain times of the year when there is a particularly high tide which coincides with the sunset.
Reach for the Sky, by Alastair Purcell LRPS
The photo was taken at Win Green Hill, the highest point on Cranborne Chase in Wiltshire, where there is a copse of beech trees. The copse lends itself to a fisheye lens shot, for which I had to lie on my back and shoot vertically up, producing a converging picture of tree trunks and branches, giving the impression of veins in a human body. It was shot with a high ISO giving a fast shutter speed to minimise movement due to wind on that cold January day.
Notes on RPS Landscape Group
The RPS, current patron HRH The Duchess of Cambridge, was founded in 1853 to promote the art and science of photography. Today, the RPS mission is to bring inspiration, creativity and connection through photography to people of all ages and backgrounds.
The Landscape Group is one of the biggest of the 16 special interest groups within the RPS. It exists to promote landscape photography in all forms with a very broad definition of landscape ranging from urban, though industrial to classical.
The RPS Landscape Group has over 1,000 members, producing a wide range of images across the genre. This multi-city exhibition of members’ work is the first to be held by the group. For further details, contact: Howard Klein.
This photo series is my attempt to convey what I experience and feel when I see a clear-cut forest. Many of us share feelings of discomfort and horror when we encounter them. This ravaging of our forests is not a new phenomenon; it has been in practice for centuries.
About 5,000 years ago, people migrated to Sweden with livestock and grains. They farmed the soil so that they could harvest grains and grind them into flour, from which they were able to bake bread. To create the plots of land they needed, they burnt down the trees in the forest. The ashes from that helped to fertilise the soil for several crops. When the yield started to decrease, they just moved on and burnt down new plots of land.
The heavy usage of the forests has continued in other ways throughout the centuries. The reason is that it has enabled other industries like mining and construction to thrive.
Protests against the harsh exploitation of forests are nothing new and have taken place for centuries. In January 1788, an official reported on the state of Swedish forestry in a speech he gave to the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. During that speech, he mentioned that in a region of Sweden, during the short period 1760-1765, more than 85,000 oak trees had been felled and only about 2,300 replanted.
Why does modern forestry upset us so much today? Forests and climate change are heavily associated and, as growing forests bind large amounts of carbon, they become interesting to preserve. Also, the last remnants of old-growth forests are cut down, mainly in our mountainous forests. These old-growth forests are irreplaceable. Another serious factor is the widespread depletion of biodiversity. The harvesting also takes place at a high rate. All this suggests that we should reduce logging.
On the other hand, our desire to create a fossil-free society means we're looking for ways to replace fossil-based products with fossil-free ones. Therefore, we turn to the forest to replace plastic with forest-based materials, build with wood to avoid using concrete, and replace fossil fuels with biofuels. In addition to using the wood in various products, forests felled to make way for wind turbines; etc. All this creates an extremely high demand for forest products and more felling, which does not add up.
Doing the wrong things just because we have been doing it for many hundreds of years is not a good enough excuse. A better approach is to learn from history to solve the paradox of reducing and increasing the logging rate at the same time.
Technical Information
I have used ICM (Intentional Camera Movement) with one exposure in my camera to create this series of images. Images edited using Lightroom Classic and Photoshop.
I’ll play it and tell you what it is later. ~Miles Davis
Ansel Adams spent much of his early years training to become a classical pianist. He often mused about the ways his musical training has influenced his photography. In one interview, Adams said, “Study in music gave me a fine basis for the discipline of photography. I’d have been a real Sloppy Joe if I hadn’t had that.” Adams also famously claimed, “The negative is the equivalent of the composer’s score, and the print the performance.” Adams’s reference to discipline and his analogy of performing a composer’s score, likely are relatable to anyone familiar with the rigours of practising and performing classical music.
Adams’s reference to discipline and his analogy of performing a composer’s score, likely are relatable to anyone familiar with the rigours of practising and performing classical music.
But such references may not apply in quite the same way to jazz musicians who rely just as much on improvisation as on performing well practised written scores.
The realisation occurred to me some years ago when preparing a set of prints for an exhibition. Although I had printed the same images numerous times before, I found myself re-editing every one of them, some in quite different ways from my original visualisation. My original exposures—film and RAW files—did not point me to any singular “right” interpretation in the same way that a composer’s score might direct a classical performer. Instead, these exposures and the memory of their making set a general mood—a visual rhythm—for me: a baseline to improvise around, in some cases to depart from, in a quite undisciplined, spontaneous, and enjoyable way.
Although I recalled my original intents and visualisations quite vividly, I also experienced new epiphanies, experimented with new interpretations, applied tools and techniques I did not have when making my initial edits, and in some cases ended up “performing” quite different “visual music” than I originally conceived. I realised then that performing a score was not a good analogy to describe my way of working. Instead, I felt more like I was jamming, riffing, improvising, and experimenting in much the same way that a jazz musician may explore new possibilities while playing.
This has been something I’ve been meaning to write for a while, but usually I’m busy with other things, like interviews (sometimes it feels a bit like playing keepy uppy). Now seems like the right time to take stock both before it is too late, and because it may just help inform where I go next. In late October 2021 we moved home after 14 years, returning to Scotland. As we all know, the ball never really stops rolling and it’s easy to just keep on ‘doing’. I know previously that hitting pause and reflecting on where I am, photographically speaking, has helped me immeasurably.
I was asked at the last On Landscape conference when my interview with myself might appear. And while Tim has previously been interviewed by, er, Tim it did give me an idea - to write a piece about ‘Revisited’ as a theme, a way of working. And yes, an update along the way.
I can’t believe it’s been 4 years since I wrote my last article ‘Successful Definitions’. I never expected it to prompt the reaction that it did, but I was very happy that so many people found that it resonated. In writing this I thought that I’d better re-read it. Otherwise, it’s a bit like all the strategies that are commissioned and written, filed on a bookshelf, and then rewritten again. I’m never sure that we’re very good at strategy in the UK. Slightly depressingly, much of what I wrote remains true for me and I haven’t made the inroads that I’d hoped for at the time. Including writing more! There’s no point beating myself up about it; quite a bit has happened to deflect my attention and energies. We are where we are. It’s a reminder that progress isn’t linear. “A line is a dot that went for a walk,” Paul Klee. I’m walking, slowly.
Little did I know it but things would change massively for me the following year, in 2012. My preference for sticking to my local patch and walking to make images was just beginning to feel like a constraint when I was told that the fatigue that had been haunting me was probably post viral fatigue.
Patterns of Flow, from the series ‘A Memory of Water’ A reminder that progress isn’t linear.
At the time Tim interviewed me for the Featured Photographer series way (way) back in 2011 we had been living in the Peak District for 4 years and this had allowed me to build on my preference for exploring and going out on foot with my camera. Initially, I got a little sidetracked by the broad views and spent a couple of years working with a Hasselblad Xpan. I remember being a little disappointed that Tim didn’t choose any of my panoramics. I’d also bought a Mamiya 7II as I loved working with film. Now I hardly recognise myself in the images that are featured. They’re not as good as I hoped they were at the time, but I now see them very differently.
Little did I know it but things would change massively for me the following year, in 2012. My preference for sticking to my local patch and walking to make images was just beginning to feel like a constraint when I was told that the fatigue that had been haunting me was probably post viral fatigue. At times it was difficult to find the energy for anything but whenever I could, I forced myself to go for short walks. During these slow ambles my constraints became opportunity and opened up a new avenue to explore that I could not have previously anticipated. I’ve written about this for On Landscape before (Finding the Individual and Take Me to the River) so I won’t duplicate it. But the river - and water specifically - gave me a focus and encouraged me to experiment. I guess looking back, it had the energy that I lacked, and I borrowed of it. Due to the inherent unpredictability of photographing moving subject matter, digital finally made sense. I valued the flexibility it gave me over shutter speed and ISO, as well as the instant feedback of the LCD screen. Suddenly, there seemed to be so many possibilities. None of this would have happened without familiarity with an area - or the fatigue - and the ability to keep going back. Time after time.
From Waterfalls to Waves The river gave me a focus, encouraged me to experiment, and finally digital made sense
I spent nine years happily returning to the same, small, place. The constraint of this and the blinkers it forged for me gave me freedom from what others were doing, the chance to follow my curiosity, and to ‘play’. I wouldn’t have it any other way. ‘Revisited’ became my way of working. I still enjoy views of the landscape, but they aren’t what I want to make. As I continued my dialogue with the river, I found that it also shaped my view of the land and the lines between the two softened. My interpretations stopped being just intimate and became increasingly abstract.
I spent nine years happily returning to the same, small, place. The constraint of this and the blinkers it forged for me gave me freedom from what others were doing, the chance to follow my curiosity, and to ‘play’.
Ondine Water has also shaped my view of the land
Water has been a good teacher; through it, I have learned:
To ‘see’ more; everything from the smallest, most ephemeral, details to the way that different shutter speeds render the movement of the water and all that it reflects (flow and sometimes breeze introduce both possibility and uncertainty) to the spots of sunlight that dance and elongate magically with time.
That we learn more by getting it wrong than by getting it right. So all that effort at emulation - the right spot, the right time, the right weather etc. - can actually be counterproductive. Experimentation is important, nay vital - ‘what if I?’
To ‘see’ more; everything from the smallest, most ephemeral, details to the way that different shutter speeds render the movement of the water and all that it reflects (flow and sometimes breeze introduce both possibility and uncertainty) to the spots of sunlight that dance and elongate magically with time
To let go (mostly) of the reins that everything needs to be sharp and in focus. I wonder how much this empathy for the soft is the product of my own myopia, my natural way of seeing.
That I don’t need to travel; there is potential in the smallest of spaces. Although mine happened to be within a National Park, my chosen spot was not conventionally pretty, and I wasn’t making a representative record but interpreting things that provoked a response in me. My self-imposed constraints made me work harder and served to liberate my imagination.
That it’s important to find something that makes you curious, and see where it goes (the Helsinki Bus Station theory again). Note that I didn’t say ‘find something that inspires you’. I’m looking for creative growth, not high impact.
That it is easier to create individual work by following this stumbling path than by looking at what others have done. Occasional overlaps happen coincidentally and it can be hard at times to come across parallels when you think you’ve embarked on something very different and personal. I’ve been looking through some pins I’d saved and came across a word - “Sillage”. I kept it for the reference to water - the wake left after the thing that caused it has gone - but in writing this its connection with perfume gains the upper hand and ‘scent trail’ seems even more apt. We’re all looking for something that we can find and follow.
Transcriptions of Light A single, timed exposure that is naturally monochromatic
It ticks a few other boxes for me - ephemeral, unpredictable, dynamic - and shows just how much there is that we don’t ordinarily notice. It led to a handmade Japanese stab bound book and some prints, and had some success in the Px3 Prix de la Photographie Awards 2020, but it still feels like there is unfinished business for me. Other things got in the way and I wasn’t able to spend the time creating - evolving - the outputs that I’d wanted to. There’s always a temptation too to keep going back, and make more images, and doubtless that got in the way too.
In 2020’s first lockdown I guess I could have argued that taking my camera to the river could be part of my essential exercise, but I didn’t. It didn’t feel right. In theory, the situation should have given me the distance and time that I needed to progress the presentation, and it was my intention to chase down the idea of looking into what I could do to make these more individual. But it took a while to get to the point mentally where I felt able to be creative and the tentative start I’d made at the beginning of the year pre-pandemic ground to a halt. I also got sidetracked.
In theory, the situation should have given me the distance and time that I needed to progress the presentation, and it was my intention to chase down the idea of looking into what I could do to make these more individual.
I signed up for an artist friend’s online workshop on the basis that the sessions on ‘texture’ and ‘finishing’ would help me with this but my inner child got a little carried away, having not picked up a paintbrush for over 30 years. A love of drawing and painting took me to my profession (landscape architecture) but when computers took over and advancement meant less time doing the creative bits, photography became my escape. With no events to direct my output, and galleries closed, the freedom to just make in 2020 was liberating. I had no expectations of producing anything for view, or even anything much at all.
I could also go back to making books: they were a comfort zone; a natural end, EPs of images and thoughts, and I began to collect images, observations, on my daily walk with this in mind. The work that went into these and their theme was inevitably a response to our situation and the new vocabulary we learned.
In 2021 I added more to my palette of choices with courses on e-publishing and artists’ sketchbooks. Nothing like approaching it from both ends!
I started to tie myself in knots by reinstating expectation. Somehow I went from “this is interesting and enjoyable” to “I should be improving to the point of producing something”.
When the time came around to select images for display again, I found myself not enjoying the experience. It feels a bit like trying to pick out a potential hit single when I really want to share an album. In isolation I felt that the images lacked context. I like building collections - connections - and series.
With the galleries opening up ‘ought to’ again raised its head. I’m not comfortable with it, and I again went on ‘sabbatical’ from my local artists’ group before ‘live’ events returned (my notes from the time show I wrote that ‘it might become permanent’). The simple fact is I’m happiest behind the camera, or doing other ‘creative’ things.
Pellucid The title draws on the transparency of the water and the reflection of light from its surface. The images I ended up choosing for galleries were mostly blue. I wonder what that says.
I intended to resurrect my plan for 2020 - print development. And with the art courses, this meant working with other media too and trying to work out if I could integrate the different strands. And then we threw a big spanner in the works and moved 400 miles north to Scotland. It’s a big change to process, and a couple of months in I realised that after so many years it wasn’t just a case of unpacking, getting the house straight, and off you go…
Sometimes, when I’m working up questions for interviews, I find threads that are relevant to the interviewee but are also things that I realise I want to ask of myself. “Did you find that you needed to allow yourself time to absorb the landscape, to listen, and to understand what story you wanted to tell and how to do so?” I’ve learned that after the dust settles, you don’t necessarily pick up from where you were; you need to learn to breathe (in) again and decide how to exhale. And only then does what has gone before feed into it.
I intended to resurrect my plan for 2020 - print development. And with the art courses, this meant working with other media too and trying to work out if I could integrate the different strands. And then we threw a big spanner in the works and moved 400 miles north to Scotland
For many years, I couldn’t imagine photographing anything other than water and would have been very reluctant to leave that little place by the river, such was the effect that it had on me. There will be threads that continue and I do have the opportunity to tackle that unfinished business - but inevitably we react to new stimuli, and these are more plentiful here. Initially it was trees that whispered most loudly; these come a close second to water for me and at times have appeared in my images of the river. It’s been hard to ignore them ‘doing their thing’. I have much more diversity to choose from on my doorstep, a tempting outlook from the window, and last winter gave me better light than I’ve experienced for the past 10 years. It was a little like being let loose in a sweetie shop.
I found that post-move, I didn’t have the energy for social media, and took a break. And then, I found the habit broken. It took me three months and a nudge to begin again, just at the time when events again shook us out of any complacency that might we have accumulated. Photography and art felt like a frivolity, but after a while again they offered me sanctuary.
I began to see connections in the things that talk to me here: patterns, textures, layers, nature’s mark making. Movement. Differentials of focus from sharp to blur. From working almost exclusively with a 100mm macro lens I’ve been looking at things using the long end of a 24-200mm zoom lens. A new compact camera gave me a lighter, freer, way of working. So far it’s been about the response, the reaction to what I see, rather than what I might do with the images. A lot of time can be spent looking for the ‘perfect’ landscape but I learn more from the imperfect and the ephemeral; a slow burn, rather than fast love, coming to know a place and what of it prompts a response in me.
From (attempting to) exercise control of self, of work, of practice (timing of visit and technique - tripod, depth of field, shutter speed) I’ve shifted to a looser way of working (subject movement, largely hand held, experimental). It feels more comfortable, more representative of who I am now rather than anything that I may see. In the past it was easy to say whose work inspired me. Now there are photographers whose work I admire, and images that I enjoy, but inspiration is more likely to come from other sources. That doesn’t mean that I actively seek it; I’m quite happy to stumble along and see what happens. And a lot of the time, I’m simply inspired by what I experience when I’m out walking. The dullest day can bring unexpected colour; the smallest short-lived pool is a story yet to be told - and these are the words that I’m beginning to string together into phrases.
Constellation The smallest pool is a story yet to be told. It offers me a new sky and on the edges of the moss there are stars to be found.
In art I like looser ways of making marks. Softening the line. Colouring over the edges (which I never did as a child). Surrendering full control.
On Pinterest (I was late to that too, and am still erratic, as with much of social media) I collect images that I associate with water, and sometimes land. Over time they have become more abstract. There are some photos, but it’s mostly other media. There’s a lot of mark-making and in my messy dabbles this is something that really interests me due to the inherent limits that improvised tools and techniques can place on how a line is made.
I continue to collect other things, adding to a four year old ‘Transcriptions’ board https://www.pinterest.co.uk/michela_griffith/transcriptions/ that draws on and has fed into ‘A Memory of Water’. Visual parallels, and notes to myself: calligraphy and asemic writing, maps, neural networks, and so many other things.
On Twitter I’ve found art and creativity. It’s not the most obvious platform I know, but I’ve found it a good way to broaden my outlook and find people I would not have otherwise come across. Since I’ve gone back onto Instagram, I’ve found too that the algorithm is more generous in showing me things of interest in addition to the accounts I follow.
I think that the key thing here is that the medium is not important, but the message. I’ve been trying to work out what I like. My list has:
Water
Trees
Movement (energy)
Abstraction
Intimate / personal
Mark-making
Selective focus, and defocus
Blue recurs, but I can now identify a number of palettes of colour from the landscape that inspire me
Inks and paint (water as medium)
Small pieces - things that encourage you to look more closely
Detail; pattern and texture; layers
Playing / experimenting
Sketchbooks, or even better loose sheets (no pressure about spoiling the page or producing a ‘finished’ piece)
Things I can’t fully control (tools, ways of working). The possibility of something unexpected.
Evocation, not representation
Working locally, walking to a place.
Going back, scratching away at the surface. Revisiting
Luminous Water still tops my list, for the many ways it shows me things that I think I know – and some that I don’t. It’s about evocation, rather than representation.
This brings me back to my lines of enquiry, but also to knowing myself. I used to think of myself as a perfectionist; now I find I’m good at starting things but don’t always finish them. I think of new things to do. Sometimes I have too many ideas. I need to write these down and spend time on those that help me progress. Attention to detail matters, but over the last four years my practice has been subject to interruptions and things have at times felt chaotic. My brain is less orderly than it used to be. I’m happiest creating / making / exploring. Finding out what’s round the next ‘corner’. I like seeing interesting work on social media, but comparisons are unhelpful.
I’ve come to realise that you can’t force things. It’s been a big change, and not all of the reasons that I had for doing things previously are still applicable. I feel like I need to be kind to myself, allow time and that breathing space.
I’ve come to realise that you can’t force things. It’s been a big change, and not all of the reasons that I had for doing things previously are still applicable. I feel like I need to be kind to myself, allow time and that breathing space.
I really enjoyed playing with paint and ink but it all got tidied away when the last house had to be photographed and marketed, and I began to wonder when or even if it would come out again. Winter used to be a good time for trying things inside, but this time it’s kept calling me out to play.
I can see a future with prints, books and hopefully more writing and art. I just have to work out how I get there. The paint and ink finally came out again in February.
But at the end of the day, what’s the hurry? It’s not for ever, it’s just for now, a welcome distraction from a reality that can be hard to contemplate. I wonder if ‘normal’ will ever return. Perhaps we deluded ourselves that it was ever there, other than in our own little spheres.
It doesn’t need to lead somewhere. There doesn’t have to be a result - focussing on one strips the joy. If painters can concentrate on the process, why can’t photographers? Is it the immediacy of what we do?
One - small - step at a time. What if? What now? And repeat.
Focus on the process, not the results. If I run out of time, so be it. There’s no fame or fortune waiting, no legacy to be left. When I’m gone, no-one will care about what I’ve made.
What am I curious about? What appeals to me? Why? What do I want to say about it? What do I want my new mirror to reveal?
To be continued…
A new audience I’ve already spent many happy hours on the edge of the moss. Someday I may get further! As my pools have dried out, I’m back to the trees which, in May, are finally leafing out. The softness of the water is travelling with me.
Patterns of Flow, from the series ‘A Memory of Water’. A reminder that progress isn’t linear.
From Waterfalls to Waves. The river gave me a focus, encouraged me to experiment, and finally digital made sense
Ondine Water has also shaped my view of the land
Transcriptions of Light A single, timed exposure that is naturally monochromatic
Pellucid The title draws on the transparency of the water and the reflection of light from its surface. The images I ended up choosing for galleries were mostly blue. I wonder what that says.
Constellation The smallest pool is a story yet to be told. It offers me a new sky and on the edges of the moss there are stars to be found.
Luminous Water still tops my list, for the many ways it shows me things that I think I know – and some that I don’t. It’s about evocation, rather than representation.
A new audienc. I’ve already spent many happy hours on the edge of the moss. Someday I may get further! As my pools have dried out, I’m back to the trees which, in May, are finally leafing out. The softness of the water is travelling with me.
It is commonly said that a way to foresee the future is to study the past. I believe this is also valid when it comes to better relating our daily choices with the present time, including choices about photography.
Since I started to dive deeper into the expressive power of image composition through nature photography, I felt a strong desire to know more about the great artists from the past, especially landscape painters. Beyond getting to know their masterpieces, my main interest lies in comprehending their life decisions and how they shaped their artistic journey. From their beginnings to filling entire museum halls. I wanted to know it all, so I knew, I’ll never be done.
We knew their greatest feats but we don’t know anything about their personal life: How did they organise their days? Were they happy about their artistic output? Who taught them composition? Did they ever doubt themselves? Were they struggling with their parents' judgement? Did they have a supportive wife or partner? Were they part of a group of close minded artists or solitary outcasts in their pursuits?
Once we start to know a bit about any past master, a funny game to play is to imagine how they would act towards today’s modern life. Do you picture the introvert Vincent Van Gogh posting his painting on social media? And, can you imagine the number of vulgarities that Cézanne would have said if he didn’t appreciate the brushwork? (yes, he was quite direct).
Seriously, It can be quite illuminating and even liberating to perceive what they would care or not care about in today’s reality. Although from a technological standpoint their life would have been simpler, they had to face some of the same problems that we also face today, but on top of that, they also had problems we won’t have to face in the same way as them, precisely because they fought those battles for us.
This made me realise that the problems they faced were the right problems to challenge. As already said, some of those problems will always be challenging for us too. Such as problems about finding inspiration, tranquillity, and purposeful ambitions to convert into artistic authenticity and meaningful creative advancements.
Personally, I find this new understanding to be indeed revealing and liberating. Besides, allowing us to get to know how they made space for creativity and pursued their subjective idea of meaningful art, it frees us from the false notion that they were simply born genius.
They say life’s a journey, don’t they? I have always enjoyed travelling, whether it is just a train ride to work or a flight to somewhere more exotic, although, with the former, I find the journey is often more rewarding than the destination! Indeed my son has recently remarked that it seems to him that the more perverse and difficult the journey, the more I like it, and I think he is probably right!
In my case, travelling, and trains, in particular, have always been something I really enjoy and my photography began as I tried to capture the trains that I saw and loved. Even as a teenager I realised I wanted to record not only the train, but its surroundings, placing it in some sort of context. In railway magazines of the time, most photographs were monochrome, with colour being reserved for the cover and occasionally a special feature. Naturally, I was therefore drawn to black and white and, with the good fortune of a darkroom at school, the journey began.
Over the subsequent 30+ years, my skills as a railway photographer improved, and when weather conditions permitted, I even dabbled with a little colour. My work was published in magazines from time to time and, after much effort, I published a book of my work in southern England.
Over the subsequent 30+ years, my skills as a railway photographer improved, and when weather conditions permitted, I even dabbled with a little colour. My work was published in magazines from time to time and, after much effort, I published a book of my work in southern England.
However, it was the love of the wild landscapes of Scotland that I enjoyed most, especially the West Highland line rounding the well-known Horseshoe Curve and crossing the hauntingly desolate Rannoch Moor. Whilst the mountains, lochs and moors always factored in my images of the wonderfully scenic railways, I rarely, if ever, considered photographing the landscape without a train in it. On the few occasions that I did try, the results were disappointing and this merely confirmed that I should stick with trains. Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, I realise that trying to make a successful image as an afterthought is almost always doomed to fail, in addition to which the weather conditions needed for the style of railway image I wanted to create were almost the polar opposite of those required in most landscape images.
Despite the relentless increase in the use of colour in most media, I worked primarily with black and white until 2008 when I started to dabble with digital imaging. Other than holiday snaps, railways remained the primary driver of my photography, although digital technology made experimentation much easier and so new approaches emerged that were simply impossible with film. I found this an exciting time and feel that digital cameras reinvigorated my photography which, on reflection, had become somewhat formulaic and staid. Enthused with the low light capability of digital and still in love with the landscapes through which the Scottish rail routes weave, I found I was making images that were much more about the landscape and less about the train. Even my long-suffering wife was starting to like some of my images, although her comments were usually about the wonderful landscape rather than the train!
Having long since abandoned my home darkroom set up, largely for reasons of domestic practicality, but still with a love of a print in the hand, I embarked on a somewhat fraught journey into digital printing. It was during this journey that what was to become a pivotal event took place. I was struggling to get my finished prints to match my screen so I decided to book myself onto a printing course.
Struggling to think of what to buy me for a birthday present, decided to abandon the usual bottle of whisky and pair of slippers and instead booked me on a landscape photography workshop in the far north of Scotland! Could the old dog learn some new tricks?
The outcome was that, in the short term, many of my printing issues were resolved, but in the medium term, the whole direction of my photography was to change forever. It wasn’t that resolving my printing issues made me change the direction of my photography, rather that my wife, struggling to think of what to buy me for a birthday present, decided to abandon the usual bottle of whisky and pair of slippers and instead booked me on a landscape photography workshop in the far north of Scotland! Could the old dog learn some new tricks?
Caithness and Sutherland were wonderful. The weather was fabulously mixed and certainly not conducive to my traditional railway photography, but I willingly started the journey into landscape photography. In hindsight, I was a bit like the proverbial child in a sweetshop and most of the resultant images should really be consigned to a digital dustbin, but there were a few that worked and they gave me a new perspective on the landscape. Since that first exciting workshop, I feel as though I am in transition, now able not only to look at the natural world around me but also to make images that hopefully reflect what has been there all along but which I can now see. In the subsequent years, the changes have been such that if I had to put a label on my photography (which I’m not sure I would want to do) it would be ‘landscape photographer’ rather than ‘railway photographer’. For sure I still shoot railways and hope I always will, but this is now secondary to the landscapes through which the trains travel. Today if I am standing by the lineside waiting for an iron horse to pass, I will be looking at the micro and macro aspects of the landscape around me, searching for simple patterns and compositions that will tell the story of the environment I am in and the way I see it.
However, I am more likely to be found walking through landscapes carefully observing, and seeing in a new way, all that nature provides to us. I have always loved being outdoors, especially in Scotland, where the grandeur of the mountains sculpted by nature over hundreds of thousands of years has always made me feel in awe of their sheer scale, but also at home in their comforting shadow. To be in their presence has been enough for me, but now that I am learning to capture just a small part of their beauty in my photographs, I feel that the landscape can comfort me whenever I open a box of prints at home just as it does when I am in its midst.
To be in their presence has been enough for me, but now that I am learning to capture just a small part of their beauty in my photographs, I feel that the landscape can comfort me whenever I open a box of prints at home just as it does when I am in its midst.
Of course, the wretched pandemic that has affected us all in recent times has played a part too. Restricted to local walks for much of the time, travel to ‘exotic’ locations has not been an option and I have been amazed at some of the natural beauty that is so close to home in suburban North West London. As well as local woodland and the Grand Union Canal, I have found intimate little scenes, some only 10 or 20 yards from major roads. It has been a fascinating time which has been photographically rewarding in ways that I could never have imagined 5 years ago.
Without the ‘crutch’ of wide vistas, lochs and mountains, I have also started to use new techniques to complement the traditional skills I had developed during my many years of railway photography. As a lover of monochrome images and having seen some of the inspirational work of Paul Gallagher and others, I invested in an infra-red conversion of an old Nikon DLSR. If moving to landscapes from railways was a challenge then infra-red was another step up and the old dog had to learn even more new tricks. I have thoroughly enjoyed the experience of infra-red and the wonderful range of tones that can be teased from the RAW files; indeed I will now often venture out with only the IR body and one lens for company. I have also been experimenting with ICM and multiple exposure techniques which I find can be useful in capturing certain aspects and moods of the landscape when traditional methods just won’t cut it. Is it true photography? I’m not sure I care, as for me if the results are right then the technique must have been too.
The journey from railway photographer towards landscape photographer has been thoroughly enjoyable and is certainly not complete; indeed in many ways, I hope it will never be. There is still so much to explore, so much to see and so much natural beauty all around us. I feel like I am at Crewe Station with trains going to many varied destinations and I am lucky enough to be able to hop on anyone that happens to take my fancy. Who knows where the journey will take me next? I don’t know and that is the very essence of what makes travel so exciting, after all, every journey is to be savoured and enjoyed and, based on my experience, it seems that old dogs can indeed learn new tricks!
On the summer solstice last year Tim and Charlotte kindly published my article, Drawn to Rock, which describes a commission that included a small exhibition about Brimham Rocks (NT) in North Yorkshire, where it was also shown.
Brimham Rocks was a starter before the main course, a commission to photograph Fountains Abbey/Studley Royal. I am happy – and relieved – to say that this has now been fulfilled. It is hanging in various locations around the Fountains Abbey site. Except that the term “hanging” is a misnomer for reasons that will become clear later.
Without wishing to repeat the circumstances documented in Drawn to Rock, this was an artist-in-residence commission.
As a wilderness advocate and addict, I must be honest and say that a commission to photograph a ruined medieval abbey, an 18th century water garden and a carefully controlled and managed deer park was not necessarily my dream assignment.
My early efforts through 2019 were concentrated on Brimham, and such work as I did attempt at Fountains were rather tentative. There was still time. At that point though no-one could have guessed it would be Covid-19 extended time.
After the pandemic of 2020 caused a suspension of the commission I nevertheless did continue with the work, gradually growing in familiarity and confidence at Fountains Abbey. It was actually a relief when the exhibition date was postponed by a year. This gave far more time to see different seasonal and weather conditions, as well as allowing me to develop the concepts which give structure to the exhibition. The bulk of the work was therefore done through 2020 and 2021, as well as the very beginning of this year.
As a wilderness advocate and addict, I must be honest and say that a commission to photograph a ruined medieval abbey, an 18th century water garden and a carefully controlled and managed deer park was not necessarily my dream assignment. Nevertheless, numerous previous projects have proved that such challenges can be creatively stimulating, perhaps never more so than when you are less than 100% comfortable with the subject matter. And besides, Fountains Abbey estate is always a fabulous place to visit. Not for nothing is it described by historian Mark Newman as “The Wonder of the North”.
UNESCO have granted Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal (to give its full title) World Heritage Site status specifically because of the fusion of different – created – landscapes which follow in sequence down the valley of the River Skell. They describe this as a work of human genius. That could be debated, but there’s no doubt that the longer I spent there the more I grew to appreciate the strange and unique beauty that arises from this combination of the natural and the designed.
UNESCO have granted Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal (to give its full title) World Heritage Site status specifically because of the fusion of different – created – landscapes which follow in sequence down the valley of the River Skell.
The site also encapsulates several centuries of historic human activity, from the spiritual, architectural and early industrial activities of the Abbey, to the grand vision of ordered paradise that are the hallmarks of 18th century landscape design.
Justin Scully, the National Trust’s general manager of the estate, was very keen for me to explore all these habitats, and especially the deer park which is often overlooked because of the charismatic nature of the water garden and the abbey ruins. It was in the Deer Park that I found inspiration and early momentum. There are numerous ancient trees, lime, oak, pine, sycamore, yew, horse chestnut… and sweet chestnut, especially which make compelling subject matter.
In Michael Lundgren’s Conception Rock, two spherical shapes loom out of the darkness. While they appear large, the scale is not clear cut. At first glance, what they are or whether they even belong to this world or not is an open question. The lighting in the photograph only highlights the mystery. There is darkness with the light seeming to come from different directions. The light perhaps makes the spheres seem stranger in the photograph than they probably are in real life. Are they seed pods, vegetables, or something alien?
For Conception Rock, the presence of some very old graffiti both gives some scale to the object and makes one aware that the objects are from this world. The spheres are in fact structures left behind on what was once a seabed and now survive with only minimal decay in a desert environment.
The explanation that the spheres are just ancient remains does not seem to be adequate to me. I look at the photograph and feel a need for more of an explanation. It is not just the subject, but how the photographer has presented the subject. By questioning what is being seen in the photograph, I am being drawn more deeply into the scene and want to know more. What are the forces that would create such an object? Not asking strictly from a geological or biological perspective, but perhaps also from a spiritual level.
Welcome to our 4x4 feature which is a set of four mini landscape photography portfolios submitted by our subscribers. Each portfolio consists of four images related in some way.
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These four photographs belong to a series we made about the scenery along the Rio Tinto in Spain. We were drawn to the extraordinary patterns and textures created by the continuous natural and historical pollution caused by mining upstream going back to the Roman era. Due to this the water is very acid and has an orange to red tint in the dry season, while the colourful deposits of minerals and metals in mud and on stones give the scenery an otherworldly look that resembles nothing we usually associate with landscapes that we are familiar with.
This series of four images were taken on a stretch of the River Dart in Spring 2021. This particular part of the river is lined with beech trees and has a stretch of both whitewater and long deep glides. The hues of the fresh beech leaves created some tremendous reflections in a vibrant lime green, which summarised Spring for me instantly.
The whitewater rapids run through swathes of limestone and slate, and fallen trees get trapped in the flow and are pushed up onto the stone creating images (that inspire me) of both decay and wild water simultaneously.
Spring Flow is about the combination of moss covered wood and fast flowing water.
Morning Reflection was my second interpretation of stillness, reflecting on the power of nature.
Downstream is a straight study of the fresh leaves above the river, just before the start of the whitewater.
The colour of Spring is all about the sheer exuberance of that gorgeous colour, combined with water-worn stone.
A gift from the sea is how I feel about sand ripples. Each tide leaves, in infinite varieties, a signature of wave energy. Some are a work of art in their own right, it almost feels like plagiarism passing them as my own work. It fascinates me to think that most will never be seen by human eyes, many carved and erased during the hours of darkness and on far flung remote shores. At times I’ve stood in awe of their complexity, as if all the mysteries of the universe are written in the sand, a mystical, algebraic formula, defying and redefining the laws of physics.
A favourite holiday haunt of mine is Harlech Beach in North Wales, its vast expanse of sand seems to be the perfect canvas for these water hewn artworks. For the photographer, the miles of sand means that many remain pristine between tides. Nothing is more jarring than a set of size 10 wellington boot prints amid geometric perfection. I have often found myself alone on the beach, especially during winter months and at the end and beginning of the day. This serves to enhance the immersive and contemplative nature of our craft, leading only to further wonder of the elements and the transience of this oceanic artistry. These images represent a small selection of my collection, one that grows with every visit. Close-up studies are favourites as well as these more expansive views, the memory of their making still vivid in my mind. All are portrait format, as is the way I seem to mostly see the world within the confines of a rectangle. Something that’s been questioned and discussed at length, along with some good-natured banter by photographic colleagues. It is always reciprocal.
Ultimately, for me, the experience comes before the image, the image must always be born from that experience after all. Although, as far as experiences go, time spent on a shoreline is never wasted, irrespective of the photographic outcome.
I am now retired from a working life in nature conservation as a reserve warden in various locations across Great Britain. I always used a camera as part of my work, specialising in the photography of wildflowers, habitat management and the landscape of nature reserves.
One of the universal truths about nature photography I’ve come to find through getting to know photographers both in these articles and on my podcast is that at the core of every photographer with superb images is a value-driven motivation. Of course, these values vary widely between every photographer, ranging from a love of natural history, the desire to express challenging emotions or process grief, etc.; however, in the case of Chris Byrne, this value is what he refers to as “the payoff.” While at first glance this choice of words may seem transactional, upon further examination of both Chris as a person and his photographs, one can begin to understand and appreciate them more fully. Chris worked in the stock market for seventeen years and found the life being sucked out of him day by day. There was one glimmer of hope though – he loved being outside with a camera as it brought him peace and joy as well as a much-needed distraction from the busy fast-paced life in the stock market. Through the lens of a stock market worker, Chris began to see his life, and later photography, as an analysis of risk versus reward, with the result being “the payoff” when that calculation was done correctly and with a little bit of luck. As someone who has also spent countless time pursuing big scenes in the mountains with a great deal of personal risk involved, I appreciate Chris’ perspective on nature photography as I believe it provides an interesting framework to operate within.
In Chris’ own words in a well-produced video on his website, the root of risk, when we boil it down, is answered by a simple question: “what are you willing to risk to get what you want?” This includes friends, jobs, family, and of course, time. As we move through life, it can be painful to make an honest assessment of this risk and make excuses as to why we can’t do the things in life that we truly want to do – in Chris’ case, become a full-time photographer instead of a stock market employee. Chris could see his very life slipping through his fingertips like grains of sand. Chris made the plunge into full-time photography in 2015 by moving his family from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to Portland, Oregon to get closer to a part of the country that he knew would enrich his life from a photography perspective.
More specifically, the idea of risk and reward being a central component of Chris’ approach to the craft of photography is greatly appealing to me – as it requires one to understand and accept that not every outing will result in portfolio-quality images and that nature might not live up to the expectations that social media has driven us to expect from it.
Obviously, giving up a seventeen-year career in the financial industry and moving your family involves significant risk, and I sure am glad that Chris made the decision because I have come to greatly admire his photography, and I think you will as well.
More specifically, the idea of risk and reward being a central component of Chris’ approach to the craft of photography is greatly appealing to me – as it requires one to understand and accept that not every outing will result in portfolio-quality images and that nature might not live up to the expectations that social media has driven us to expect from it. A focus on the reward, as opposed to the risk, is needed. I’m sure many readers can appreciate going to a location with expectations only to be completely skunked by the clouds. Conversely, I think we have all felt the elation when all of the hard work to reach a spot results in an incredible experience that surpasses all expectations. As such, Chris, like me, has embraced a more natural presentation of his images and goes to great lengths to keep his editing as natural as possible by forgoing sky replacements or other forms of additive editing. In his own words, Chris’ embracing of risk and reward results in much more failure than success when it comes to high-quality images; however, when everything lines up, the payoff is a huge rush of emotions and all the hard work that went into all of those “failures” pays dividends.
Like most of us, Chris is not immune to the traps that social media sets before us – scrolling through Instagram and seeing one incredible photo after another can be quite demoralising as opposed to providing inspiration.
Chris shared with me that he hears from his students quite frequently that they feel like they can’t compete with all the amazing photographs they see on social media day in and day out, but Chris feels compelled to remind them that the experience of being in nature and putting in the effort is the real reward, not the likes on social media.
Chris shared with me that he hears from his students quite frequently that they feel like they can’t compete with all the amazing photographs they see on social media day in and day out, but Chris feels compelled to remind them that the experience of being in nature and putting in the effort is the real reward, not the likes on social media. Indeed, Chris has shared with me that one of his biggest joys in nature photography is that it brings him the same joy he experienced as a child.
Chris used to spend a lot of time as a child outside, exploring the forests with his brother all day until the sun went down. Nature photography has brought him back to those childhood roots and has allowed him to slow down and truly appreciate what life has to offer.
Chris resides in Portland, Oregon with his wife and 3-year-old daughter. He teaches workshops across the United States and in some international locations, where he enjoys instilling his ideals of getting back to nature and enjoying the process afforded by risk and reward.
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If you look at Helmut Pilo’s Instagram profile, you won’t immediately think of Iceland, but he credits that place and its wild nature with sparking his passion for photography. It must have been frustrating to have begun to explore the grand landscapes of the North only to have travel restricted by the pandemic, yet 2021 turns out to have had a silver lining and gave him the opportunity to spend more time on his photography, and to immerse himself in the smaller details of nature closer to home. As Helmut gets ready to launch a website, we asked him to tell us more about his photographic journey.
Would you like to start by telling readers a little about yourself – where you grew up, and what your early interests were?
Despite what you might think when reading my name, I was born and grew up in Cassino, a small town situated in central Italy.
When I was a boy, I was passionate about design, music and fashion. My interest in photography started later, thanks to my first trip to Iceland in 2016.
To train the eye, one must observe, compare forms to each other, examine attitudes, facial characteristics, one must look at colours and compare them. Our eye develops by looking at things. Obviously, it is the brain which sees and hears. But apart from that, the eye is an instrument which can be perfected, both in accuracy and aesthetic judgment. To see is to know an object in its proportions, such as they appear to the eye. Therefore, to see is to know.
~ Ferdinand Hodler, La Mission de l'Artiste, 1897.
At the end of 2018, an exhibition opened in the Kunstmuseum in Bern, Switzerland on Parallelism in the art of Ferdinand Hodler1. I already knew of Hodler’s landscape paintings but before visiting the exhibition I did not know of his theories about composition and the manifesto called La Mission de l’Artiste, which he had produced in a talk given in Fribourg, Switzerland on 12th March 18972. Not all artists’ manifestos have worn well with time of course, but many can be usefully read in the context of landscape photography3, including La Mission de l’Artiste4.
At the end of the 19th Century Ferdinand Hodler (1853-1918) was a well-known artist, primarily in Germany, France and his native Switzerland5. Born in Bern to a poor family, after the death of his father Hodler started working at an early age for his step-father who was a painter and decorator. After the death of his mother in 1867 he was apprenticed to the painter Ferdinand Sommer in Thun where he learned to paint alpine landscapes which were sold to tourists. He set up his own studio in Geneva but also travelled to Basel and the Prado in Madrid to study the work of others. His early work was realist in nature, including landscapes, portraits, and figures. He also painted self-portraits throughout his life. In the first section of La Mission de l’Artiste, he sets out his aims for his art:
It is by our eye and our intelligence that the splendours around us affect us. I would say that is reflected in an image, more or less deeply, according to the facility for perception and the degree of impressionability of the artist. We are told that we must learn to see.
The more one enters into the spirit of nature, the more complete is the concept that can be expressed, the more one possesses the means of expression, and the better one can draw the image.
I already knew of Hodler’s landscape paintings but before visiting the exhibition I did not know of his theories about composition and the manifesto called La Mission de l’Artiste, which he had produced in a talk given in Fribourg, Switzerland on 12th March 1897
Ferdinand Hodler, Self-Portrait, 1903
In 1890 he caused a scandal in Geneva with one of his first symbolist paintings (Night) which was deemed obscene because of its several nude figures (it was better received in Paris, including by Rodin). He was commissioned to produce a number of large-scale mural works in Germany and Switzerland but It was not until 1900 that he started to have more international success. He was invited to join both the Berlin Succession and Vienna Succession groups and had successful exhibitions.
A typical abstract top down image from a beach in the Westfjords, Iceland, taken from 80 meters high above the ground
Another top down image from a beach, this time this was taken on a snowy lava beach in the Faroe Islands, taken from more than 100 meters above the ground
It was with great interest that I read the interesting article by Joe Cornish and Tim Parkin about drones and their place in modern landscape photography (On Landscape 249). One of the tentative conclusions from this article is that especially the top down photographs from high above, which often offer a visually attractive, abstract representation of the landscape, has conquered the world of landscape photography. In fact, you could even say that this form of abstract aerial photography is already becoming so commonplace that it is getting more difficult to stand out from the crowd.
In this article, I would like to zoom in on another, in my opinion much less widespread, application of the drone for landscape photography. This does not involve flying high - on the contrary. In this technique, the drone is used to create intimate landscapes
In this article, I would like to zoom in on another, in my opinion much less widespread, application of the drone for landscape photography. This does not involve flying high - on the contrary. In this technique, the drone is used to create intimate landscapes, where different perspectives can be obtained and where places can be reached that would be inaccessible to photography from the ground. I have called this the 'low drone'. The results can be both abstract and realistic. In this article, I will explain how I use this technique in my own photography.
Love it or hate it, it’s here to stay and it’s a legitimate form of photographic art. And what is this “it”? ICM – Intentional Camera Movement. Undoubtedly results can seem repetitive and just like with conventional photography, because it has become popular among so many photographers, getting something original is becoming really difficult.
In this article, I will look mainly at ICM i.e. deliberately moving the camera during a single exposure, but also at multi-exposure in one frame, in-camera layering of two or more separate images and combinations of all these techniques. In other words, using the camera in a way not really intended by the manufacturer, though some models do allow multi-exposures and in-camera layering.
A genuine accident of processing! The image started as a simple vertical pan (on-tripod) but in post processing I somehow slipped the mouse when adjusting the curve which produced this bizarre colour-shift result.
ICM is nothing new, even back in the days of those flexible sensors known as film, photographers were deliberately creating blurry pictures to give an impression of motion.
